Battling Your Demons: A Tale of Overcoming Depression

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 24, 2024 | Writing

Battling Your Demons: A Tale of Overcoming Depression

My life! What has it become? How can one have enthusiasm when they’re depressed? Enthusiastically depressed? Oxymoron much? But that’s just it; I can’t change my underlying temperament just because I’ve lost the will to live. Yes! I’ve given up! I’ve tried for so long, but I keep stubbing my toes on the obstacles.

I’ve tried climbing my broken ladder, but, honestly, it’s hard when every other rung is missing, and, well, I’m afraid of heights. I have so many fears, you know! Yes, they’re quite stifling. I find it’s best to stay in one spot, lest something were to happen if I were to move, but then who is to say this spot is safe? I could be a bull’s-eye target. Who is watching? I can’t live like this, though; it’s paralyzing. Can you imagine being enthusiastically emotionally paralyzed?

It’s not easy. I was looking for a reset button. Is it somewhere in my subconscious, or is there an actual button, yet to be discovered? What if it’s on my roof? What if it’s buried in the backyard? I’ve done all the things one is supposed to do when depressed. I’ve watched videos and read books about subconscious blocks. But when I meditate, I only see darkness in a frame of bright colors. The darkness is stuck between the colorful frame. Shitty, right?

If it isn’t obvious, the darkness is the depression trapped within the colorful enthusiasm. You might be asking yourself now, can’t the colorful frame quash out the darkness? It seems so easy, but alas, it hasn’t worked for me. I’ve tried journaling, and my journal loves the superlatives. It doesn’t matter what I do, the darkness pervades. I’m going to sit here now and plan the most stupendous, outrageous self-inflicted killing; it will be grand—my biggest act yet—and yet, the final act.

Suddenly, the room spins, and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and an angular nose shadowing a thin mustache appears. This man is wearing a scarf that says, “Deviling is my day job.” This is quite exciting; I’ve never seen such a sight. His short hair is waving from the breeze left over from the room spin.

“Who are you?” I ask with delight. Maybe my prayers have been answered.

“Hi there, I am Tom.”

“Hi, Tom,” I say as I sit on the edge of my sofa.

“There’s been a mixup here,” he says, then mutters to himself, “this can’t keep happening, I’m going to have to talk to Dom about this.”

“A mixup?” I say with zeal.

“Is your name Dixie of 123 Any Street?” he asks. He cocks his head to one side and looks at his palm; he has handwritten notes on it.

“No, I’m Trixie of 123 Any Place,” I say, emphasizing the word place.

“Oh yes, that’s what I was afraid of. It seems there’s been a mixup. Dom really needs to improve his handwriting. We’ve been controlling the wrong person. I don’t have a Trixie of 123 Any Place on my list. This was definitely for Dixie of 123 Any Street. Sorry for the mixup.” And Tom snaps his fingers and disappears.

I look around and see the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, and the internal joy that will not relent is beaming within me.

A Joyless Search

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 24, 2024 | Playwriting

A Joyless Search

SETTING: A cluttered living room. The furniture is slightly askew, cushions are out of place, and books lie open on the coffee table. A step stool is in the corner. All the lights are on, casting a bright glow over the chaos.

TIME: June 2025

AT RISE: PENELOPE stands on the step stool, peeking behind the bookcase. ROGER is on his hands and knees, looking under the couch. He scoots across the floor, lifts the cushions one by one, and peers behind them. PENELOPE moves the stool to the window and climbs again, peeking behind the curtains. ROGER moves to the coffee table, flipping through books and lifting knickknacks. PENELOPE walks over to ROGER, lifts the back of his shirt, and ruffles his hair.

PENELOPE

(Frustrated) Can you see her?

ROGER

(Stopping, earnest) No, I can’t.

PENELOPE

(Sighing) I can’t either.

ROGER

(Flustered, a little out of breath) I’m looking everywhere. There’s no sign of her.

PENELOPE

(Stepping back, shouting) Joy! Joy! Where are you? Come out, Joy. Come back to us!

ROGER nods in agreement, searching half-heartedly now.

PENELOPE

(Sadly, looking at ROGER) I can’t find Joy anywhere. Maybe she really is gone.

ROGER

(Putting an arm around her) She might be. There may never be joy in our lives again.

PENELOPE

(Looking down, shaking her head) I can’t imagine we’ll never see Joy again. This is too much. This is so sad.

ROGER

(Slowly nodding) Yes. It’s joyless. We are without Joy. There is no Joy here.

PENELOPE

(Resolute) We can’t just accept this, Roger. I can’t stand not having any joy in my life.

ROGER

(Sighing) I know. But we have to face facts. Joy is not here. Joy is gone. Forever.

PENELOPE starts fixing the cushions on the couch. She sits down heavily. ROGER follows suit, fixing the cushions beside her. He sits next to her and puts a hand on her knee.

PENELOPE

(Speaking softly, staring into the distance) I can’t imagine. We must have joy in our lives. What are we going to do without Joy?

ROGER

(Shrugging, looking at her) I don’t know.

PENELOPE looks up at ROGER, then slowly turns to face him. She takes his hand.

PENELOPE

(Musing) Maybe… maybe we should find more ways to bring joy into our lives. Let’s go to the bedroom. Let’s have sex. Let’s try to make a baby. We can name the baby Joy. That way, we’ll bring Joy back into our lives.

ROGER

(Smiling) Why go to the bedroom? We can make Joy right here on the couch.

PENELOPE

(Laughing, playfully hitting him) Oh, Roger, you sly fox. You know I could never do that. No, we’ll make a new Joy in the bedroom.

ROGER

(Smiling mischievously) What if she comes back?

PENELOPE

(Resolute) We need to face facts. The old Joy is gone. All we have now is the chance to make our own.

ROGER

(Chuckling) It’s a good idea, Penelope. But what if the baby is a boy? We can’t have Joy then.

PENELOPE

(Shaking her head) Don’t be silly, ROGER. Joy is not gendered. Joy can be a girl, boy, intersex, or non-binary. It doesn’t matter. We will bring Joy back to us no matter what.

ROGER

(Hugging her tightly) You’re right. It doesn’t matter what Joy looks like. We just need Joy back.

PENELOPE

(Smiling, standing up, and taking his hand) Come on. Let’s go.

They exit hand in hand, leaving the messy room behind.

BLACKOUT

If it Were My Last Meal

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 23, 2024 | Writing

If it Were My Last Meal

My last meal would definitely include pizza. I wish I had made pizza tonight. I can’t remember the last time I had great pizza. Oh, yeah, it was a white pizza with pesto, grilled chicken, and roasted tomatoes.

I’m really not happy writing about food. Why was I put on this Earth? As a human? Nobody told me on that cloud that if I chose to be a human so I could wear cute shoes, that I would need to eat and have enjoyment eating! What was it like back then? Was it even a cloud? It could have been a star. That’s more like it. So, on my star, I could definitely… not see all the people enjoying food, crying, and dying from lack of food, wasted food, burnt food, raw food, dirty food. It’s a world obsessed with it.

And does that mean that the world revolves around humans? What does an ocean crave? Doesn’t the ocean feed off of the animals and sea life living within it? What about the Earth? Does it ingest what lives upon it? I think this might be flawed thinking from the humans. Is it my retrospective thoughts? Living on this Earth, remembering my life before food on my precious star?

“Your questions are burning. So deep, I never thought of it like that. But really, it’s not easy to be thinking of such profound questions when I’m so hungry. Your wit is sharp and your language garlicky, but I’m afraid I have to say no. No, I don’t agree. Now, you may not agree with me, and that’s okay, but what’s not okay is that you were fighting the urge to enjoy your last meal. Don’t tell me you’ve never liked food with its velvety, rich textures and tastes. This is an unreasonable statement on your part.”

Oh, you are asking questions. That’s right, but really, your tactics are slimy and if I were to give them a color, it would be avocado green, not to be confused with split pea soup green, which in and of itself is rather pukey looking. But what we have provided for you is the most delicious pizza, and surely even you can’t deny the aroma of the yeasty crust, the pesto sauce. Ooh, the grilled chicken. You what? You refuse to eat?

“I shall push it back. It’s very possible we can make you eat that, and if you don’t ingest it by mouth, we’ll blenderize it and shoot it into your veins like TPN.”

The Escape Closet

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 23, 2024 | Writing

The Escape Closet

“If I leave, will it go away?” You’re sitting on your king-size bed with the polka dot duvet set while I go through your clothes. It’s been raining all morning, the sky is grayed out, and your room is dark, so your bedside light and the floor lamp cast a soft glow. You light a candle on your dresser, and its soft lavender scent gently fills the room. Spotify plays Daily Mix 4, with Saint Motel, The Strokes, and Phantogram. “Dance Yrself Clean,” by LCD Soundsystem, is inspiring us. Your closet is color-blocked by category: every shade of blue tops, blue bottoms, and blue sweaters on the shelf above. I pull out a stack of skirts hanging in fives. Your hands can’t clip them back on the hangers anymore, so we’re moving them to a drawer.

“I hope you can escape. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? To start over fresh.”

You lean back against the pillows, grabbing one to hug. Your closet is immaculately organized, but the furniture tops are gathering clutter. Ah, too bad, the first sign, I thought to myself.

I hold up the first hanger with five skirts. First, the yellow and blue striped one, “No, too big.” The denim skirt with the zipper and button, “No, I can’t do that button; it’s too tight.” The A-line navy blue pleated skirt. “No way, look at all those buttons! Soon, it’ll all be elastic waistbands. But if I ever go out in public with sweatpants, will you shoot me?” You rest your elbows on your thighs and rest your head in the cup of your hands.

“Hahaha, nice try. What about this teal and black lace one? It has an elastic band waist,” I suggest. The sun poked out behind its cloud and streamed through the window, highlighting your face.

You scrunch your nose, “I haven’t worn that in 10 years. Is lace in or out this year? I stopped keeping track.”

“You know better than I do. Do you still watch Project Runway?”

“No, do they still make that show?”

“I have no idea. No matter. So… is it in or is it out?” I ask in my best Heidi Klum accent, holding up the lace skirt.

You cast aside your joyful pillow and hug your knees tight. “I guess I should keep it. After all, I can pull it on and take it off myself.”

“Yeah, that’s practical,” I say.

You scrunch up your face. You never wanted to be practical.

You scan the closet; you see puff sleeves, circle skirts, bright patterns, kitschy patterns, polka dots, and stripes. “What will happen when I go away?” You rest your cheek on your knees.

“You aren’t going anywhere. We’re just decluttering your closet, getting rid of the things that don’t serve you anymore. There’s no reason to have these things in your closet if they don’t work or fit.”

“But I don’t want to get rid of it all. That’s so depressing. These clothes are a part of my history.”

“If you really love something, then put it in a storage bin; you can always sort them out later when you’re ready.” I smile at you. There’s no rush.

You stand up, reach for the lace skirt, smile, and say, “Maybe I’ll wear this to my doctor’s appointment on Monday.” You fold it and put it in the drawer. “It won’t wrinkle, will it?”

“Wrinkles are OK, they’re better than struggle, right?” I say, reassuring you as best I can.

“Yeah, no more chaos. I just want ease now.” You walk over to me and hug me. “Thanks for being here, I love you.”

I hug you back, “I love you, too. I always will.”

“Me, too, always.” You rest your head on my shoulder.

Swept Away

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 23, 2024 | Writing

Swept Away

Oh my god. I cannot believe my day today. It was totally magical. He kissed me! And yet… Johnny sucks face better than him. I thought all the actors gave good tongue action. That’s okay, he can learn. We can practice—a lot. I wonder when he’ll rescue me from this dull little brick town. I can’t believe we macked! I hoped to meet him, but never in my wildest dreams (well, maybe) thought I’d get to smooch Billy Preston.

I should be sufficiently tired right now. I barely slept last night in anticipation. I wanted to look perfect this morning. Was it my smoky blue eyes or wine-stained lips that won him over? Obviously, I don’t dress like the other girls. I wore my black crocheted dress with my kitten-heeled boots. I looked pretty irresistible, indeed. How else do you think a famous actor would pick me out of a crowd of thousands? Okay, well, I was sitting at the table with the cast, unlike all those other people. I thought bussing his picture this morning might lure him to me. The funny thing is, he wasn’t even in my top 10. But now, he is totally my number one.

God, the building was gorgeous. There were these four fireplaces and they were all made of white marble, and they had faces sculpted out of the façade. The furniture and linen were so luxurious, and everything was highlighted in gold colored accents. It looked like a million dollars– unlike my bedroom of ninety-degree angles.

I sat at the table with my parents, my mom’s cousin, Melanie, and her husband, Richard Haycroft, the star of the show. We were invited to the special filming in Boston; the 200th episode of, Swept Away. The high volume of chatter and dishes clanging buzzed in my ears. Randoms zigzagged in and out of the room. I barely paid attention until Billy stepped in. He is gorgeous in person. He’s tall, and has the sweetest baby blues… and a dorky gap-toothed smile.

Everyone saw him come in. After all, he was the young star on the show and I heard he has a movie coming up. Who did he notice? Me, naturally. I sat there, looking nonchalant, sipping my coffee. And then, he called me over to him. I practically jumped out of my seat and ran to him. Somehow, I kept my composure and sauntered toward him. I couldn’t let him think I was fazed. He asked me my name. He had a slight southern drawl, just enough to keep my ear lingering for more. I played coy with him. I was Lily, and I certainly knew who he was. He said, “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” I’ll ignore the cheesy line to say; wow, Billy Preston thinks I’m hot. I’m one step closer to my goal of becoming a movie star. Isn’t that what they taught me in biology class? Hang around with the stars, and you become one of them through osmosis?

He offered to buy me a drink. I looked back at my parents, who were trying hard to make it look like they weren’t paying attention to us. I told him I’d have Kahlua and Cream. He asked me if I lived in Boston. What was I supposed to say? I live in a small little town, two hours away. I said I lived outside of the city. He asked me who I knew to get in, and I told him about Richard and Melanie. I didn’t mention Mom and Dad.

I have to admit, getting buzzed with a TV star in the middle of the day might just be the highlight of my life, or second at least. Then, when we were on our second drink, a photographer from the Boston Globe came over. He asked to take a picture of us for the paper. Me, in the society pages? Billy wrapped his arm around my body and pulled me into him. The flash brightened our eyes and he leaned over and pecked me on my cheek. Okay, so how did we get to the real smacker? Because I know that one was hardly worth writing home about.

I excused myself to the powder room. I touched up my makeup in the mirror, walked out, and he was standing right there. Was he waiting for me? He told me again how pretty he thought I was and how much fun he was having in Boston. And then he stepped in, lips close, and softly pressed his against mine. I threw my arms around him and frenched him right back. It totally rocked, but what can I say? It was kind of weak. I mean, how does a fifteen-year-old boy from a small little hick town lock lips better than a famous person? But then, drat, footsteps approached, and we broke our embrace. It was a production assistant or something. She told Billy he was needed for another scene. He said he’d be right back. I stood there for a moment as I watched him walk out of my life. I felt shocked. Did he really just come to find me? And then he was gone, just like that. Like a fairytale, but was he Cinderella who had to leave the ball at midnight, and I the prince? No, not quite, but I was alone, in the alcove, abandoned by my true love. I couldn’t just stand there. I went back in and sat down at the table with my parents, a little bummed.

I had to leave before he came back. I can’t believe my parents made me leave! I’ll write poetry every day until he drives his limousine up to the front of my school. He’ll put down his window and yell out to me, “Lily Dylan, come with me. You don’t belong here. Move to Hollywood with me, it’s where you belong.” And I’ll climb right in next to him and teach him the proper way to make out.

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