Tag: memoir
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My Demons Scream For Nutella
I got a little too close to the core yesterday, when I wrote here on The Writing Bull. The image of the little nude boy in a tight cage did it. I know I got too close, because I went on a mini-binge. Suddenly, my body craved, not carrots or apples, but peanut butter, which…
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Meet My Amygdala
For years, I’ve known that the chemicals in my head don’t always do what they should, that the synapses weren’t always clicking the way they ought. But I didn’t know why. Then I read about the amygdala, and its homeboys—the adrenal gland, hypothalamus, and pituitary. They control so much of us. They keep the plant…
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Why We Cut Ourselves
The memory of me sitting down at ten years old, digging a hole into my leg with a knife and a needle (see yesterday’s post), feels distinct from the times I pulled blades over my arms and legs. The childhood act seems premeditated: a kid in the middle of summer, bored and looking for something…
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My First Cutting
I was somewhere around ten or eleven years old. I was very methodical about it. It was summer. My parents were outside, working in the yard. No one else was in the house. I got a small bowl of ice cubes, a pocket knife, a needle and toilet paper, sat on the floor of my…
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A Weekend Note from the Home Asylum
I’ve received emails from people, responding to posts about my recent psychotic breakdown. Some of them are friends who ask: 1. If I’m okay and 2. Do I really want to do this? Write about my mental illness? They’re concerned that it will set off another episode. They might have a point. Then there are…