Wendie Green has returned to her wild state - IDAHO

Walking slowly in a haze of rage

Walking slowly in a haze of rage. That’s all I got. Just that one line. I remember I felt it, but I can’t quite recall it. I’m glad for this, but I’m curious by it. What is it that stops us from pulling forward the fiery pit of emotions? I find myself musing on my… Continue reading »

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Four days and Three nights

For Four days and Three nights: They roam hallways dazed and confused. Some scared, some angry, some amused. “Smoke break!” is shouted six times a day. As they push their way to a crowded cage outside the beige painted walls. They cling to smoky fire sticks and inhale a sense of calm. They stare at… Continue reading »

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All the pretty little lies

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Engulf me

My passion is now a raging desire. The words flow through me like the hot sweet nectar of a summer peach. The bite drips down my mouth and hangs from my chin. You dive in to catch it with your tongue, setting me ablaze. I cannot put out this flame, I will burn up from… Continue reading »

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Anguish

There is a slow, dark, haunting… nauseating-poetry to pain. It moves like molasses in a jar.. on a shelf.. in the back. Used for Gingerbread houses on Christmas; which always break, or mold, or fall flat and crack, or puff up beyond recognition Did you like this? Share it:Tweet

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Walking slowly in a haze of rage Four days and Three nights All the pretty little lies Engulf me Anguish

Apr
16

Walking slowly in a haze of rage

by WendieGoneFeral

Walking slowly in a haze of rage. That’s all I got. Just that one line.

I remember I felt it, but I can’t quite recall it. I’m glad for this, but I’m curious by it. What is it that stops us from pulling forward the fiery pit of emotions? I find myself musing on my emotional travels. Visiting my vault if you will. Checking in. Are they still there? If I push on them, do they hurt like a bruise? Can I slap them and make them sting? Or are they just dull faded memories of pain. Like the orange you’ve left in the pantry and forgotten about; resembling an orange but only in spirit. Shriveled and dusty with mold, dry as a bone and hardened like a rock. It doesn’t taste like an orange. In fact, you struggle to remember what that round, juicy, zesty flavor tasted like.

Do you remember those toy cameras where you put the round slides in and pulled the lever to see your photos? Click:View:Click:View:Click:View. That’s where I am. Processing. Watching the last three years of my life through a View-Master. Taking mental and emotional note of each memory. Forcing myself to take a measurement of, and responsibility for, each frame. Analyzing where I went wrong,what I did right, and when it took a turn. Looking at my roll in the story of my life. Dissecting it. There is no victim here. Nobody “did” anything to me. I always had a choice. I chose to stay, I chose to cope, I chose to fix it, I chose to commit. I made the choice to hide truths from my friendships in shame, in horror, in fear, in anguish and to protect. I made choices and am still making choices; to protect my sanity, my inner child, my friendships, past relationships and newborn promises. When do you let that go and how? How do you tell truth with compassion? How can a person tell their story; describe their pain, trauma and anguish and still protect? Eat it. Swallow it. Take it.

I meditate on compassion. I pray suffering to end and healing to begin. I hope for open eyes and open hearts. I embrace understanding, ownership, responsibility, clarity and honor.

Turn the page. Finish the chapter. Choose a new book. Deep breath in, cleansing breath out. Begin.

Click:View:Click:View:Click:View…

Wendie Gone Feral

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Tags: Boise, Boise Idaho, memories, ownership, relationships, Wendie Gone Feral, Wendie Green

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Mar
17

Four days and Three nights

Human

by WendieGoneFeral

For Four days and Three nights:

They roam hallways dazed and confused. Some scared, some angry, some amused. “Smoke break!” is shouted six times a day. As they push their way to a crowded cage outside the beige painted walls. They cling to smoky fire sticks and inhale a sense of calm. They stare at me. They suck on their fire sticks and they stare at me; as I sit on the edge of my bed, hugging my knees, searching dark recesses for answers that won’t come, as the world I know explodes.

Rest. I’m supposed to rest. Calm. I’m supposed to be calm.

Each phone call drops a tiny bomb. Little bombs explode in my chest as I cling to an ancient crackling phone in a hallway lit by flickering, buzzing neon lights. They circle like vultures waiting for their turn on the crackling time-bomb phone. I’m them. I’m one of them. Wishing the pain away. Asking for a pill as the pain in my chest pounds in my head. I wish I was dead. Did I just wish I was dead?

Rest. I’m supposed to rest. Calm. I’m supposed to be calm.

Three girls in a room. Avoid eye contact. Pretend we’re not there. Trying to give space when we all breathe the same air. Tainted air. Dark air. Processed and piped through air.

The sick get sicker, no clarity here.

I followed the rules, I told my story. I said please and thank you. I put food on a tray and slid it down a line. I put it in my mouth and sipped water to wash it down. I tried to sleep on plastic pillows and a cardboard bed. Panic attacks. Chest pain, blood pressure, vitals checks.

Rest. I’m supposed to rest. Calm. I’m supposed to be calm.

For four days and three nights, I was safe in lock down.

Wendie Gone Feral

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Tags: anxiety, depression, lock down, panic, panic attacks, psychiatric hospital, sick, Suicide, Wendie Gone Feral, Wendie Green

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Mar
11

All the pretty little lies

by WendieGoneFeral

Lie to me. I like it. I like hearing all the pretty words bouncing around my head, I enjoy the sounds they make after they’ve trickled off your tongue. Soft and slow, loud and laughing, calming…and comforting. The ones that moan, the ones that chortle! The ones that are held back just a little…so they really mean something. I’ve been collecting them in a jar to keep by my bedside. I’ll open it now and then just a crack and let the lies slip out slowly, one by one, encircling me as I lay down for bed. Little lying bedtime stories to help me fall asleep.

All the pretty little lies. Tied up in a package like a gift. Here, take me. I’ll make you feel great, like a drunken medicine man for your soul. I’ve got a lie for what ales you. Just let this melt on your tongue, feel it slide down your throat. Don’t choke! But swallow it whole now, let’s make sure you get the right dose. I’m here for you, always. Whatever you want to hear, I’ll tell you. I’ll be here for you…with all the pretty little lies.

Wendie Gone Feral

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Wendie Gone Feral