All the Places You Couldn’t Leave

All the Places You Couldn’t Leave

All the Places You Couldn’t Leave

Traveling through memory for the unhappy place. From a school bus turned home in humid, mosquito and snaked rural Tennessee, to being forced to move into your big girl bed when your baby brother stole your crib, climbing in and kicking until your parents rushed into see why the baby was crying, to hiding from your third grade teacher under the dark, cozy, quiet table with the half-wall behind it, to trapped in the kitchen with your drunk Nana slurring her words, to the loneliness of junior high + high school, loud hallways, screeching lockers, and the overwhelming scent of puberty. 

Feeling trapped. That’s your unhappy place. The 7th grade guidance counselor’s words stuck on repeat: “There are two ways to look at things. Glass half full or glass half empty. You’re a glass half empty person.”

Thanks for the update. How could it be anything else when that unhappy place is in your mind?

Don’t forget your childhood home, trapping you in dependence. Sneaking out the window to nowhere. Skipping school to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes at Classé Café, in complicit Amherst, MA, hanging with college students who exhibited their freedom.

Runaway to Boston one school morning only to call your grandpa to pick you up. Visits during the summer and on weekends. The chlorine smell from Nana + Grandpa’s pool, crisp, burnt grass dry and poking under your footstep, the burn of the hot July sun. A constant, Nana’s cigarettes, smoke filling the air, choking your senses.

The sacrifice of friendships and relationships where you put your needs last, to classes, courses, and jobs, and being bored by the mundane, to looking 14, using a fake ID to get into a 21+ club and not being allowed to go in. You yearned to feel the beat thumping through your body, as you dance the night away, with friends, elbowing some men away, sometimes making a sultry connection.

Those were your formative years. Threads through time: tangled in relationships where you often lost yourself, drawn into patterns you didn’t know how to escape. Longing for elsewhere, always carrying a quiet ache. The overwhelm that creeps in, unannounced.

That unhappy place actually follows you, sorry to say. 

Never satisfied, disappointed, overwhelmed, frustrated. It arrives in a moment as the inviting aroma of brewing coffee turns sour when the half & half separates, your face cringing, knowing the taste will be sour, not sweet from the cream, as it should, filling your taste buds with heaven. 

Unhappy when in those moments of love, lust, and bonding to a misunderstood word turning into a fight through a bed of sweat; loud, angry words piercing your ears, your heart.

Struggling to pay bills, loneliness, never reaching a goal. But you thought you knew your unhappy place— but it all changed when you read in your portal the EMG spurted out a suspicion of a terminal disease.

All of a sudden, all of those unhappy places became memories to hold onto —deep, ingrained memories to reexplore.

How everything changes when the worst thing happens. Now you know your unhappy place lands in your body as it dies away, with the twitches and pulsations on your body, the slow dissolve of muscle memory.

Battling Your Demons: A Tale of Overcoming Depression

Battling Your Demons: A Tale of Overcoming Depression

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.

What is the Purpose…?

What is the Purpose…?

What is the Purpose…?

What is the purpose of keeping a dead battery?

It’s a reminder that you need to buy new batteries. It’s a reminder that you don’t have a working carbon monoxide detector. It’s a reminder that you could die of carbon monoxide poisoning, and when people find you, they’ll say, “If only she had replaced the battery.” It’s a reminder that you ignore important things. It’s a reminder that you haven’t cleaned your desk since last week. It’s a reminder that you should see if they have rechargeable 9-volt batteries. It’s a reminder that you could see if the detector works when the battery isn’t in it. It’s a reminder of why you didn’t already try that. It’s a reminder that you should do your to-do list again.

Dead batteries left on your desk are a great way to remind yourself to replace the battery.

It’s true. If you threw it away or rather, recycled it, you would forget all about it. You know that saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” But then it just becomes part of the desk, so it’s best to move it around every once in a while.  I’ll start my to-do list again.

To-do lists help me stay on top of tasks.

That’s great. How long have you been doing that?

Oh, I haven’t started…well, I started a while ago, but then got busy and forgot to keep doing it.

So, are you starting/using it again?

Yes. Okay. You don’t have to judge me.

I’m not judging you.

Yes, you are. I can tell by the way you’re writing and that sideways glance you make. That is your judging look.

“Judging look?” You say that like there are others.

Oh yeah, you have lots of looks. Your judgy look is look number 23.

What is the point of a literal crisis?

I don’t think there’s a point. It’s a result. The point is that obviously, the person is having a very hard time. The point is that maybe you should have checked in with them already. A literal crisis is when a person always…lives in crisis mode, and they literally have a crisis. The point is that this is not a “thing” crisis. It’s an actual crisis. The point is somebody needs some help, and this is our clue to get out of our own heads and jump into action.

A literal crisis helps you feel like everything is peachy keen compared to a literal crisis.

It helps you break down so you aren’t hiding it all anymore. You might not agree, though, because some people might really clam up. You never can tell with literal crises. I suppose it all depends on the who, what, where, when, and how. You know, sometimes they’re a good clearing of things, and sometimes it means you’ve hit rock bottom.

What is the point of a rebound trampoline?

What is the point? Well, I’m sure there has been a segment about it somewhere. I imagine Richard Simmons had a rebound trampoline workout. Everything Richard Simmons does has a point. My doctor said to get exercise whenever I can. Rebounding is supposed to reset you…get it? Rebound…reset. We’re doing it again. The point is if you bought one, you should use it.

Rebound trampolines are a great way to get exercise.

They’re convenient if you leave it in the kitchen, so when you go past it, you can just jump on it for 30 seconds or something. It’s much better than anything else because you can do it barefoot, in a dress, in your pajamas. You don’t have to turn anything on. You can…you can’t say that about anything else, can you? No way.

Why do you have a rebound trampoline in your kitchen?

It’s great exercise. I was just reading about it. It can actually help change your mood. I needed to get one after my literal crisis. It was awful. I mean, it was my daily. I don’t really even know what happened, except I stopped writing my to-do list, and I fell so behind on my tasks that I forgot to eat, clean, pay bills, shower, do yard work, and check on my family. I never knew a to-do list was such an important thing for me. I mean, sometimes you don’t realize until you hit rock bottom. But the to-do list literally kept me from having a literal crisis. You know, it may have also been a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. Yeah, I was in the hospital. They said it was a good thing I went outside when I collapsed. So, the first thing I’m putting on that to-do list is buying a new 9-volt battery for my detector. It’s a silent killer, they say. I know this firsthand…well, not literally, because I didn’t die. I survived. But I think that lack of oxygen kind of sent me into a crisis…a literal one. Yeah, the literal one. Oh, it was awful. It’s a good thing I went outside because I felt guilty. I don’t think my neighbor knew what to do. And why do people call the police when someone’s having a crisis? It’s stupid, really. They don’t have the training and education for it. Unless you’re lucky. But I wasn’t lucky that day. Well, I’m never really lucky unless you count all the days I didn’t have carbon monoxide poisoning or a literal crisis. Yeah, I guess those are lucky days. And if I look at it from that perspective, then I guess I’m the luckiest person alive. And that’s why I have a rebound trampoline in my kitchen: You have to live life by the moment, take it day by day, and jump for joy, literally.

Accountability Act I, Scene One

Accountability Act I, Scene One

Accountability Act I, Scene One

Act I, Scene One

Scene: Outside the institution

SETTING: EXT. GRASSY AREA OUTSIDE AT WHISPERING PINES – DAY

AT RISE: VANESSA and PRISCILLA sit on the grass. VANESSA scratches at her arms, her gaze shifting around the grounds.

VANESSA
(Smiling, but with a hint of strain) It’s such a lovely day out.

PRISCILLA
A perfect day for dreaming… at Whispering Pines.

VANESSA
Where all your dreams turn into nightmares.

They laugh, but it feels a little forced. The laughter lingers, almost desperate, before fading into an uneasy silence.

VANESSA
(Distressed, scratching more) Five years, three months, two days… I can’t take this anymore. I keep saying it’s too much!

PRISCILLA
You reek of desperation, you know.

VANESSA
(Bitterly) Desperate to get out.

PRISCILLA
I’m right there with you. (Noticing Vanessa scratching) Hey, you’re doing it again.

VANESSA
(Dropping to the ground, rolling in the grass) I just want to roll away… like I’m not even here.

PRISCILLA reaches out to help her up but hesitates. She kneels next to VANESSA, her voice soft.

PRISCILLA
Come on, Vanessa. It’s time to go back inside.

VANESSA
(Murmuring as she stares at the sky) No, this is the moment. It’s right here. I’m meant to get out, slip away… before they even notice.

PRISCILLA
(Looking around, nervous) They’ll notice.

Enter MRS. MARBLE, briskly approaching, carrying a small tray with two pill cups and two syringes. Her voice is cold, calculated.

MRS. MARBLE
Vanessa, Priscilla… back inside. Now.

PRISCILLA
(Standing defiantly) One day, I’m going to be on a real stage, far away from here.

MRS. MARBLE
(With a mocking smile) Yes, yes, Priscilla. You’ve told me. (Turning her gaze to VANESSA) And you, Vanessa, don’t start with the dramatics.

VANESSA
(Stands abruptly, eyes darting around) You don’t get it! The red line… it brought back all the memories. They said it wasn’t there, but I saw it. I know I did.

PRISCILLA steps closer to VANESSA, trying to calm her, while glancing nervously at MRS. MARBLE.

PRISCILLA
(To MRS. MARBLE) Can’t we just have our twenty minutes?

MRS. MARBLE
(Pulling out a small cup of pills) Time’s up. Take your medication, Priscilla.

VANESSA sits back down, hard, glaring up at MRS. MARBLE.

VANESSA
Nobody listened. They never listened. (Voice cracking) She wouldn’t go.It wasn’t my fault… it was never my fault. 

MRS. MARBLE crouches down, her voice cold and patronizing.

MRS. MARBLE
(Quietly) Vanessa, your seams are showing. You’re late for your medication. Take these pills, or I’ll have to take more… drastic measures.

VANESSA picks at a blade of grass, putting it in her mouth. PRISCILLA hums softly, the effect of her medication taking hold.

VANESSA
(Leaning toward MRS. MARBLE, whispering fiercely) You can’t stop me. None of you can. I love every twist and turn… even the unknown.

MRS. MARBLE, unmoved, pulls out a syringe and jabs VANESSA. VANESSA’s body slackens, her eyes closing as she chants softly.


(Voice trailing off) This sucks. This sucks. This sucks.

BLACKOUT

Synopsis

Accountability is a raw and compelling exploration of trauma, control, and the search for freedom within a family fractured by emotional abuse. Vanessa, a teenage girl institutionalized at the oppressive and surreal Whispering Pines, navigates its challenges alongside fellow residents Priscilla and Cameron. Under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Marble and Dr. Clinician, the teens fight to maintain their sanity and sense of self. Flashbacks reveal Vanessa’s fraught relationship with her father, Sean, and expose the generational cycles of trauma and emotional volatility that shape their world. Sean’s therapy sessions lay bare his struggle to change, wrestling with the push and pull between love and anger. Vanessa’s yearning for freedom, intertwined with her mother’s difficult choices, underscores a narrative steeped in resilience, cycles of abuse, and the fight for self-identity in the face of overwhelming odds.

What are your thoughts on Vanessa’s journey in Whispering Pines? Share your reflections or what resonated most with you in the comments! 

Would you like to see more scenes or learn how the story unfolds? Let me know!

Worst Week Ever

Worst Week Ever

Worst Week Ever

The mind is a powerful tool, they say. Tara watches her thoughts turn to reality as if by magic. She wonders if a lobotomy would make life more bearable or electroshock therapy might be enough, it’s come back in fashion.She’d recently had a nerve conduction test, and those zaps felt like repetitively sticking her wet finger in an electric socket. And why would my finger be wet? And why would I do that repetitively?

She spends time every day with tools to help her: meditation, a vision board, visualization, journaling, and a rubber mallet to the head. She doesn’t always make the best choices. 

She feels like she’s been saying for five years solid, “This is the worst week ever.” But she feels that, maybe, just maybe this week takes the cake.

She also complains sometimes, maybe she’s a bit negative, but maybe anyone in her situation would be. She loves to say, “I just want someone to take care of me.” Recently, she had a birthday that put her into the next age bracket. She doesn’t think she was being negative by saying,”I don’t want to age! I don’t want to get old!” 

She’s hoping these thoughts that become reality as if by magic haven’t come true as she opens her health portal and reads the doctor’s note.

“A terminal, debilitating disease is suspected as a cause for symptoms. Tara must see a neurologist as soon as possible.” She remembers that moment quite well. She mutters,  “No. What the fuck?” Then the tears fall slowly down her cheeks–her children.. Grief and fear take over.

But her sick child calls from the other room, “Mommy?” Tara wipes her tears off her face and composes herself. Then, she throws something—anything—angrily across the room and walks in to see her kid.

The kid spiked a high fever, 103.8, a flu-like virus taking over their febrile body. The flu turns into an infected lymph node, and after eight days of fever, pneumonia, and an ear infection. Oxygen level is 92%, respiratory rate is 30, and sounds in the left lung are diminished. Two antibiotics and a follow-up in two days.

Tara’s other child met with the rheumatologist. Their lupus is flared, and the fatigue and joint pain are unrelenting—the nerves are raw, on fire, shooting missiles of pain. Now, even holding a fork feels like a chore. The doctor said, “If we don’t get your symptoms managed soon, we might need to admit you to the hospital.” 

Her 6-month-old puppy had her left eye removed yesterday and has to have a cone on her head for two weeks. It’s squishing her ears, and she can’t smell or touch the ground. So she’s lost her ability to use her other senses that she relied on when her blinded, glaucoma eye was still intact.

Tara is pretty sure this is the worst week ever, and that’s not all.

Tara grapples with the looming suspected diagnosis she read in her chart. Why would the doctor put it in her chart that he discussed it with her and that she fully understood the cause of her symptoms? That’s false. He never told her anything.

“That’s malpractice,” people have told her. Yes, maybe. But then she remembers those thoughts that turned into reality as if by magic, and she wonders if this terminal disease is how her thoughts turned into reality as if by magic. “I want  someone to take care of me,” and “I don’t want to age!” 

Terminal thoughts and she scrambles to visualize better outcomes; she forces thoughts of independence and old age. “If my thoughts turn into reality as if by magic, then I’m going to imagine the best week ever.” She sits there squeezing her brain, searching for positive thoughts and an open mind. She tries to squeeze the scary thoughts out of her head but can’t squeeze hard enough.

She hopes that next week will be the best week ever because she’s done with shitty weeks filled with stress and fear. She’s ready to throw off her shoes and socks and ground herself on the ground outside. But she steps on a small stick, then a sharp rock cuts into the bottom of her foot, and she bleeds.

She sits on the ground, squeezing her foot, thinking to herself: It’s going to get better; life will be blissful… and suddenly, she’s swallowed into the ground. A crevice opens, the Earth beneath her, and she gets pulled into a strange underworld. It’s warm, maybe a little too warm, but she likes it. A man walks up to her. He’s wearing a scarf that says, “Go Devils.”

“Hi, my name is Tom. I’m sorry I’ve been controlling your life down here. I had the wrong Tara. All that stuff was meant for the Tara two streets over. Please forgive me.”