"Friends"

I may be in the minority here, and I guess I'm okay with that. I know deep down that I'm a good person. Am I perfect? Far from it. I have my flaws. I can be an asshole at certain times, I can be standoffish at others, but if I consider you a friend of mine, there isn't much I wouldn't do for you. There's one issue that I have come to realize over time, and it's becoming more and more evident as I age:

I'm an afterthought in most people's minds. 

Now, I'm not looking for pity. Not in the least. Hell, by all accounts you probably won't even be able to tell who wrote this. However, if reading this gets you to take that "friend" who's an afterthought, reach out to them and go to a sporting event, movie, dinner or even make a good old phone conversation, then this is worth every second I spent writing it. 

It's not like I'm sitting at home waiting for someone to call me. I have a life that consumes much of my time. I am successful in my chosen career, I have a family with children that keep me busy, and other things that keep my attention. But with what very little free time that I may have, it seems like whenever I try to make plans, the excuse train comes barreling by.

Now granted, I understand that sometimes last minute plans cannot happen, but the law of averages would make you believe that if you called ten people to do something in a single night, at least ONE of them would say yes. You can guess how successful my stats were: 

One out of ten.

I conducted a little test for myself over the last week just to see if I was overthinking this whole thing. In the time I didn't reach out to anyone other than family or business matters and I don't recall one person reaching out. Not via phone, text, Facebook, Twitter. Nothing. Not. A. Soul. 

What am I supposed to think? Is this Karma for all the shitty things that I've done in the past? Some kind of retribution from a higher power? 

I don't really know. For all I know, I just have a really shitty core group of people in my life, yet they still talk to each other. Either way, it's a dejecting feeling knowing that the people you hold in close regard clearly don't care enough about you to make the slightest of efforts. One of few things can come of this. I accept the fact that I'm obviously not the person I thought I was: 

The kind, caring, funny person that everyone wants to be around.

I find new people to surround myself with who actually give a shit about me. I could do nothing, still be the guy reaches out to everyone, getting shot down every time I lay out an idea to do something, but I will always accept an offer when it's given to me.  Or could it all change? Who knows?

I'm sure some of you that read this would know me if I actually put my name in the submission and think:

"Oh Jesus, I had no idea so and so felt like this."

But then, I would always think that anytime someone DID call, it was out of pity and that's worse than not calling at all. 

At the end of the day, I know for a fact that I'll be okay. I've overcome a lot worse than this, believe me! This post may seem sad to some and a cry for help to others, but I just wanted to vent, say my piece and get everyone to think about how they act in their lives. 

I truly do love my life, I have a ton of things to be grateful for, so do not take this for anything more than me letting my thoughts and feelings flow into tangible words. My kids make me happy, my significant other makes me happy and I truly do enjoy spending every second that I am able to with them. 

They are my heart and my world! 

But it would be nice to go see that new action movie, comedy show or U.F.C. fight with a buddy once in a while. I'd say I'll hold my breath, but if the experiment I ran is any indication, I'd need CPR before that happened.

 Anonymous

Sleepless Nights

I dream on sleepless nights

That we can reunite in the ether

But neither you nor I were believers

So I won't see you in the light

When all that's left is darkness

It's hard to keep on doing right

You either are defeated

Or weakened by the fight

My achievements may be meager

But I reached them when I tried

And it seems to be a feat

Just to be the one alive

With my freedom

Not deceased

Or doing time

Waiting for release dates

Being waked

Or cremated

I can't conceive how I'm survived

You see it in my features

With crows feet beside my eyes

The creases getting deeper

The Grim Reaper's drawing lines

These teens will keep repeating

What they've seen unless

We teach them not to die

But I can't reach them

Even though I've seen

The horrifying hardship

That is life

You can call me crazy

But I know more people

Incarcerated

Than live the college life

So you cannot debate me

While I walk through graveyards

Like a high school hallway

I hear them softly

Call my name

Telling me to stay here

Turn them into martyrs

So it all was not in vain

We all too often are forgotten

By the progress being made

All of the hypocrisy

When our problems

Aren't acknowledged

Largely because of our race

As if the color of my skin

Will admonish me of pain

I wonder where's my privilege

While drop outs hang in the park

And the cops are in my face

When kids were robbing

Banks and pharmacies

Oxycontin was a plague

It never made the news

Never on the front page

So I made a promise

That I wouldn't just walk away

I'd harness what I harbor

In my heart

Be honest with my hate

Pay homage to the fallen

Honor them

By not falling for the bait.

Mark McLaughlin a.k.a MC Diatribe

 Having grown up in the blue collar city of Somerville, Mass., Mark became involved in community activism after witnessing many of his peers succumb to the cycle of substance abuse, violence, and crime. When drug abuse claimed more and more of his loved ones and gentrification began displacing his friends and neighbors, Mark channeled his own personal pain and the struggles of his community through activism, art, giving speeches and writing poetry. 

Under the stage name MC Diatribe, Mark is also a spoken word and rap performer who uses the medium to spread his message even farther. His music is available to download here.

Follow him on Twitter here.

Like him on Facebook here.

Check him out on YouTube here.

Skeleton Face Clock

Staring in the face of time

Watching moments go by with

Casualty, joy, and sadness.

Gazing at the caliber

Knowing this powerhouse is the force

That determines my destiny.

I stare at the skeleton face watch

Drawn not at the complex design

But of the minutes

Hand ticking during its rotation

Capturing my reminders of

Missed moments and late effects.

The glare from the clear glass face has me wonder

What happens when time stops?

Is that the end of our fate, our time?

Why can't we rewind the minutes, hours, and days

To change our wrongful path?

Why doesn't risk come with a loud alarm?

Tears embedded in my eyes

Slowly dropping one by one

Throat clenching

Pressured heart aching

With a threaded pulse.

I look up and ask myself

Why is life revolved around time?

Why can't life reverse itself when the timing is wrong?

I place my watch down and walk away

With a deep inhale

And perplexed exhale

As this moment drifts away with others

By the wings that hold my fate.

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. 

For Our Writers & Readers

Hi Everyone!

I have been feeling compelled to post something on Storytellers for a long time for the simple reason that I miss it.

I miss the supportive atmosphere that surrounded our writers, all of us commenting, liking and sharing each other's work along with our readers, but that brings me to what I want to write about.

I get all my really good ideas in the shower, and if you ask another writer, I bet they will say the same. Well last night, I stepped out of the shower with absolutely no ideas to the point where when I noticed the Q-Tips out of the corner of my eye, at first I thought, Hmmm...should I write a horror story where the cotton swabs awaken in the middle of the night, grow legs and stab people in their eardrums? No, no I shouldn't. 

And that completely dumb internal dialog led me to think about our other writers. See, part of my problem right now is that I am in between getting one novel ready to be released and about a quarter of the way through writing a second one.

But I know when I first started working on my own blog after years of not writing, coming up with ways to get my ideas on "paper" seemed not only impossible, but also absolutely terrifying.

There were times when I felt like I was going to puke after hitting the publish button. There were times when I thought that everyone would hate what I wrote, and maybe some did. In fact, I know some did. I have a very dark sense of humor and strong opinions. Not everyone is going to like that, and that's okay. I know lots of others did like it. It's all a part of the game.

Thing is, the more you do it, the more confident you get, the less of a fuck you give, and I can promise you that your writing abilities will only improve.

Please know that not everyone who really does like your work is going to "like" it on social media.

To our readers, please remember that a simple like, share or comment on a post you genuinely did enjoy give our writers, especially our newcomers, one of the best feelings in the world. It's kind of like the street performer whose hat you throw some change into. If our writer's words entertained you for just a little while, it's not a high price to pay.

So to our current and future writers, if you have a story in you, let it out on here and I promise that you will be supported by our Collective.


To our many readers who do all of the above, we all thank you so, so much!


Much love,
Melissa

Ladybug - Part 7: What Is Worse?

In this life, we all have that one person you would do anything for. You would do anything to protect them, anything to take their pain and sorrows away, anything (even in a sense) die for them. 

My person is "R" and I have a confession to make: For the last 7 months or so; I have been carrying around a secret. A secret that has left me broken, anxious, frightened, angry, sad and the list goes on and on. I will start from the beginning. I remember this day like it was yesterday. R called me on a sunny September afternoon. I thought she was calling to iron out our plans for the evening as we had tickets to see one of Boston's sports teams play in town. In the nail salon (turning away so I wouldn't get the evil eye from the tech doing my nails) I answered her call. However; what I heard on the other line was something I never thought I would hear in a million years: 

"Ladybug, I relapsed. I have been using for months. I just can't lie anymore. I can't do this anymore." 

I tried to get words out but I just couldn't get my brain to process what I just heard. The only words I managed to mutter were "I will text you. I am in the nail salon." Of course, I had my suspicions and actually had come out and asked "R" if she was using. As someone who sees addiction day in and day out at work and someone who went through it herself; the symptoms are usually there. It just depends on whether or not your heart can see them; not your eyes. So, that day started a journey for "R" and myself. One that has left me changed forever. In the beginning, I was one of the only people that knew. Each time I was called to pick up the body of a heroin overdose at work; I worried that at any point in time that could be her. I was terrified when my phone rang and when it didn't. 

When you see someone you love go through what you put your own loved ones through; your perspective changes. I don't think any addict - regardless of where they are in their recovery; regardless of how many times they have taken a personal inventory or how many times they have gone through the 12 steps ever truly knows what it is like to be on the other side. Before Thanksgiving, R went into her first detox. Before she went, though, she asked a question. I don't know if it was directly at me or if it was just her 'talking out loud' but it has stuck with me even as I sit here, months later. She said out loud: "What is worse...being the addict or being on the other end of the addiction?" Without hesitation, I answered her truthfully and honestly: "There isn't even a comparison between the two". 

See, when you are in the middle of a run and there is no care for yourself, you reach a place of not caring about anything or anyone. Of course, it isn't really "you" that doesn't care. It is your diseased mind, body, and soul. That is why addiction is so devastating. You lose yourself along with your will to want to get better. The addiction takes your self-worth away from you. It's not a slow process, either. It's a 'one minute you give a fuck about your life: yourself, family, and friends. Then, the next minute you don't." Of course, I had no idea that "R's" relapse would, in the end, lead me on my own personal journey of revisiting my own addiction but...that is for another post at another time.

To be continued... Signed, Ladybug

Anonymous Submission

Please read the complete "Ladybug" series by clicking on the following:

Ladybugs - Part I  

Ladybugs Part II

Ladybugs - Part III

Ladybugs - Part IV

Ladybug - Part V 
Ladybug - Part VI

The Kitchen Window

I have always felt the heart of a home is the kitchen.

Not just because meals bring families together or that food is generally common ground for the ages. It’s because that’s where happiness settles.

Living rooms are places we watch TV.  Bedrooms are where we sleep, rest when we are sick, or sulk when the world is mean.  My kitchen is the focal point of our home. It’s full of light, open and welcoming. I have always loved my kitchen.

The kitchen window faces my backyard. It’s above the sink which is beautiful because I can watch the kids in the yard, stomping on marigolds, or as a football launches into my tomato plants. The large stock fence was never painted and is weathered from years of storms, snow, sun and gardening. I could look out that window to see the fruits of our labor as the cucumbers grew up the netting vine, the cantaloupe spread out as it grew flowers.  The rich green grass boasted of the love, tenderness and attention we spent growing it.

Where the kitchen was the heart, the yard was the soul of our family.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, admiring the fresh red spots I could see from the window indicating I had tomatoes ready to pick. The juiciness would mean a thick, savory sauce would be on the menu for dinner tonight. I was counting the number of red spots I could see from the window in the sea of green plants when the phone rang.  I sighed as I dried off my hands on the dish towel and took one more look out the window before I answered.

When you hear the words "your child over-dosed on heroin and is at the emergency room, come now because she might not make it" your life changes forever.

I spent countless days, nights, weeks and months trying to chase recovery for my daughter. By the time I realized that the one that should be chasing clean time, and a better life was my daughter and not I, my utopia in the yard had changed dramatically.

The tomatoes perished without the loving hand to water them and pick the ripened fruit. The mint grew wild, taking over and strangling the cilantro and basil. The cantaloupe's flowers wilted and died, not producing buds to grow into melons. The cucumbers shriveled and hung limply on the vine. The eggplant curled, and withered. Cooking with them now would produce a grainy, bitter, taste, much like the way I viewed my life.

Looking out the window in my broken-hearted kitchen, into the backyard with the tattered soul, was a reflection of our true selves.

My daughter would never be the same. My life would never be the same.

The love and attention I had put into my garden, I had also put into raising my daughter. No amount of love or begging would be bring either her or my garden back now.

Melanie Brayden 

Melanie lives in Danvers, MA with her life partner, her three kids, 
his two kids, two cats Diego and Blu and their dog Bud. 
Her oldest child, her daughter, is a heroin addict. 

Melanie began a blog, The Addict in My Basement, 
to chronicle her struggles as the mother of an addict. 

Mechanics, Sexism and Me

When you are five foot one and three fourths inches tall (my license says 5'2") and fairly young looking and kind of social friendly and awkward at the same time, mechanics are going to take advantage of you. Not all, of course. I have a place that is amazing and has treated me with nothing but respect and honesty but I was shaking in my boots when he told me I had to go to the dealership to fix my problem.

They saw me coming from a mile away, with my dickies bag that dates back to 1997 (those motherfuckers were made to last) and messy hair and tattoos and all the other goofy ass shit I do or wear.

My last car gave me so much trouble, I got to learn a major lesson. Always, always, always take a man with you. Or your incredibly amazing female friend who will call them on their bullshit because she actually knows what she's talking about. But unfortunately I did not have these essential people with me during this last experience.

I was berated for no good reason. Not listened to. Not taken seriously. And it sucked.

There were so many things I wanted to say to the man who so utterly pissed me off that I wish I could do it but I won't. It's not right but I will tell you. I wanted to say:

"I'd try to get you fired but on the off chance you found a woman to procreate with and the even smaller chance you actually feed your kids, my morals won't let me."

"A man has never made me feel tall in my entire life."

"Your face sucks."

"I wouldn't even have to lift my arm to punch you in your sucky face."

"You must be a descendant of Napoleon Bonaparte."

"Is your middle name Prick?"

And a bunch of other stuff. I know in my heart that if I were 6'3" and male, he would not have spoken to me the way he did. That's why I almost always believe people when they think they were treated unfairly because of color, race, gender, sexual orientation, etc... because once you definitely have, like there is absolute proof of prejudice, you know what it looks and feels like when it happens again.

Because there is no way for me to ever prove that this man was thinking, "It's okay to treat her like shit, she's just a little girl," but I just know it.

It may not sound like it, but there only one other time that a man tried to con me and I've let myself get this upset. That was not a mechanic so it's not just car guys. But the two instances wouldn't have happened if I weren't me. I had been judged because I have a vagina before but these two instances were so blatant, that I have had to make an effort to remind myself that those dickheads are people too. Maybe the sucky faced guy's mom just died or something awful like that. Not excusing it but you never know and keeping that in mind makes it easier to accept and move on.

To be treated differently for who you are, what you look like or even just how you "seem" can feel like an arrow shot into your soul and that is where the outrage comes from. It comes from your soul. Soul rage has power if used in the right way, be it trying to prevent just one other person from having to go through the same thing or organizing a peaceful protest with hundreds of participants, these are the instances where anger is a good thing.

I can only imagine what the Trayvon Martin's and Michael Brown's, Matthew Sheppard's, Kristina Gomez's and so many others around the world had/have gone through.

And just like the above mentioned, there are way too many to list all the women who have died simply because they were women. Every single day, women are beat by their husbands/boyfriends because they think they can. Every day women are getting paid lower wages for doing the same work as their males counterparts. Many men can bring sexism to it's highest degree and turn himself into misogynist. Ted Bundy is a classic example.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not man shaming. I love men. Always have. A lot of times, I have an easier time talking to men. One of my closest friends in the entire world has a penis. I'm not a hater but I am a realist. And I am a woman. And I've been treated like shit because of it.

While this was the worst experience I have ever had with sexism so far, and it severely pales in comparison to what others have been through, it was yet another reminder that sexism is alive and well and always will be.

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