Yeah...um..hi. I haven't written anything new recently, so I might dip into previous year's work. So today I give you: After the Fire, my award winning poem; Watching the River of Life, my QCS practice story that got me a 1-; I Am Not My Illness, a piece that I wrote for a contest which was surprisingly popular (surprising to me anyway, I didn't think it was that good.) but anyways. See what you think. And no hate mail please. I am what I am, and I am not my illness.
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After the Fire
They stand on the hill,
Black against the scorched grey earth.
Long thin branches like
Fingers groping,
Reaching for the sky.
Each alone,
A lonely skeleton
Standing amongst the ashes
Like a ghost
Haunting
Its grave.
Watching the River of Life
Annie Clarke sat by the window and watched. She watched the milkman wander from house to house on his early morning rounds. She watched the young women in jumpsuits, their tightly-pulled ponytails bobbing in time to their pounding feet. She watched the children, some of them still pulling on jumpers and shirts, skip along the pavement to the bus. Sitting in her rocking chair, her wrinkled hands clasped loosely in her lap, Annie looked out the window and watched the world go by.
The creak of the ancient wood as she swung slowly to and fro seemed to tick away the minutes, the hours of her remaining life. Outside, in the park across the street, Annie could see two teenagers dancing, and she sighed: twirling in dizzying circles, their heads thrown back to the sky, they were the essence of youth, and they made Annie feel old. The world out there was full of life; the stream of humanity passing below her window a veritable river of energy, frothing at its banks, rushing and bubbling towards the sea – nay, the ocean, that was old age. The river was youth itself; full of life – it had no notion, no understanding of what it was to be at the end of life, what it was to sit for time on end and just – watch.
There was no future for her anymore. Her time in the river of life had been; and all too quickly gone. Now this timeless, unending ocean was all she knew.
Out on the street, a car sped past, speakers blaring. Annie barely had time to realise that she recognised the song, before her world changed:
Fifty teenagers, the boys clad in penguin suits, the girls in frilly, full-length dresses were, according to their natures, either standing around the walls tapping their feet, or out-and-out dancing in the middle of the room to the music that swelled to the heavens. She twirled, revelling in the way her skirt swished up to expose a daring two inches of leg, as the music morphed into an Elvis ballad. Then, suddenly – he was there. He smiled that lop-sided grin of his as they began to sway, her hands clasped in his in that age-old dancing tradition. The King rose to his climactic chorus, and they slowed to a stop, eyes linked, as from the speakers Elvis's voice crooned, "Oh my darling, I love you, and I always will."
Though the car had sped away and the music faded quickly, Annie came back to the present slowly. Her breath was rapid with the exhilaration of that long-ago dance, her eyes, though crows-footed and wrinkled, shone with the beauty and magic of that remembered moment.
She glanced down at her hands, at the plain gold ring that she would wear for all eternity, and brushed a finger over the now barely visible engraving: "Love Me Tender."
Outside, a baby squalled, a child laughed, a dog made its voice heard. The river of life flowed on around her, on, and out towards the sea. But Annie knew that even the oldest waters in the ocean of age still held in their souls the memory of the spirit of the river.
And so, by the window that looked out to the street, Annie sat and watched. But this time, she was smiling.
I am not my Illness
I am not my illness.
Keira, 16
I've had depression for three years, and I used to hate the way my illness had changed me. I thought I could never be the girl I used to be. But my psychologist helped me to see that my illness can never change the inner me. In the end, I will have changed – I will be stronger for this battle – but my central values and the things that make me 'me' will always remain the same.
I am not my illness.
Mark, 23
I have schizophrenia. People call me crazy, and avoid me, because I hear voices and talk to them. Maybe I am crazy sometimes, when I have an episode. But I'm not always crazy. I may be schizophrenic, but schizophrenic is not all I am.
I am not my illness.
Jessie, 13
The girls at school all tease me because I always stutter when I talk, and sometimes I try to speak but my mouth can't form the words. They call me retarded, dumb. I've never really had any real friends, all because I have autism. They can't look past my illness and see the real me, the 'me' who longs to be accepted like any normal person. I may be autistic, but I'm still human. I still have feelings.
I am not my illness.
Chrissie, 30
I have bipolar disorder, also known as manic depression. Many people consider me 'unemployable', because of my illness. They say I'm 'unstable and unpredictable'. But just because I have bipolar, doesn't mean I'm unstable. I take medication to stabilise my moods, and though I have to take care not to stress out too much, my condition doesn't prevent me from working, and working well. I can actually be very efficient and organised with what I do. But people don't see it, because they never give me the chance. Bipolar disorder may be part of my life, but it doesn't define who I am or what I'm capable of doing.
I am not my illness.
Patrick, 15
The guys at school call me a wuss, because I freak out so much before exams I throw up and faint. They reckon I'm chicken. I can't tell them I have an anxiety disorder. They reckon mental illnesses are for weaklings. They don't understand. Anyone can be affected. Anxiety has been part of my life for a long time, and mostly I still manage to live normally. Why can't they see that?
I am not my illness.
Annie, 16
I had a nervous breakdown two years ago, and it led to me slowly sliding into mental illness. I missed almost a whole year of school last year. Now I'm back, and even though I know I'm not meant to take things too fast, it bugs me that people treat me like I'm going to go crazy at a moment's notice. I know I'm fragile, but why do they have to always make such a big deal of it? I'm still the same person I always was.
I am not my illness.
Samantha, 17
I have suffered from anorexia for my whole high school life. At first I got so many compliments on how skinny I was, which only pushed me further. Then people started to notice that I wasn't just pretty skinny any more, I was skeletal. They call me crazy, that I can't see myself for what I actually am. They say I'm delusional. I'm not delusional. I'm sick. I know what I'm doing is wrong, but I can't stop it. It's the illness. It's not me.
I am not my illness.
Lily, 14
Ever since the girls at school noticed I had scars on my wrist, I have been the subject of merciless taunting. My friends have turned their backs to me; they say I'm crazy. They look at me with disgust. I'm not crazy though. Or at least, I'm not crazy all the time. I'm sick. It is an illness, this addiction. It's paralysing. I still cope though. I'm still me, whatever my illness. I'm still me.
I am not my illness.
I am not my illness. My illness is not me. I am above this. I am above my illness. I. Am. Not. My. Illness.