Honesty, pt 1.

 Things are very up and down at the moment, some parts amazing and some really bad. I broke up with River, who I'd wanted back for so long that us being back together felt like an act of God that I never deserved. As a result of this, I ignored every time he attacked me, every time he through me on his bed, pinned me to the wall, covered my mouth to hide my screams as I begged for help and he called me all the names under the sun. I'm out now, and I have an amazing man that makes me smile whenever I think about him. He's perfect, he saved me and, because of this, I'm eternally afraid that he's going to leave me. 

I know he won't hurt me though. 

Another thing that's going on is that the man who raped me has a hearing to see if he can be moved to a lower security prison. A prison that would allow him out on day release or to leave prison for a few days at a time. If I'm honest, I don't know how I feel. What hurts me is that him being released undoes all the good I thought I'd done. It allows me to warrant the pain I caused everyone I love by getting into that fucking car, allowing him to rape me. I always thought he'd be there for the rest of his life, I made that happen, it helped me atone for the cause of my stupidity that hurt people I loved. If he gets out, everything I did will be for nothing, and I just hurt people. 

The only way I know how to explain to people that I don't want to go back is by saying that, if I do, I put everyone I love at risk, which is true. My name is Jess Howard, I'm easy to find. Yes, I can get a restraining order against him, but people break them all the time. The only way I can get people to understand that I don't ever, ever want to return to England is by telling them that a) I don't want to return to a country where I have to have a restraining order against someone to keep them away from me and b) That going back puts my whole family at risk. 

I reality, I just don't want to. 

I had a shirt

I had a shirt 

I bought it in Paris, on a market stall. I bought it alongside a pair of gold earrings and a pair of shorts that didn't fit. 

I bought a shirt.

It had stripes, black and white. Cropped sleeves to the elbow, a length that sat comfortably below my waist when I work a tank top. 

I had a shirt.

I took it travelling with me. I packed it in bags, took it to Toronto and brought it with me on my search for a life that I could never really have. 

I took a shirt.

I wore it in the hope that I could somehow, someway, make the pain of my condition and the self-hatred of my addiction go away. 

I wore my shirt. 

It got dirty, it got stained. It got torn and frayed and I convinced myself I didn't need it anymore because, after all, it was just a shirt.

But the pain of my condition, the humiliation and shame of my addiction didn't go away.

Not like my shirt 

Learning

I'm finding my work as a freelance writer a little difficult at the moment. I've been losing contracts/clients and it's putting a dent in my confidence. I'm not playing the "they screwed me over" card, nor am I completely blaming myself, but I'm encountering some difficulties that I need to rectify. 

One of the first freelance jobs I got when I arrived in Toronto fired me because I couldn't adjust an image in Photoshop, alongside some confusion with deadlines over Black Friday weekend. I accept my faults in this situation, I told the interviewee that I would be able to learn to use Photoshop when, in reality, that wasn't something I would be able to do in time. There's an unfortunate pattern within copywriting job adverts where writers are expected to be able to create imagery to accompany their work, despite the advert being for a writing job. I don't know if it is happening both ways and graphic designers are being asked to write copy to go with their work, but it's something I am becoming aware of when applying for jobs. 

The second contract I lost happened because I didn't ask enough questions when interviewing the person I was ghostwriting for. A perfectly acceptable reason had I known about the problem and not rectified it, but I didn't. I was not told that I wasn't asking the right questions until after my contract had been terminated, which I had difficulty getting my head around. How was I supposed to know that I wasn't asking the right questions if nobody told me? 

My final contract issue came this morning when, in a similar style to the freelance job I just mentioned, I was told my work wasn't what the client was looking for after the contract had been terminated. Now, I'm not saying every job is perfect for every client, not everyone can be an expert at everything, but I'm finding it frustrating that I'm losing work because I've not done the things my clients want me to do, without them telling me what I have done wrong and giving me a chance to fix it. 

These instances are in the past and I can't change them, but what I can do is learn from them. I was furious this morning when I received my most recent contract termination but after I'd calmed down I started making a list of the things I can take from these experiences. 

1) Accept that I can't do everything. 

I'm not a graphic designer, I don't pretend to be a graphic designer and I've never claimed to be a graphic designer. What I have done though is make promises that I can learn something in a certain amount of time when I can't. I'd really like to learn how to use Photoshop, but this shouldn't be a skill that my being hired as a writer is dependent on. From now on I'm not only going to stop making promises I can't keep, but I'm also going to stop applying for jobs that are looking for skills that are completely out of my capabilities. 

2) Make sure I have an open dialogue. 

When I've had freelance jobs in the past I've always felt like it was a privilege for me to be hired, instead of realizing that a freelancer/client relationship should be an equal and open discussion and that the client was equally lucky to have me working for them. From now on I'm not going to worry about "bothering" people or accept things that I do not find suitable, such as being given too little information or not working to a deadline I can't meet. There is no blame game here, but if I don't feel comfortable and like I have an appropriate relationship with my client, I'm not going to be able to produce my best work. 

3) Take pride in my work 

I realized today that I have a habit of not proofreading my work adequately, be it for a job application or a piece of content, and this is telling me that I'm not taking the pride in my work that I should be. From now on I'm working to see my work less as "begging" someone to employ me or give me a contract to make me feel as if I"m actually a writer, but instead as pieces of work that are there to show people my skills and ability. 

xXx

My Legs

Fabulous, aren't they?

When I think about pain, I think about the pain I feel as a result of my BPD. The agony that exists in a world where I have no idea how or what I'm feeling, or how or what I am supposed to feel. I've always known that my BPD manifests itself as physical pain, but I always assumed one was connected to the other. Until recently. 

I have hypermobility. Hypermobility, scoliosis and sciatica, which essentially means that my joints don't work properly and hurt all the time. Until recently I ignored it and assumed it wasn't a real feeling, but for the love of God being in pain is shit.

My legs are agonizingly painful at the moment. When I lie down they feel like they're on fire and from the waist down I'm in a constant agony that makes things ever so slightly shit. Work hurts, walking hurts, moving hurts, and when I try to sleep they twitch and jerk making it impossible to relax.

Not only is my brain shit, but my body also doesn't quite do what I want either. 

Right now I"m struggling with the fact that I'm in constant pain. I googled chronic pain yesterday and, by definition, it's pain that lasts more than 6 months. I've been living with this pain since I was a kid. Growing pains supposedly, but given that I'm now 29, I'm pretty sure I'm not growing anymore. 

I finally went to the doctors the other day to try and find something that would help me 86 the pain, but it didn't exactly work out the way I wanted it to. I was accidentally prescribed Pregabalin, the only medication I've ended up in hospital for, and pain killers that really didn't work. Although I'm proud of myself going, I'm more proud of myself for not taking the pills they prescribed. 

Right now I'm still in pain, but I'm getting more and more used to the idea that it's not only my brain but also my body that affects my day-to-day life. I'm working on trying to find things to help though because, god knows, your girl and excess prescription medication really don't mix. 

xXx

Loneliness, BPD and Patrick Bateman.

Through a series of events that I would have never expected to happen, but that I dreamed of happening countless times during mid-late 2019 and early 2020, River and I are back together. Combine this with Toronto's stay-at-home order and my broken shower and I'm currently finding myself around another person 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I don't know how it's working, but it is. 

As a result of this, the loneliness that I often feel as a result of my BPD is, understandably, non-existent. Yes, there is the cliched description of mental illness as a feeling of loneliness in a room full of people, but for me, that isn't the case. When borderlines feel lonely, we either lash out or internalize our pain. Either I convince myself that it's my fault that people don't want to talk to me, or I get angry at other people turning their backs on me when I try my hardest to be a good person. 

Take my relationship with the people I met when I first arrived in Canada for instance. In a similar style to the people you meet in your first year of university, we fell together for no other reason than proximity. Had we not been in the same place, we simply would not have been friends. We were different people, we still are different people and all but one of them have stopped talking to me over the course of my time in Toronto. Do I know why this has happened? No. Do I blame myself for why this has happened at this current moment in time? I don't know, and I also don't know how I will feel about their decision to cut me out of their lives and refuse to talk to me tomorrow. 

My exploration into the state of my borderline loneliness comes as a result of my current listening to Bret Easton Ellis read his most recent novel, White on Audible. Within the text, Ellis discusses a question that he is often asked about the protagonist Patrick Bateman. What would Bateman be like today? Between discussions of whether he'd spend his time trolling on social media or "get away with the murders he tells the reader he's committed", he highlights what Bateman would consider being the worst possible critique against him and his character, having no one pay attention to him. 

The reason I discuss Bateman in terms of this loneliness and lack of attention, other than the suggestion that Bateman lived with BPD, is that in its purest form, what is loneliness if not feeling as if the people in your life aren't paying attention to you? In attempts to curb or ease our loneliness, we seek the attention of others. Whether it's by reaching out ourselves or hiding away or expecting people to come to us. In our basic desire to combat this natural feeling, we want people to pay attention to us. 

As a borderline, the idea of reaching out to people for company and attention is one that I have vastly divided opinions on. When I am at my loneliest, I hide myself away. There is only so much effort I'm able to make and, although I rationally know that people have other things going on in their lives and that their actions are not a personal slight, the thought that I'd rather lock myself away than keep trying to connect with people who have no time for me is a strong one. Even now I'm considering it, especially in regards to certain people. No matter how much you love someone, the pain of wanting to be loved in return whilst simultaneously wanting to close myself off from them to limit future pain is a classic BPD trait that I will probably live with for the rest of my life. 

Fear of abandonment, it's BPD 101. 

xXx

Murder: It's All In Your Head, Cynthia Hilston

Someone has been getting away with murder for over 100 years in the small town of Hurston, Ohio. But the wrong person has been convicted of those murders every time. In 2018, Cassie Meadows is on her way to school when a bright flash comes out of nowhere, and she wakes in millionaire Randy Davis’s body with blood on her hands…the blood of Randy’s wife, who lies in a pool of crimson in the bathtub with her throat slit. Meanwhile, an old man everyone calls Jimmy Williams raves that he’s the real Randy Davis as he lives out his days in a ward for the criminally insane. In 1914, young Helen Hawkins is unloved and repetitively abused by her father, who is also the town’s pastor. Her only escape is in her dreams, where she wakes in others’ bodies, living other lives, but when her dreams turn out to be reality, the tables are turned on her father. In a story where no one is who they seem, how can Cassie, the latest victim accused of a murder she didn’t commit, end the cycle?

Excerpt

Cassie pedaled her bike faster to school as thoughts of staying home alone on senior prom night plagued her. A flash of light blinded her. She shielded her eyes. Horns blared and tires squealed, and the whole bike shook to a stop.

When she opened her eyes, a wall of old books stared back. She rubbed her eyes and blinked rapidly, taking in her surroundings. Gone was the familiar tree-lined street with rows of 40-year-old ranches and split-levels. Sunlight filtered in through parted drapes. Unlike her house, where dust danced in light beams, this room sat still.

Her sweaty hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. A chill jolted up her spine and extended down her arms, freezing her in place. She gazed across the room. Marble pillars flanked an archway to another room across the vast library.

A faint noise came from another part of the building. Curiosity claimed her caution as she took a step. Realizing her fingers were wet, she glanced down and nearly fell over. Blood covered her large hands all the way to her thick fingertips!

Cassie gasped. She reached for her throat. A sharp intake of breath.

“What?” she croaked in a foreign voice.blo

A dream. This must be a dream. Her voice rang through her mind, but when she opened her mouth to speak again…

“This can’t be happening.”

Cassie’s hands grasped her throat, in a failed attempt to excise the vocal cords responsible for this new voice. When her fingers grazed whiskers, she raked them over the jaw and cheeks.

“No. N-no.” What the hell?

She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a long, slow breath. Okay, okay. Calm down.

When her eyes opened yet again to this new reality, Cassie gave a shuddering gasp. She felt like she was doused with ice water, the burn throbbing through her body. She tried to step again, but she wavered in this oversized body that wore like a linebacker’s uniform. The large feet lumbered with a clumsiness contrary to her agile body. For a girl who had taken gymnastics since she could walk, the dragging, teetering movement of this form almost stopped her efforts. But Cassie willed herself to move. One step at a time.

Just do the best you can. Her mom’s words echoed through her mind.

Her steps were short-lived as her dad’s advice died. She halted. A trail of red on the spotless marble floor led to an archway. Her nerves fired in overtime, and her head spun. She followed the path and exited the elaborate room into a hallway.

The sound was louder now. The unmistakable sound of running water.

“What’s going on?” Cassie whispered. She tried to ignore the voice. Really tried.

Something moved out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head to the right and landed on her reflection, only it wasn’t her face. A tall man of about thirty stared back. She ran her hands through the trim brown beard that contoured the strong jawline, confirming what she felt earlier. Liquid brown eyes under thick, wavy hair and a deep brow held confusion, panic. A sleek black business suit covered her well-built frame—fit for an executive who dined on caviar and champagne and rode in chauffeured limos. But against the black of her suit the blood extended, weaving an unknown horror story.

She shook her head. “This is impossible.” Yet the voice told a different story.

Her body trembled, and her whole being felt different. Cassie’s eyes fell on a picture frame below the mirror. Her fingers fumbled to pick it up. A younger version of the man in the mirror gazed out of the photo. He smiled, his face next to a gorgeous auburn-haired woman. The woman’s hazel eyes crinkled around the edges, her freckles standing out against her fair skin in the sunshine. It was a happy couple’s wedding photo.

Cassie returned the picture to its place, the frame now coated in blood. A drop of crimson marked the floor every few inches. This body must have come from the opposite direction through the house, for how else could she explain the blood everywhere? She rested a hand on the railing at the base of the stairway and gazed up the twisting steps. The running water came from upstairs. She took the first step and steadied herself. Something drew her toward the source of that sound.

Cassie reached the landing and glanced behind her. Her mark was on the railing, another path of blood. The tell-tale trail continued, decorating the floor in a macabre design, as she went down the hallway toward the sound. Her knees wobbled as a dizzy spell overtook her. She steadied herself with a hand to the wall and blanched at the red print she left.

Call the cops.

I don’t know what the hell’s going on.

She pushed herself from the wall and arrived at the bathroom. Water leaked under the door.

The knob slid under her slick hand. She used the end of her sleeve to grip it and pushed the door open enough to peek inside. Pink water flooded the marble floor. Her gaze traveled to the bathtub. Water spilled over the tub’s edge. A woman lay sprawled in the tub, her vacant eyes staring at the ceiling, her mouth open in a scream. Her head lay at an odd angle, her neck nearly cut in two. Blood ran from the gaping gash into the water.

Cassie tried to scream, but her stomach tightened. Bile rose and she vomited into the pooling water and blood. She slammed the door and collapsed against the outside, pulling her knees to her chest. Water soaked her pants, making the fabric stick to her clammy skin. The tall frame of the man’s body convulsed with the sobs of a teenage girl as she cried into her hands. Hands that weren’t hers.

“I want my mom.”

She couldn’t get the dead woman’s face out of her mind. As the scene replayed through her head, Cassie realized where she’d seen the woman before. In the photo. She had been this man’s wife.

About the Author

Cynthia Hilston is a stay-at-home mom of three young kids, happily married, and lives in the Cleveland, Ohio, area. Writing has always been like another child to her. After twenty years of waltzing in the world of fan fiction, she stepped away to do her debut dance with original works of fiction.

In her spare time – what spare time? – she devours books, watches Supernatural and Outlander, pets her orange kitty, looks at the stars, drinks wine or coffee with good friends, and dreams of what other stories she wishes to tell.

Guest Post, Wendy L. Anderson Ulrik author

Hello, I’m Wendy L. Anderson. I am a fantasy author! I will also reveal that my fantasy writing has a bit of romance thrown in. There is action, adventure, magic, danger, and intrigue in all of my books. 

My first foray into the world of writing was my five book Kingdom of Jior epic fantasy series. I have created an entire world full of fantastic and noble beings and it all begins with book one Of Demon Kind. Most of my reviewers have found this book series surprises them with its uniqueness.

One thing I love about writing fantasy is world creating. Would it be bad of me to admit that I love to escape into the worlds I make up rather than face the one I’m in?

I am a pantser which means I write by the seat of my pants and do not use a formal outline, process, or formula to write. I just sit down and start typing an idea I have or a scene that pops into my head and I just go from there. I also use many themes in my writing because they are my favorite things and places and they just happen. Being born in Colorado, it should not come as a surprise, that I love the mountains. I also love winter, forests, waterfalls, hot springs, crystals and jewels, prisms, and anything medieval. Knights, chivalry, swords, and honorable quests inspire me to write these fantasy adventures. Those favorites appear often in many of my stories, but I am always pushing the boundaries and I do try to expand my writing horizons.

In addition to my five book fantasy series, I have written a stand-alone Viking story titled, A Cut Twice as Deep. This is a beautiful tale I saw in a dream and is about twin sisters who only have each other in a world where women are not particularly valued. They have grown up serving their tyrant of a father when suddenly they find out that they have been given in marriage to the highest bidders. Forced to separate and travel great distances they are parted so that their father may increase his wealth and power. This story has everything danger, intrigue, and romance, and did I mention Vikings? I test the waters of historical fiction with my special brand of fantasy thrown in. A Cut Twice as Deep is an emotional tale of sisterly bonds and finding love in a land where blood and ice reign.

I once read, and perhaps you have heard the saying, that a true writer needs to write it is in their nature just like a painter needs to paint or a sculptor needs to sculpt. That is me. When it comes to writing, I live by Winston Churchill’s wise words, “Never, never, never, never give up.”

 I hope you have enjoyed this ramble. You can learn more about my books and my writing on my website www.wendylanderson.com. Be sure to subscribe and feel free to contact me about anything you’d like to know about me and my fantasy writing.

Until then… Enjoy the fantasy!