Love. Peace. Hate. War.

Love

Peace

Hate

War

My blood

My familiarity

Rock N Roll

Heaven and Angel

Visions

Of growth

And wisdom

Sounds

Of happiness

And laughter

Healing the sadness

And sobbing

Unwanted interference

Bawling words

Of worry

Protecting the path

Of unsound doom

Anger shielding

Possible truth

Storming off

Vexed

With doubt

And a whirlwind

Of lucidity

From outspoken truth

You are

My strength

Admiration

Weakness

And flare

Together our lives

Are intertwined

With fucking emotion

Sweetness

Beauty

Shatter

And ugly

We each salute

For our love

And peace

And wait

By the wings

For hate

And war

United

We stand

Without prospect

Of fracture

We are a tribe

Of essence

We are our family

Dawn Piecham

Dawn is a native of Somerville, Mass. and has earned a bachelors degree in nursing and is currently working on her masters degree in nursing. A natural born caregiver, Dawn is a loving wife and mother of three boys with another on the way! She is proud to be able to say that she simply adores her family. While all of this is very apparent to those who know her, Dawn has been hiding the fact that she is an incredibly talented writer from us for years! We are so happy to welcome Dawn to our ever-growing Storytellers family. 

Bottled Up

I've spent my entire life trying to recover from YOUR disease.

I've spent my entire adulthood trying to no longer be affected by YOUR selfishness.

I've spent the last 12 + years sheltering my children from YOUR wrath of painful words.

I've allowed YOUR problems to infiltrate my marriage.

I watched YOUR behavior ruin EVERY milestone moment in my life.

I spent years in therapy mourning an earth shattering loss only to find out what I was mourning was YOUR lack of love and nurturing in a time when I needed it most.

I've given everything I can to try and repair this relationship with you to no avail.

Your sense of entitlement to things that I have worked hard for is mind boggling.

Your inability to be accountable for the path of destruction that you laid before me for so long physically hurts my heart.

I used to wonder why I have no photo albums of my childhood, no memory books of my first words or school pictures but it's so vividly clear now...you were too busy entertaining your demons to be a parent.

I cringe when I hear others tell you how proud you should be of me, what a great job you did "raising" me and how proud they are of you for getting rid of your demon.

I got where I am today, not because of you, but in spite of you. However, you got sober thanks to me, because unlike you, I didn't give up on you...and it was the hardest thing I ever had to do...but YOUR disease was killing me.

I see snip-its from time to time of your potential to be a good parent, grandparent, etc. but, they are few and far between. And again I'm mourning. I'm mourning the fact that YOU'RE going to miss out on two wonderful gifts that you were blessed with because you feel that I owe you something for doing what's right.

What scares me most is that I see snip-its of you in me. I too dance with the same demon far too often and find myself yelling too loud and too much...but its not my voice I hear coming out, it's YOURS.  

The difference is, I'm going to take steps to change my path NOW and not be a burden to my children. I will repair the whole me, mind, body and spirit.  I will continue to be a positive influence, a nurturer, a provider and a safe spot for them.  I've seen what happens to a child when they are without all of those things.  It's by the grace of god I made it out alive.  

I wish I didn't have to be anonymous.  I wish that I could say these words to you in a way that wouldn't immediately bring you to become defensive but that's not possible. So, for now, I will hide behind my anonymity but no longer behind the bottle.

Anonymous

My Choice: Part II

I remember this day so vividly. I was sitting on the back porch of my apartment on Marshall St., having a smoke. My dad came up and knocked on the window, not knowing I was on the porch. Not anything new, as my parents lived a block and a half away and would bring mail over for me to read since they couldn't read English.  I thought it was just a normal day.

"Your mom has a brain tumor."

I just got a chill typing that. She made me her favorite meal just two days ago. The only symptom she had was numbness on the right side of her cheek. It had to be a pinched nerve, not a tumor.

"She's having surgery in two weeks to remove it. Can you come with us?"

"Yes, of course," I said, still in shock. I still remember the helpless look on my dad's face when he said, "I'm going to need your help with her after the surgery." Without thinking about it, I told him I wouldn't renew my lease in a month and move back in. No need for him to ask, I knew what needed to be done. It was an easy choice. Go and help.

Seven years later, I'm still living with my parents. Caring for them as much as they care for me through my illness. Having to make sure my mom's pill box is filled correctly and trying to change their diets slowly. Keeping an eye on my dads's feet as he has lost six toes to diabetes. Doctors appointments, paperwork for Medicare has to be filled out, etc...with a smile on my face. I know it's odd that a 37 year old, single man is living with his 80 plus year old parents but I wouldn't change my choice for anything.

Unfortunately, I have seen many friends lose a parent or both at a young age. Not me. I get to see them every morning as my dad still goes into his garden, my mom makes way too much food and they sneak hand holding when no one is looking.

I'm blessed to have made this choice.

My brother and sisters have lives that wouldn't be conducive with caring for them. That doesn't make them bad people. They do what they can, when they can. I'm in awe sometimes when I see my sister, Filly, come on her only day off in thirteen days to clean the house, top to bottom. No questions asked, she just shows up and does it. My brother Steven takes the time to help my parents with the paperwork that I don't understand as he goes through his own medical struggles. Never a "no".  Laura comes by with fresh fruits and Maria comes by to check on them in-between cooking for her husband and daughter. Fran drives an hour just to sit with my mom and kibitz about whatever the topic of the day is. All while knowing my oldest brother, Joey, is above watching us all be a family, as it was always him to get the family together before he passed.

See, we make choices and some you get beat down by but some build you back up. Choices turn into life experiences that no one can take from you, ever. I know how it is to hurt, seeing my dad cry over my brother's lifeless body. My dad! A man I had never seen cry until that day. I understand when my mom gets that look on her face because she is anxious. I grab her hand and no words are exchanged. Everything will be o.k., I'm here.

To my mom and dad, I love you more than life itself. Even when you do things like walk around with your walker, Mom, I still love you. I have no choice about the love I have. That's an emotion I can't control but I can make a choice everyday to make sure I show you that I love you with my actions.

So, to all the readers, make a choice today. It may end up badly but it can also turn into seven years you would never give up for anything in the world.

Donny Soares

Donny Soares is a Boston based stand up comic and actor living the dream.  

Caring for his elderly parents during the day and delighting crowds at night. Wouldn't want it any other way.  

A romantic at heart and is not afraid to show his softer side.  

A medical nerd, a lover of all animals, and a connoisseur of mid day naps.

Uneasy Conversations

It's never an easy conversation to have, to let someone know you have a mental illness. I often wonder, do I have a mental illness, am I living with a mental illness or do I suffer from a mental illness? And what will people think of me if I tell them? Or worse, how will they treat me? Will they treat me differently? Will they treat me like I'm CRAZY???

Because, contrary to popular belief, I don't feel that because someone has a mental illness, they are crazy. It's just something, another thing, I have in my life that I have to deal with. I deal with it on an everyday, pretty much every moment, basis.

There may be times when I have stress in my life that I handle it a certain way and immediately, in the back of my mind, I question if I'm getting sick. Maybe it's the way I react to something or if I'm being overly emotional about something. It sucks that I have to second guess my emotions and wonder if I'm getting manic.

Those around you make it difficult too. Either they know nothing about the subject and think you're harmful and don't want to let their kids play with yours or they are your loved ones, who think they can read all the signs and diagnose you as sick when, in reality, you may just be excited about something.

STIGMA. That's a powerful word. And it's so true. I wish I could live in a world where I could just randomly talk about having bipolar disorder and not be judged and to not have people compare me to psychopaths.

Do I sometimes get sick? Yes. But I'm responsible about it. I immediately tell my doctor, tell the people around me or if it comes down to it, go to the hospital. Not everyone with a mental illness is a psychopathic criminal.

I have 4 children who I love with all my heart. I would never, ever harm any of them or anyone else's. Yet, I can't tell other parents about my illness in fear that they won't let my children play with theirs. It also hurts, sometimes, when people think that, because they can't see my physical scars, it's just something you have to work harder to get through or that it's not even a real disease. When you manage it so well your loved ones sometimes forget you have it to begin with, when you speak without thinking or are moody or go from one extreme to the next, they get annoyed with you.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is, it's hard enough to have bipolar disorder and it sucks more having everyone else around you making you feel worse for having it.

-Anonymous

Dear Jeanette . . .

Dear Jeanette,

I will never forget the long weekend at the lake. Your friend pointed out, while we lie in the dark, how much I sound like you. Ever since that night, I noticed she was right.

Isn’t it funny how genetics work? How did we inherit the same voice? A bit raspy, with a weird version of a chuckle. People say I look like you sometimes too but it’s hard being compared to the most beautiful woman I ever knew. Instead of seeing similarities, I notice the differences. Even during your deepest dives into the ocean of addiction, you somehow stayed stunning.

I think of you often but I usually don’t burst into tears. I think of the fun times. Putting hot peppers on John’s pizza at Santapio’s. Using jelly to put our initials on our fluffernutters. Letting us camp out on the third floor back porch of the triple decker when you babysat.

Those times make me happy, but it’s when that raspy chuckle bubbles up do I begin to feel so, so sad. I guess, even though you died 9 years ago, your voice lives on through me.

Love,

Melissa

(Top to bottom:  Jeanette, Lisa & Melissa)

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.