The typo is killing me . . .
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Dear Me . . .
Just to clarify ~ I’m not crazy. I don’t have split personalities, the one I have may be splintered just a little bit though. Truthfully, we all have many faces and facets that make up the entirety of who we are. Sometimes we disconnect from self, we may not even be aware we’ve neglected certain aspects of ourselves, but eventually it begins to manifest outwardly and when it does, people notice.
It may be some internal attempt at self-preservation, it may be our experiences in the moment are simply so overwhelming they overshadow parts of who we are. When his happens it can lead to depression, self-doubt, and a sense of emptiness in our lives. I’ve seen it happen to those around me, people dealing with illness, heavy work loads, and other life-changing events. I see it happen often with caregivers and parents. It’s happened to me.
Women seem particularly susceptible, especially mothers. We tend to forget we are more than just wives and mothers and the ten thousand other things we are expected to be. We are unique and complex individuals, there really is more to us than what the world sees, there is more to us than we can sometimes see as well.
We often push parts of ourselves to the deepest depths of our inner being, we become what we think everyone needs and expects us to be. That’s okay as long as we don’t forget to nourish the essence of who we are. Sometimes, we just need to remind ourselves we are important too.
When my kids were still little ones, I went through a period of loss. Loss of self. My life was a whirlwind of schools, doctors, therapists, and medication. I had four young children, two with developmental disabilities, a husband frequently away in service of his country, and a recent diabetes diagnosis. I lost myself in the mayhem.
In a rare and quiet moment the weight of it all bore down on me and I knew I had to do something or I wouldn’t have the strength or the will to continue. I hadn’t picked up a pen to write much more than grocery lists and schedules to keep for a long while, that night I decided to dust off my journal and try to make sense of it all.
What I ended up penning to the page seemed odd, and to be honest, I thought at the time, stupid. I closed my journal feeling no better than I had when I’d opened it. The next day though, I felt stronger. I took little breaks throughout the day to sit and read, to simply sit in thought. I felt a sense of peace. The rest of the week I felt lighter, I enjoyed my days a little more.
I’d forgotten about my journal entry until I decided to write something about a month later, I was surprised at what I found. I didn’t recall writing the words I was reading. I’d penned a letter to myself. It was the first of many . . .
Hello there my old friend. It’s been so long since we’ve had a moment to talk. I just thought I would check in with you and see if you’re okay. Are you? I only ask because you’ve been so distanced from me lately. Remember the hours we used to spend together in thought or in silent prayer? Have you forgotten how wonderful it was, sitting back in the sun, reading and resting?
I miss the quiet moments we used to spend together. I miss hearing your laughter. Do you laugh anymore? Tears seem to have replaced that twinkle in your eyes and that saddens me. I wish I could help. I am trying, do you even hear me? I know you must, you simply have to. If we could just reconnect I know it would ease your troubled heart.
I can feel your loneliness, it is mine as well. There’s no need to be lonely, I am still here. My presence seems to be crowded and nearly lost by all of the pressures and pains you’re feeling. I know the responsibilities you have are great, but what happened to the time you used to make for us . . . for you, the time used to rejuvenate your soul and refresh your mind and spirit?
You cannot keep going without checking in with me every now and then you know. You need me and I need you. What would we be without one another? I shudder at the thought of it. I know right now you feel you do not have time for me, but I think if you tried you would find you really do.
I’m not asking for days or even hours, just a few stolen moments every once in a while. We could read a chapter or two in an old book or step outside and let the cool winters breeze give us goosebump kisses. We could sip a cup of tea and write poetry and breathe.
Please think it over, I know you will feel better once we have been in each other’s company for a spell. I will be here for you when you’re ready, just as I always am. I do hope you will squeeze me in soon. I’m afraid if you do not I will lose you forever. What would become of me? What would become of you?
I whispered a prayer for us. I look forward to spending some time with you soon. Sooner than later I hope.
I miss you and I love you . . .
Sincerely yours.
A little part of you.
Crystal R. Cook
W.A. – It affects you, I guarantee it.
If you have any of these warning signs, you are one of the many people afflicted with WA –
- an unusually and unnecessarily large collection of writing instruments.
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an over abundant supply of paper, notebooks, journals, etc..
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overflowing bookshelves, the compulsion to buy books even when you have unread stacks of them next to your bed, couch, and kitchen table.
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an overwhelming compulsion to blog, read blogs, and comment on blogs.
WA is a newly recognized and widespread epidemic of addiction affecting people around the globe. This affliction has silently consumed lives for centuries, some may argue it is a harmless addiction, though many have been known to suffer from co-morbid conditions such as alcohol and caffeine abuse.
Negative side effects include insomnia, malnourishment, and social deficits. Family members of those living with WA have reported episodes of withdrawal, lack of spontaneity, decreased desire to engage in family activities, lack of personal care, and sustained periods of restlessness in those diagnosed.
Currently, the typical diagnostic criteria used to determine addiction is not apparent in all cases, many go unrecognized by the medical and psychiatric communities leading to a majority of cases being diagnosed by family members. Many of those with WA are self diagnosed.
In many instances you may hear it referred to as a syndrome in lieu of an addiction. A majority of those with WA do not see it as an addiction, they believe they were born with WA. Popular theory and current research suggests there may be a genetic component involved.
Since the diagnostic criterium for addiction is not always met, WA, also known as Writing Addiction, or Writing Syndrome, is often a diagnosis of exclusion, meaning you know your addicted if you’ve excluded everything else in life aside from the written word.
In fact, if you are reading this you may have one of two very real addictions, perhaps even both. If you are reading simply because you must read you more than likely have RA, Reading Addiction. If you are reading this and already thinking of what to write about it, it’s safe to say you are a Writing addict. If you are reading this out of sheer compulsion AND thinking of what to write, you are not alone, a majority of those diagnosed carry a dual diagnosis referred to as RAWA, Reading and Writing Addiction. There is no shame.
Writing addiction is not something you plan. It is an all-encompassing desire, the more you write the more you need to write. Like most addictions, it begins to consume you. At first it’s just jotting things down now and then, a bit of poetry here, a little prose there and soon you’re writing stories and sonnets and epic works of words late into the night.
It’s a secret addiction in the beginning, harmless to most. Writing addicts typically start in their spare time. It doesn’t take long until spare time is no longer enough; it begins to creep into their day. When you’re supposed to be doing bills an idea will hit and next thing you know you’ve written half a chapter on the back of your electric bill.
It doesn’t end there. Dinners get burned, kids are late for school, laundry piles up and you forget to feed the dogs, you write about it though. Hungry Dogs, a Tale of Sad Tails. When it first begins it’s easy to hide, but soon you get careless and scraps of paper litter the countertops and the dressers, notebooks and journals are in every room of the house.
Your desktop is filled with papers and coffee cups. Oh yes, coffee cups. Once the addiction has you in its clutches you forego nourishment for a good old Cup-o-Joe to keep you going. Snack foods sustain life. By the time family and friends see the signs it’s too late. No one says anything until you arrive at school in the afternoon to pick up your children wearing yesterday’s pajamas.
By the time anyone suspects there is a problem it’s already too late. Sure, they can hold interventions; they can beg and plead, but the need to write simply cannot be overcome. Once you have it, you have it for life. Eventually those who love you will accept the reality of your life. You are a writer.
There isn’t much you can do for someone with writing addiction except accept them and love them
just as you did before they picked up a pen. As previously mentioned, in some cases it appears to be genetic; many children of writing addicts are themselves addicts by the time they reach puberty. The same can be said for the offspring of reading addicts. There has yet to be a cure, its doubtful there ever will be.
I myself am a reading and writing addict. It began when I took my first breath, my family has tried to put an end to it, but they’ve never succeeded. They’ve never even come close. They know I will write about them if they push it too far. Do they think I don’t know casserole will burn if I don’t stop writing long enough to take it out of the oven? I mean seriously, why else would I keep a fire extinguisher at my desk. I’m one step ahead them.
In conclusion, writing can in fact, be an addiction. There is no way to know who will become a slave to the written word. There is no way to stop it once it has begun. I suppose those of us with writing addiction are enabling the reading addicts among us, they can’t get enough of what we do . . . but then, are they not in a sense encouraging our own addiction to writing? And what of those of us with the dual addiction, we are our own worst enemy and best friend; it is a vicious circle, one with no end.
If a cure is ever found I’m heading for the hills. I wonder if I can get high-speed Internet service up there . . . no matter, paper, pens and solitude is all I need to feed the hunger. No twelve step programs for me, I’ll write one for anyone who wishes to work through their beautiful addiction though, not that anyone would.
Crystal R. Cook
You Painted Me a Picture

You painted me a picture once,
a long, long time ago.
The colors came to life,
and set the room aglow.
They danced within the shadows,
Did you see them there?
And, oh, the melody it sang, so sweet,
I still can hear it in the air.
It tenderly embraced me,
such warmth upon my skin.
I wish you’d written down those words
so I could hear them once again.
Crystal R. Cook
Coffee Shop Moment
I am out of the house. At Starbucks. Alone. The coffee shop is one of my favorite places to be, and not just for the coffee, believe it or not. It started with the coffee of course, but it didn’t take long to realize there was so much more to my outings than a good cup of coffee.
Most days there’s a kind of quiet here I can’t find anywhere else and the company quite often fascinates me. Most days. This morning I’m only five minutes into my much anticipated mini retreat and the gathering crowd is beginning crowd me. Todays caffeine connaisseurs are chatty and a bit on the rude side.
I’ll just sit here and write, avoiding eye contact and any possibility of accidentally appearing available for conversation, basically what I typically do anyway. You might not believe this, but I’m not much of a people person. I’ve tried to be, I admit I haven’t employed Herculean effort into my attempts at human contact, but occasionally I smile at people, that’s trying. A little.
My moment has passed. This is not turning out to be the morning I had hoped for. I’m only halfway through my venti iced coffee and thoughts of poking people in the eyes with a straw are washing over me. Just so you know, I wouldn’t do it, straws are bendy, not nearly reliable enough.
I swear I am a good person. I am.
Thankfully, the mouthy masses are moseying off to . . . other pastures. Not sure where I was going with that, all the chatter messed with my ability to form coherent thought. Maybe I can salvage the last five minutes before reality resumes and I head home to face the laundry pile.
. . . . . . . .
This morning was just made perfect. God is good, He knows just what we need and when we need it. I finished my coffee which prompted a trip to the restroom. There was a young man tapping his foot and singing to himself while waiting for the men’s room to open up. The ladies room was occupied as well so I stood in that little hallway, listening to his song.
He noticed me listening. I asked if he had a song stuck in his head. He nodded and told me it was a good one . . . Then, he took a step closer and looked me in the eyes, he serenaded me with his song.
I couldn’t understand the words, but I felt them. Each one leaving goosebumps on my arms. He was precious, he was pure and real and his sweet heart touched my soul.
A few people took notice, they stared, some even smiled. When a Down’s syndrome angel gives you a gift, you take hold of it and treasure it always.
Hush Little Baby – (writing prompt – storm, nursery rhyme) OR Oh, dear friends, be kind – I don’t write much fiction.
The night was black, dark clouds covered what little light the moon had to offer. Violent torrents of rain poured from the sky, beating the surface of the building as if begging for refuge to escape their own raging fury. With each lightning flash, a tiny, barred window near the ceiling illuminated Heather’s hiding place with an eery glow. She used these brief moments of light to scan the small space for something, anything she might put to use to protect herself, from what she didn’t know. The room was bare, nothing but a small, overturned cot beneath the window.
Heather was scared, more than scared. She tried to remember what happened, why she was running, how she ended up crouching in the corner of the cold, darkened room. Was she hiding from the storm or something worse? Her fingernails dug sharply into the palms of her hands as she desperately tried to piece together the few memories she had. Nothing made sense.
There was a door, she darted across the room, placing her ear to the cold, metal surface. Silence. She felt her way to the handle, it wasn’t there, nothing but a thick, metal plate where it should have been. She slowly stood on her toes, trying to peer out the rectangular opening above her. There was a faint, yellow glow behind the pattern of mesh and glass, she wasn’t tall enough to see anything more.
The musty scent of old, wet wood from the weathered window panes filled the room with a sickening, yet familiar scent, for a moment she thought maybe she’d been here before. Her bones ached, her head hurt and her heart pounded. She began to count the seconds between the booming thunder and the flashes of white. A strangely comforting warmth came over her, she looked down to see her own blood dripping from her clenched fists. She loosened her fingers and examined the blood. The glistening liquid fell like tears on her stained nightshirt. It looked black in the darkness, for some reason this brought a smile to her face and she again let her fingernails pierce the wounds.
Lightening flashed through the room again, for a moment she thought she saw a glimpse of someone’s shadow peering through the door window and she began to rock. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth to the music of the storm. The loud cracks of thunder began to soften, giving way to a familiar tune. As the winds howled and the lightning flashed, Heather could hear nothing but a far off melody.
She soon forgot about the storm, she forgot about her fear as the music box innocence of the tune grew louder. She recognized it, someone once sang it to her. A ghostly voice from her past filled the empty room, it was a woman’s voice, a beautiful voice . . . momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring, and if that diamond ring turns to glass . . . Heather began to rock faster, her long hair making contact with the concrete wall behind her.
The booming thunder interrupts the song and the soothing voice turns to anguished screams. Heather begins to rock faster, harder and waits for the screams to stop, somehow she knows they will. The lightning flash again reveals someone at the window, she closes her eyes as the screams fade and the soothing song resumes . . . momma’s gonna by you a rocking horse . . . she lets her fingernails slide like puzzle pieces into the broken flesh of her palms.
Outside of the room, two men stand guard. One of them looks nervous, “Is she gonna be okay? Should we go in?”
The other guard glances sideways into the room and then back to his magazine. “Naw, she’ll live. Does this crap every time a storm passes through. They’ll patch her up in the morning and she’ll be back to normal.”
“Normal?” the new guard looked as though he’d be sick. “Nothing about this place is normal, gives me the creeps.”
Without looking up from his magazine, the older guard sighed, “Look, the pay’s good and as long as they stay locked up, we got no problems, relax.”
Inside the room, Heather continues to sing, she has no memory of the stormy night she killed her mother . . . and if that rocking horse does break . . . .
Crystal R. Cook
If you’re strong, you’ll survive it. (Prompt – prophesy.)
Mother looked out the frost covered window of her darkened room, staring into the heart of night. She pulled her blankets close as she watched the giant snowflakes fall beneath the ominous glow of the yellow streetlamps. She knew all too well what this could mean and the thought sent shivers right to her bones.
Her mind drifted back to the stories her grandmother would tell on nights such as these, stories that have haunted her ever since. They were terrible tales and always ended with what amounted to a prophesy from her dear grandmother, “You wait, one day it will fall upon your house as well. If you’re strong, you’ll survive it.”
Still looking out at the snow falling heavier by the minute, she knew this could be the moment her grandmother said would come, the signs were all there, the night seemed so still, too still. The moon was wrapped in a bluish haze she could faintly see though the snow-filled sky. The ground was a blanket of nothing but white. Mother knew sleep would not find her peacefully, she grew ever more anxious, grandmother had warned she would need all the strength she could muster.
Thoughts of what the morning might bring plagued her dreams each time her weary eyes fell shut and she would awaken to the deafening silence of snow crashing outside of her window. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her thoughts, “If you’re strong, you’ll survive it.”
The long night gave way to a bright morning, the slumber she’d fought so hard to find was ripped away from her by the sound of her children’s screams. Their screams pierced her heart and she buried her face in her hands. Tears began to fall as she realized she didn’t have enough strength to do what had to be done. A cheerful voice from the radio interrupted her despair.
“Goooooood mornin’ to ya,” the DJ chimed.
Mother glared at the radio. “What’s good about, hu?”
“It’s six forty-five in the AM hour, and if you haven’t yet heard, last nights record snowfall has blocked the roads and closed the schools.”
With that, mother turned off radio, the last thing she needed was the voice of a chipper DJ ringing in her ears. She did her best to pull herself together. Her greatest fear had finally come to pass, her grandmother’s prophesy was being fulfilled. School had been cancelled and there would be no escape from her four, young children until it reopened.
She was sleep deprived and emotionally drained, but she knew she had to find the strength to make it through the day. She slowly made her way to the kitchen where the children’s excited chatter bounced around inside of her head like nails in the spin cycle. She reached for the coffee, she knew caffeine would be her only ally. Her heart sank as she realized the coffee tin was empty. Grandmother’s grim warnings could have done nothing to prepare her for the true horrors that were unfolding . . .
Crystal R. Cook










