by Darick Taylor
EDITOR’S NOTE: Discretion is advised. Following is a story about self-harm and suicide.
This piece originally published on Across the Margin.
My therapist had introduced me to another of her clients: a woman in her mid-40s with a history of self-harm. She had a kind of loose-skinned thinness brought about not by her age but by the incessant tanning she hoped would camouflage her scars. Her natural teeth had clearly been replaced by dentures, giving her a look that lay in a place between her actual age and twenty years older.
Continue reading An Image of Self-Violence
By Stacey Lehrer
Unique always used to talk about writing a book about her life. She worked on it off and on for years, often telling me about a chapter she was working on or what part she planned to write about next. It’s been years since she had a working computer; I don’t know what happened to her writing. But I do know that she wanted people to hear her story. I can’t speak to what happened in Unique’s life in the time before I knew her, although I’ve heard enough about it that I feel like I have a pretty good idea. But I can tell her story as it connects with mine, in the 14 years since we met. I’m leaving out some of the more intensely personal details, to respect her privacy, but hoping to share her story (and, in part, our story) as she wished.
Continue reading Unique, Volume 1
The following piece is a 557 Block Exclusive by Sarah Fader, published by the Editor at Diversability.TV.
I don’t want to be disabled but I am. I have multiple disabilities. I don’t even know if I like the word disability. Dis-ability – it’s so negative. In the 1990s when I was growing up, you insulted another person by “dissing” them. When I hear the word disability, I feel that I’m being dissed by society. You are not enough, you are weak, you are wrong, you are broken in some fundamental way. You are fucked up. You’re not enough, not normal, not a real person because you have nothing left to give.
Continue reading I Don’t Want to be Disabled but I Am
by Neesa Suncheuri
No more do I fear the boulders of failure.
They once pressed me flat, defeated me well.
But now I’ve grown strong, and I lift them all high.
One by one. Step by step.
Each one leaves me stronger than the last.
Continue reading I, Stone
by Cheryl Vollmar
It’s taken a long time to fully understand why my mother raised me the way she did. She’d grown up being beaten and raped in a home that was backwards, backwoods, and even more religious than the home she built with my father. Religious applies loosely because my grandfather was a minister who didn’t always practice what he preached. Mother was made to cook, clean, and wait on her family like a servant. Her father believed a woman belonged at home rearing the children and taking care of the home, so she was not allowed the luxury of an education past the age of sixteen when she was old enough to get a job. She also met my father that year; he was thirty-eight at the time. My grandfather thought my dad had money because he drove a little sports car, and happily gave her away in marriage just ten days after she turned seventeen. I was born two years later. She went from being a child to being a wife and then a mother before most girls her age had even completed their first year in college. She hadn’t had the opportunity to date, or get to know herself like most people do in their late teens and twenties. She didn’t know what the world was like outside of her little bubble of home and church life, and never learned how to survive on her own. She was raising me as best she could only with the resources and examples she had from her own parents, and those resources were twisted and absolutely insane.
Continue reading A Stone Skipped V2: Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child