true story
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“That’s not how my other patients describe the voices they hear,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “It’s much different. In fact, I have never heard it described the way you just did.” “That’s good to know,” I replied, nodding my head with one quick, chin drop. He was an extraordinary psychiatrist. Usually, they
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I sat on the edge of my pool, feet in the water, notebook on my lap, pen scratching in an attempt to write, yet my efforts were met by an invisible wall of profound stillness. After a few attempts, I put my pen aside. I took a deep breath and turned my focus to my
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I’ve been looking through my old word doc files and finding things I wrote, saved, and basically forgot about. The piece below: The Heart Remembers: Love and Past Lives is one from what I am now calling: The Forgotten Files. It was written several years ago. ***~~~*** The Heart Remembers: Love and Past Lives
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“Do you want Mum’s old books?” my father said, his eyebrows raised in question. His gray-blue eyes met mine. “They meant an awful lot to her.” “Sure Dad,” I replied, “I’ll take them.” I knew the books meant a lot to my mother, although, I wasn’t exactly sure why, other than the fact she loved
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Hushing the voices, a dark quill shattered. When I listed my books from last to first and realized their titles formed a complete sentence, I was stunned. It was not something I consciously planned, and yet there it was: a cathartic trio of books wrapped up in a sentence. It seemed more like a message
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Awakening was both liberating and horrifying, in my experience. On my journey, I gathered a lot knowledge and my awareness expanded. Some of what I learned was difficult and left me with unpleasant emotions. Some explained why the world is the way it is. Some was unspeakable and haunted me, and some was so unbelievable,
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There was always something: some event, some comment, some form of self-doubt, that left me with conflicted feelings about my writing. Sometimes it was the pressure to publish from someone who had read my work. Sometimes it was my inability to believe anything I wrote was any good. Sometimes it was the comments I received
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I heard nothing until he spoke my name. His haunting voice echoed in my mind as I attempted to get on with my daily chores. The day was bleak. Black birds of every kind gathered in my yard, their screeching unable to be ignored. Had they come to warn me? Had they come to announce
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There are days I’m not sure where anything is going. My head is heavy with a fog that makes it hard to think let alone function. It’s something deep—a complete and total exhaustion of both body and mind. It persists and becomes an uneasiness that affects every thought I have. It grabs ahold of my
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Little towns are notorious for gossip, most people know (or know of) most other people. The rumor mill makes for excitement in a small country town, I suppose. For the most part, I’m the type of person to mind my own business, however; my husband and I have indulged in a bit of town gossip
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I was at the beach yesterday. It was a beautiful day, and the water was warm. My son had a ball diving into the waves and building sand castles. I was walking barefoot through the hot sand making my way to parking lot to retrieve something from my SUV. On the way, I passed a
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I sat at my desk as the printer produced page after page. My husband walked by, stopped, and picked up the stack of pages. He began reading. I continued to click print. The printer kept printing. He continued to read. Except for the sound of the printer, it was silent, until he spoke. “I thought
SB LACROIX 