the strangest things

on creativity

I’ve often felt that what I have to say is of no value. There are so many words around me, tongues flapping and opinions being hurled to and fro; is there anyone even listening? What is the point of writing; is there anyone read or listen to what I have to say? I am afraid of being unheard or my voice being silenced or receiving superficial affirmations.

Words, in their truest form, are an actual extension of me, my being, who I am. I suppose that when I am afraid to share my words, I am actually afraid to share myself, to be vulnerable. That my words may be rejected, that my thoughts may be rejected; that I am simply too much.

I avoid feeling feelings by distracting myself. If I don’t allow myself to feel, then maybe the hard emotions will just disappear. But instead, they lie quietly inside of me, building walls around my heart that keep the less scary emotions out too. When you cancel out both hard and good, all you have is nothing, and nothing means numbness, which is something in itself. And numbness is a hard feeling, because it keeps you from having accurate emotional responses to what is going on around you, whether it’s anger, sadness, or joy. And those feelings turn into psychosomatic symptoms in your body, in the form of aching bones, chest tightness, or jaw clenching.

By writing using the word “you” instead of “me” or “I”, I continue to detach my words from myself. I need to write. To write what I’m feeling and thinking and how I’m relating to everything happening around me. It’s easier for me to write in the third person, relating to someone other than myself, like I do in sessions with clients, when I reflect back to them what they are telling me. But in the process of only listening and absorbing, and not voicing my thoughts, I am in the process, losing my own voice and numbing my senses.


when how things are

and how things should be

don’t align at all,

and my idealism

can no longer bridge the gap.

weekend in hartford

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So one day the awkward turtle bumped into another awkward turtle while braving the seas.

Neither one knew what to say,

so they stuck their heads back into the shells and just kept swimming.


just kidding.

This is how it works
You’re young until you’re not
You love until you don’t
You try until you can’t
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don’t get harmed
But even if it does
You’ll just do it all again

-regina spektor

recent pieces

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The week before Christmas, while on a road trip with some friends, I found a used pregnancy test in a drug store bathroom.  The verdict was a single pink line with the words “not pregnant” next to it.  I wondered about the woman who had taken this test, if she was devastated or relieved.  There was desperation; a pregnancy test in a drug store bathroom instead of the woman’s own bathroom?  She left it behind, perhaps because it was not worth showing to friends and family, as she had hoped.  There would be no celebration, no baby shower.  The baby toys she hid in her closet would not be given to a little one.  Or perhaps there was relief.  The boyfriend had moved on to someone else and a child would only be a reminder of his yellowed teeth and piercing green eyes and the way he used to make her feel before he moved on.  Or perhaps she was still a child herself, not yet ready for the responsibilities a child would bring.  I left the test sitting in the bathroom for the next person to find and went back to the car.

On the way home, I passed a man crossing the highway.  He held a backpack between two gloved hands and his unkempt hair blew in the harsh wind.  The man crossed the busy highway during the red light, walking to the cemetery that sat quietly nearby.  I had never seen anyone walking in this cemetery, this one that I pass nearly every day.  However, he walked into it with his backpack, a week before Christmas.  I wondered who he was going to visit, perhaps his wife or a child or a parent in the earth on this bitter cold day.  How fresh was his grief?  My car kept going and I thought of the contrast of birth and death and how both could be a relief or completely devastating.


sometimes I think about getting my Ph.D but then I come to my senses.

Love Is Calloused, Holding My Hand

Beautifully written stuff here….


Love Is Calloused, Holding My Hand.