How the Zombie Apocalypse was a Door for My Broken Heart or What I Learned from the Walking Dead

This was shared with me by a friend that found something she wanted me to see (well, that’s sort of obvious).  What is actually kind of ironic is that the exact episode of which the author speaks truly resonated with me as well.  “Here’s not here”.  Those are not the words I’ve spoken to myself out loud in a bad terror episode.  Those are not the exact thoughts I’ve had when trying to discern my whereabouts in the morning.  However, “Here’s not here” is the EXACT same truth of which I am trying to convince myself to reduce the terror and paranoia.  The most eloquent I could come up with is “I accidentally woke up in the wrong place”.

While my issue has nothing to do with a bad break up, I feel this woman’s words, her meaning, and it resonates with me in a way that I understand.  I’d just like to say to Girl with the Octopus Heart: you are not alone in having the zombie apocalypse change your life.  It gave me a different perspective and that particular episode actually made me cry so I watched it twice in hopes that I could better learn why.  So much can be learned about ourselves if we just listen to those willing to share.

Aforementioned post:
Sobbing through an episode of AMC’s The Walking Dead, I watched as the man I used to know and love as Drew Carey’s cross-dressing brother deliver a monologue about PTSD. I know, you’re already wond…

Source: How the Zombie Apocalypse was a Door for My Broken Heart or What I Learned from the Walking Dead

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Kind of makes me tear up

I’ve been going through old backups and have found a lot of poetry that I’ve written.  I know what this one was about to me but I never gave it a name.  If you have one you think would be good, leave it in the comments and thanks for reading.

darkness-1232724_640Unnamed circa 2005
by Lacy Sereduk

She sits alone in her quiet room
Away from all the torment
She sits and broods and wastes away
With blood her only adornment

Silence is her only speech
That never ever flows
And when the time finally wastes away
She’ll be the only one who knows

So many tears down rapidly fall
To wash away the sins
With moonlights deathly call
The end of time begins

No love once lost nor love regained
Can ease a tortured soul
No happiness or pity brings
Rest to hearts of coal

Once fire lit and love put out
has turned to cindered rock
Covered in dust of misuse and lust
No spark can now unlock

In mired heaps of bloodied skin
This rag of flesh still sits
Upon the bones of loves once passed
And treamors in hateful fits

In sleep she calls for lovers hand
But no voice is e’er returned
All alone she faced the past
And inside out she burned

With hate garnished tongue she calls
and curses the bastard massess
But ever she hopes of her souls return
To sweep away the glasses

The shards of love and life and hope
Does she daily venture o’er
And cuts and bleeds on hands and knees
To earths good flesh she’s lowered

The cold embrace of last breaths grace
To be the first departing
A wish held deep that starts to seep
Into dawns awake’d mourning

In fetid heaps of rot and filth
A rose can once still bloom
But once diseased and called by name
The venom is it’s doom.

Such vibrant life and color lost
And all turns deathly black
“To end, To end!” the mourners call
And in the earth she’s back.

to feed on rot and acid filth
that turns her colour paler
Darker and darker she begins to fall
Her heart her only jailor

She can not grow, it will not beat.
In dark encumbered tomb
this grave that echoes on all the walls
Loneliness is lifes own womb

The squable of the chamber maggots
that fight for rotted mound
Care not for beauty, nor it’s fall
But live to eat all sound

What solice in man’s own hand
Can broken hearts find hope?
But in sleeps bosom do they crawl
Closer to a hangmans rope

The only warmth caught in the flesh
Is that of those nearby
But when the lover moves away
The icy flesh will die

And so the girl alone in death
Listens to the knoll
Turns to howl her frightful best
But silent rings her toll

Trapped in torment of living death
She hides away her heart
Until the day her dying breath
Gives leave for souls depart

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Thought I’d try a little writing

I haven’t written in a long time so I thought I’d give it a little shot tonight because I had these words running in my head.  As I’ve learned, the best way to move on is to just write it down.  Feedback is always appreciated.  Hope you enjoy.

black-and-white-1283234_640The Packaged Soul
by Lacy Sereduk

You see me but you really only see the body that I possess.  You see a person but not who I am.  You think that you know me but, you’ve never looked beyond what your eyes can see.  You’ve never searched around and felt who I am with your mind.  You look at me and I feel as if I’m trapped inside of this body and you don’t even know that I’m here.

I see you inside of your body and I’ve learned about you.  About everything you aren’t hiding and tried to guess at your secrets.  I know you and I love you but I know that you can’t love me because you don’t know who I am.

I am not these clothes or that poor choice.  I am not that grade or that mistake.  I am not this hair or that addiction.  I am not that tattoo, that scar, that lipstick, that thing I said, that joke I told.  I do not simply consist of my packaging.  I am something different.  Unique.  Just like you.

I am a soul that can speak, feel, love, have desires, fears, and happiness.  I am lonely inside this cage of a body.  I am sad that no one has found me yet.  I know that you are in there so why don’t you know that I am in here?  Do you not want to know so you pretend that you don’t?  Did you see me once and decide you don’t want to know me more?  Perhaps you’re just content with seeing the outside of me and moving through the actions of living is just more important.

I am the animal at the zoo that gets looked at but never touched.  The desk worker that tells you to take that hallway and is never spoken to again.  The fancy car that holds memories but sits in a lot.  I am the grandmother’s china that sits on display; holding stories you don’t ask to hear.  I am the daughter, the sister, the brother, the son, the wife, husband, the worker, the boss.  I am the soul that sits across from you at the dinner table.

You are in there and I see you and I love you.  I am in here.  Please find me, love me.

See me.

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Depression, suicide, and hallucinations…

“You’d have to dig pretty deep, kiddo, before you can find anything real. We live in a kingdom of bullshit. A kingdom you’ve lived in for far too long; so don’t tell me about not being real. I’m no less real than the fucking beef patty in your Big Mac. As far as you’re concerned, Elliot, I am very real.” – Mr. Robot
 
Brings to mind the axiom “If you build it, they will come”. A very poignant commentary on the life of a schizophrenic. If you believe, it’s as real as you assume it is. If you don’t believe it, it’s not real. Who’s reality is the correct one? Are some people more attune to certain “wave-lengths” as science suggests or “out of their head”?
 
Every experience is ‘real’, to a certain degree. Night Terrors and the awful experiences are real to our brains, bodies, and memory. Perception drives reality. To those that suffer, these trespasses upon our expected dream-drives are legitimate obstructions.
 
If an “average” person has a nightmare that they died, they wake up and are freaked out for a bit. If a sufferer of night terrors has the same dream, it’s likely going to be on more than one occasion and in plenty of horrific ways. We wake up and think, “Am I dead?” Pretty much every time.
 
I was recently asked why writers and poets have a perceived history of suicide. Here is my response:
think that a lot of writers have gone through experiences that were traumatic or difficult to live with. In my case, I have lived with night terrors my entire life and that is extremely depressing. Knowing that it will likely never just go away has caused me to question whether or not it’s a life I really want to live. Night terrors have only recently received attention and research. It could be very possible that a lot of writers experienced them or similar symptoms that drove their writing and their eventual suicide.
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Studies Link Social Anxiety To Empathetic Ability, High IQs, & Sentinel Intelligence

By Steven Bancarz| A few years ago, a series of studies came out in an attempt to sort of ‘debunk’ people who practice spirituality.  The study found that people who have a spiritual understanding of life tend to be more susceptible to mental health problems, addictions, and anxiety d

Source: Studies Link Social Anxiety To Empathetic Ability, High IQs, & Sentinel Intelligence

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A wonderful little note about writing

A fellow writer posted this on her facebook page and it really spoke to me.  I wanted to share it with everyone as I know other writers feel the same way.

By Ali B. Thomson

10547847_10152936779015555_4399005487327599093_o

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Break time is over

quill-penSo, I’ve taken a long hiatus from writing and working on my books.  I’ve decided that break time is over and I’m ready to get back to work…  Starting with doing some edits on the first chapters of book three because, well, it was just bad.

In addition to getting back to work, I’m going to be offering book one, Discernment, for free over the Christmas holiday.  If you haven’t read it or know someone that is interested but they haven’t picked up a copy yet, it will be free on Amazon from December 23rd to the 27th.  If you don’t have a Kindle, you can still download it using Amazon’s cloud reader for free.

I hope everyone enjoys their Christmas holiday and I look forward to hearing your feedback on the books.

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