Geez, melodramatic much?

I can be just a teeny melodramatic sometimes. Well, really only in the wee hours of the morning after I’ve tossed and turned all night. I am not one for drama. Those nights though, when the day has been rough and sleep refuses to visit, I take it out on the page. I am fairly certain if too many of my silent midnight ravings were to be set loose, I would quite possibly find myself locked securely away somewhere.

Thank goodness for the sanctuary and release of words . . . Usually, I find these bits of craziness tucked into my nightstand months after they were written, I generally have no idea what led me to write them. This one though, this was after a particularly rough IEP meeting, fighting the school, again, for the services my son required and deserved. I got them, but the battle wore me down. Everything was wearing me down.

I always feel better after I spill my lunacy upon a page, the therapeutic power of the pen is magical.

Things
in my mind
are not
fit to be
thought.

Aberrations
of normalcy,
detached
from
reality,
if there
is indeed
such a
thing.

Purging
and
pouring
into the
abyss of
what used
to be.

Filling
to the brim
with bile.

The bane
of simple
existence
too much a
burden upon
battered and
bruised
shoulders that
have carried
more than
their share
of suffering
never meant
for them.

Bones crush,
hearts break,
spirits begin
to cry out
for mercy
that will
never come.

Their thirst will
never be
quenched,
hunger will
never be
quelled,
not even
when there
is nothing
left of me
to feed upon.

Darkness
will cloak
me in
the fear
I no longer
have strength
to fight,
I no longer
care to fight.

Respite and
retreat
are what I
long for now.

No more
battle,
no more
victory,
no more
defeat.

Leave me
to my misery
until the light
beckons me
to rise
and face
the battle
once again.

Crystal R Cook

 

Raising Potential Writers

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A good writer is first a good reader . . .

William Faulkner once said, “Read, read, read. Read everything trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it is good, you’ll find out.”

Introducing children to the world of literature is one of the greatest gifts you can give them, regardless of whether or not writing is in their future. Before they can read, read to them, help them fall in love with words.

“Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body.” Sir Richard Steele

Books captivate and spark imagination. Once they begin to read, they begin to learn, let the masters be their teachers. When I was six years old I read The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, I was enraptured by the tale and soon sat down to write a story of my own. Some children seem to be born with a story within them, just waiting to be told.

“The difference between the right word and the nearly right word is the same as that between lightning and the lightning bug.” Mark Twain

Teach them to speak properly. If they are to write, they must know how to speak, and speak well. The proper use of words and a good vocabulary will only serve to enhance every aspect of their writing as well as their future relationships and employment opportunities. This is something you can do from the time they are babies, baby talk can be fun when it’s time to have fun, but I’m a firm believer that children need to be spoken to in the way we want them to one day speak.

Encouragement will foster confidence; too much encouragement can lead to disappointment, reserved honesty is sometimes best. I would never tell my children something was wonderfully written if it were not, instead, I would find the good in it, then offer suggestions for the parts that could use some attention. Read what your child writes and tell them you want to read more, your enthusiasm will fuel their own.

“There is only one trait that marks the writer. He is always watching. It’s a kind of trick of the mind and he is born with it.” Morley Callaghan

Teach them to see the world around them, help them become constant observers. Inspiration comes in many forms; sometimes the most insignificant of things will lead us to the most significant thought. It teaches them to be aware of themselves and all that surrounds them. It teaches there is so much more to be seen than most people realize, they’ll learn to see what others may not, they’ll experience so much more of life when they learn to look beyond the ordinary.

Two of my four children are writers, amazing writers, they are all avid readers and eloquent speakers as well. When they were young, one of their favorite pastimes was Mad Libs. Without realizing it, they were learning with each silly story. Before my daughter was five she knew what adjectives and pronouns were, she knew the difference between a verb and an adverb. They learned new words and how to spell them through family games of Scrabble.

I often sat with them, pen and paper in hand, and we wrote stories together, taking turns, paragraph by paragraph. Here they learned the proper usage of grammar and punctuation, they learned to be creative. They learned to show, not tell. They found their own voices within the words they penned to the page. Looking back on their earliest writing brings both smiles and tears, their innocence spilled upon page after page, they are some of my most treasured possessions.

“Advice to young writers? Always the same advice: learn to trust your own judgment, learn inner independence, learn to trust that time will sort the good from the bad including your own bad.” Doris Lessing

I encouraged them to keep journals, it’s important to have a place to write anything and everything. To me, it is in the pages of a journal where you learn the most about who you really are. There can be no self-expression without a sense of self.

I taught them to never throw away what they’ve written, even if they thought it wasn’t the greatest, I urged them to tuck it away and maybe someday revisit and rework, or at the very least, look back on to see how far they’ve come. One of my greatest regrets as a writer is the loss of work I deemed unworthy at the time.

As teenagers, I encouraged them to write often, offering critiques and advice along the way. Constructive criticism can be a difficult thing to take in the beginning; they learned to grow from it. They found online writing groups and sought out those teachers willing to take time and become a part of their journey as they wrote their way into each new chapter of their lives.

Now, as adults, they continue to write as they pursue other dreams and opportunities. Their ability to express themselves in both the written and spoken word is remarkable and rarely goes unnoticed. It wasn’t my intent to raise writers, my goal was to teach them the importance of words, language, and expression. The words we say follow us through life, they can open doors or they can close them.

I place great value on words, they are how we let the world know who we are, what we stand for, what we desire, need, and cherish in life. Their worth is immeasurable. Teaching a child the wonder of words, not just how to say them, but how to feel them and bring them to life, is as I said, a gift.

Crystal R. Cook
 

Two Dead Boys Poem

Two dead boys – One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night

There is a certain morbid quality to this piece, but the genius of it is epic. When my son first read it to me years ago I was so taken by it, it was one of those rare moments where I actually wished I had been the one who penned it. Every now and again it just worms its way into my mind. I am uncertain who originally penned it . . .

Too many selfies!

So . . . I downloaded an app called Fast Camera. Apparently I took 700+ pics of myself in the 60 some odd seconds I had it open. Not gonna lie, kinda freaked me out. Maybe there might be at least one good shot in there.

Ice Cream & Good Days

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Chocolate droplets
stream in melting
rivulets down
his little arm
already the color
of earth from a
long day of play

He tries to catch
the quickly melting
ice cream from
the slightly crumbled
cone on which it sits

Not a care has he
not with his
chocolate treasure
in hand

I watch him
in wonder
remembering
a time
long since passed
when an ice cream
cone could make the
difference between
a good day and a bad

He runs off to play
with sticky
little hands

It was a good day

Crystal R. Cook

 

10 Simple Rules for Fathers

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Fathers have so much more influence on their child’s future than they may think.

Sons learn how to treat women by watching their fathers.

Daughters learn how men should treat women by watching their fathers.

They learn work ethics, values and morals; they learn things a father doesn’t even know he is teaching. A father is not simply a man who has a child. A father is a man who teaches his child, who sets an example which will effect the future of their son or daughter.

(1) Be mindful of the tongue –

Did you know for every negative thing said to a child there should be ten positives as well? Children need praise and encouragement. They need to know their dad is proud of them so they can learn to take pride in themselves.

(2) Silence is not golden –

Fathers must talk to their children. When they come home from work, even if they are tired or frustrated, it is vital they acknowledge their child. Ask him/her how their day was; tell him/her you missed them, give them a hug. If you don’t talk to them, one day they’ll stop trying to talk to you.

(3) Let them see love –

Children often grown up to have relationships which mirror the relationship their parents had. Fathers play the most important role in these future relationships. Sons tend to treat their girlfriends or wives in the same manner their father treated their mother. Daughters often find a man with the qualities of their father, a man who will treat her the way her father treated her mother. Even if there is a separation between mother and father, the children should never see anything but respect between them.

(4) Play with them –

A father who is willing to put down the paper, the iPad or the remote control and sit on the floor to play marbles with their son or have a tea party with their daughter is teaching their child they are worthy and loved. Ignoring a child sends the opposite message. Fathers should read to their children, tell them stories from when they were a kid or just have a good old’ tickle fight.

(5) Make memories –

Many children have more memories of their mother than they do of their father. Fathers need to make time to explore the wonders of the back yard, to go camping or fishing – Anything their child can look back on with fond remembrance.

(6) Hugs and kisses –

Kids need a good hug or a pat on the back from their dads. Many fathers have a difficult time showing affection in this way, but they need to know their child craves it and needs it. A true man, a good father, can overcome his difficulties for the sake of their child. Children should see their parents showing innocent affection for one another as well.

(7) Set the standard –

A father should be no less than he wants his child to be. A father needs to model the behavior he hopes his child will one day have.

(8) The way things used to be –

A father should not limit his parenting techniques by using the fallback, ‘That’s the way my dad did it’. A father must stop and think back to how his father made him feel before he continues down that path. Perhaps some aspects of his upbringing will be beneficial, perhaps some will not.

(9) The gift of time –

What most children want is to simply spend time with their dads. Sometimes a hectic work schedule or a long honey-do list makes spending time with their kids seem impossible, but even just a few minutes of a father’s undivided attention can make a world of difference in the life of his child.

(10) Be a hero –

Fathers may not realize it, but they are already heroes in the eyes of their children, their job is to keep it that way. A father should be someone his child can look up to. A father should be someone who makes his child feels safe and loved. A father should make certain his child knows he will always be there to help pick him/her up when they fall, share in their joy when they succeed and love them without condition.

A child is a precious and delicate gift given to a father. A father is precious and valued gift given to a child.

Crystal R. Cook

He deserves better than two-ply.

We no longer have little kids to fill Father’s Day with fun and laughter, so we make our own . . . happy Father’s Day my dear husband, I am still looking for the three-ply.

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I don’t know how to break this to you . . . But I got issued a National Defense Medal. I’m kind of a big deal . . .

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I’m afraid we are broken.

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How much of how we feel about our fellow man has been dictated by the prejudice of others? Resentments from the sins and sorrows of those who have come before us remain, festering and growing in their absence. We feed them, we nurture them and we pass them on to the next generation without wondering why.

We copy and paste them into our own psyche, we adopt them without question. Sheep following an unseen shepherd to the slaughter. I too often hear people trying to justify and defend their attitudes and opinions with false arguments and phony indignation. The thoughts they think are not their own, merely recycled resentments inherited from family, friends and foes of people they may have never known.

If we stopped to think for ourselves, would we see their experiences are not our own? Would we realize we have shaped our world based on the broken model of theirs? Would we notice we’ve damaged it even more in the name of progress and change? Would we see we can’t look at our own experiences through the tainted lenses of the past?

Our country is more divisive and separated and prejudice than ever, instead of eradicating these things we despise we seem to have inflated them. Since the beginning of mankind there have been the haves and the have nots, there has been social, economical and racial prejudice. Our society has managed to twist the dreams that once were, we have found new ways to undermine each other, to build walls of separation as we pretend to tear them down.

Sound bytes and sensationalistic headlines invade our minds from the left and from the right and we choose sides, ignoring the the good from the side we’ve not chosen and ignoring the bad from the side that we have.

We say we want equality in this country, but equality is just a concept, it can never be achieved, especially when everyone who cries out for it seems to want more than the rest. There can never be equality while there are those who have no means to even stand in line to receive it.

We use the word acceptance when what we really want is applause. We fight for what we call human rights when we have forgotten what human rights really are. We fight for freedom of expression but place restrictions upon it. We fight for freedom of religion but we really want everyone to agree with our own beliefs . . . at least that is what we accuse each other of, slowly molding it into a reality.

The needs of the some have become more important than the needs of the many. We champion the rights of criminals and forget their victims. We shout platitudes to placate the masses in a cacophony of false hopes and empty promises. The ones who fight for our country are now second in line to those who invade it.

Every cause and crusade has a mouthpiece, a puppet being manipulated an unseen hand. They herald their chosen truth, claiming to speak for the masses until the masses think they really are and begin to believe what they say. We are conditioned to follow, conditioned to believe. No need to form our own thoughts and opinions, the majority rules and those who do not follow their lead are considered radicals and extremists.

We are being broken by the choices we’ve made . . . Soon, there won’t be enough to mend.

Crystal R. Cook

The Mountain – Facing my fear

I would like to share with you a life changing event I’ve shared with precious few. It can be difficult to share some of the most deeply personal stories we keep tucked away inside of us. It’s good to share them though, release leads to healing.

Enough time has passed for me to look back upon this moment in my life and see what went wrong and how I could have done things differently . . . Live and learn. It’s my hope in sharing my story I may save even one person from suffering the horrors I did one cold, seemingly endless night, not too long ago.

I was standing before a mountain. I marveled at its height and breadth. The immenseness of it took my breath away. I felt helpless and small standing there in the shadow of it. I decided it was time to face my fears and conquer them by taking on that mountain. I was never one to take risks, to put myself out there, fear has always held me back.

I needed to do it, I had no choice. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. A test of both strength and endurance, not just of body but of mind as well. I’d put off this monumental journey for too long. I’d attempted it days before, but my irrational fears and anxiety kept me from seeing it through to the end.

I looked that mountain up and down, it was no Everest but it may as well have been. I wasn’t just doing it for myself. I was doing it for my family. They’d been so supportive, so encouraging, even after I failed the first time. They wanted this as much as I did.

I scanned the uneven surface of the mountain looking for the best place to begin. I spotted it, but as I reached and grasped the mountainside began to give way. At first I tried to remain calm but as more and more of the falling mountain came down upon me I began to panic. I had no time to think, before I knew it I was being buried. Buried alive.

When the mountain stopped trembling I began to claw my way out of the rubble. Luckily, I had the fortune of being in an air pocket, I knew the air would only last so long though. I quickly gave up my attempt at escape, afraid of collapsing the wall of debris around me. My only chance was to get someone’s attention. I began to cry out for help.

It seemed like an eternity passed before I heard the sounds of my rescuers. I extended my hand through a small hole above me and my prayers were answered when I felt the glorious touch of another hand grasping my outstretched fingers. I knew my ordeal would soon be over.

The hand released it’s comforting grip and I listened intently as a voice called out,

“Daaaaad, mom’s in the laundry pile again!”

My doctor checked me out, physically I was fine, but the emotional damage would take much longer to heal. He said I could have prevented the whole thing if I’d only done laundry earlier in the week. What does he know? Has he ever looked that beast in the eye? I think not. I’m sure Mrs. Doctor would understand.

I was certain they’d keep me overnight for observation, but he released me with a prescription for Xanax, one for Prozac and another for P.M.S (Psycho Mother Syndrome) and sent me on my way.

Perhaps I was being a bit melodramatic, perhaps a wee bit of insanity had taken over my mind, but I swear to you . . . The fear was real.

Crystal R. Cook

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The day he was diagnosed – Autism

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I sat for what seemed like hours staring at the small stack of papers the doctor had given me. My tears had already stained many of the pages. I stared at the word Autistic, it stood out among the rest. I ran my finger along the printed word. Autism, Sensory Integration Dysfunction . . . the tears rained down.

We’d waited so long for a diagnosis, so long for someone to listen and understand. The tears I shed were not in sadness or despair, I was happy, near euphoric quite honestly, I was excited about what this long-awaited diagnosis meant for my son.

He will be 26 this year, I knew the moment our eyes first met there was something special about him. I realize all mothers could make that claim, but somehow I knew something was different. As time passed, it became more and more apparent there was more to my feeling than just a feeling. He was not meeting the milestones he should have been meeting. He was so different from other babies his age.

Twenty-plus years ago the Autistic Spectrum didn’t seem to exist. The word Autism kept coming to me, but the doctors dismissed the notion. When he was two, he was enrolled in a special needs preschool through early intervention. He was diagnosed as learning disabled with Sensory Integration Dysfunction. Later they added Pervasive Developmental Disorder – Not Otherwise Specified. He began speech and occupational therapy and I saw change and growth, but there was still something there, right beneath the surface.

He began speaking shortly before he was five years old, before that it was mostly echolalia sprinkled with random words and phrases he was learning. When he began grade school his services stopped. They said he did not have a qualifying condition to merit the services such as continued speech and occupational therapy he so badly needed. PDD-NOS was not specific enough.

He was listed as learning disabled and placed in a mainstream classroom with modified work. I watched my son slip away and I began to fight. All the while, teaching him and working with him as I always had, but I fought the school, I fought the district and finally, in the fourth grade he was placed in a special education class and he began to learn.

It wasn’t enough though. They didn’t understand him. They forced him to make eye contact he was unable to make. They forced him to suffer through an ever-changing and unpredictable schedule and punished him when he would retreat into his own little world. I once again brought up Autism. He can talk they said, he doesn’t have Autism. He is smart they said, he can’t possibly be Autistic.

My younger son was having many of the same difficulties and was beginning speech therapy. The school psychologist suggested I had Munchausen’s by proxy and urged me to seek help. I was furious. I made an appointment with yet another doctor and within a week my prayers were answered. By God’s grace we walked into the office of a young doctor who had recently attended a seminar about Autism.

He knew there was a spectrum, he new about Aspergers, he knew how to diagnose my son and he knew what we needed. In my heart I knew he was autistic, now someone else finally understood. I broke down in his office. I tried to hold it back but the flood of emotions I’d so long waited to release could not be contained. I praised the Lord right there in that office and have been praising him in thanks every day since.

With this new and proper diagnosis my son was placed in the perfect classroom setting, he was given back the therapies he needed and deserved. He began to grow and learn once again. There would be more battles with the district through the years, but I was relentless in my quest to see he had everything he needed to thrive.

I eventually fought to remove the Aspergers diagnosis in favor of Autism, technically, he fit the diagnostic criteria regarding speech development for Autism, it proved to be a magical word and the educational and therapeutic doors which had remained closed until that point, suddenly opened.

He is a wise and wonderful young man, intelligent and witty. He most definitely walks to the beat of his own drummer and he is perfect, just as I always knew he was.

The day my son was diagnosed with autism was one of the happiest days of my life. Two of my four children have autistic spectrum disorders, I have been blessed beyond measure, it is an honor to be their mother . . .

Crystal R. Cook