• hhhhhhhnm

    Humming Birds

    “Amy, you’re gonna get it,” Nikki tells me. I’m hiding between the lilac bushes, Barbie’s head in my hand. It’s our weekend at our father’s old farmhouse. “What’d you use?”

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    795 Days

    most of my time alone. I say it’s because of this and that, and this, but the truth is I’m afraid—afraid I’ll bump into someone who once knew me and they’ll wonder what the fuck happened, and the rumors are or are not out there anyway. I may be paranoid, but I’ve seen their faces. Really, I didn’t want to see myself mirrored in their eyes—the same look of uncomfortable politeness, pity maybe, because maybe they’d already heard—and beneath that layer, the look of loss. As if seeing someone that never really came back.

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  • 16

    A Beginning (“Small Parts”)

    Cold January cracks through the diamond patterned lines on the security glass. The winter sun blinds my puffy eyes, stretches across my white blanket, my white sheets. Everything is white.

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    A Trauma Theory

    It was my third year in college when I first heard the term string theory. I remember moving forward slightly, anxious for what he’d say next, and as the professor

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    C-PTSD, Bipolar 2, & ADHD

    Since 2009 I’ve been studying the shit out of complex PTSD, Dissociative disorders, and psychosis.  Now all of that has simmered down some, and I’m noticing, or rather, others are

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    What’s in a Name

    This is an exercise I did for a workshop–to reveal yourself via your name: Amy. Such a short name–a simple name. A name reserved for a sun-bleached blond girl who

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  • jmmmmnb

    The Elements of Loss

    I don’t hear you say my name as you ask why it is I let no one love me. I feel something stir and I laugh. This is my way.

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    Daddy’s Game

    I imagine you must’ve shut yourself off somehow–the way you’d eventually teach me to do– before you entered my room like a king’s shadow. I hear the scrape of your

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    Hamsa: The Hand of Fatima and the Virgin Mary

    FOR THOSE OF YOU THAT KNOW MY WHOLE STORY, THIS WILL MAKE A LOT OF SENSE. In high school I had reoccurring dreams of a symbol–a hand with an eye

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    A Dream Always in My Mind

    I have this recurrent fantasy where I’m lost in a forest so deep it’s purple.  The grass is black, the moss creeping up the trees is black, the birds chatter

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Amy Jo Sprague

Amy Jo Sprague

MY BRAIN HUMS WITH SCRAPS OF POETRY & MADNESS -Woolf "...my selves dissolving...OLD WHORE PETTICOATS..." Writer & poet working on my memoir. I love the Beat Gen and the blues. I blog about creative writing and my memoir, mental illness, PTSD, and literary interests. I would've married Henry Miller

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from Palms Up

I wake and take the blood and scrawl across my open journal-- over the page I wrote on eleven years ago-- the one where I wrote she’s dead she’s dead she’s dead but I take the blood and try to tell her that I made it, that I am alive—I am… this dead girl in the pages --she must know about the ocean, I want to teach her about the old man that takes our hands I want to reach into the pages and shake her out of death. I want to yell at her to try harder because we won't make it here. There's no god, I whisper to the dead girl in the blue ink, but there is something. --Amy Jo

from "Memoir" and "Amy's Poetry"

"I felt very still and very empty, like the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullaballoo ---THE BELL JAR

from "thoughts"

16

My Brain a Splitting Continent

Because nothing was wrong with me. Nothing was wrong with me.
(noticing the dissociation/derealization—coming to in the middle of a task and not being there, Plath and The Bell Jar and that feeling when I read it, my heart made me literally sick, and I threw it away. I was sixteen, and it was like looking into a mirror and I was disgusted and yet more so terrified. Of my future. ——and college too, the way the words began pouring out, the way in the end I was sick, my brain a splitting continent, the Bipolar and Psychotic episodes and anxiety creeping up. Everything was creeping. Crying in the professor’s office that I had nothing but all these parts, and she said these parts were so amazing to just keep going with them because we could, together, piece it into a book. My dream had come true in that little office, and I knew I was too sick to do it)

If only I could tell someone. The humiliation I go through when I think of my past can only be described as grace. We are create by being destroyed. –Franz Wright

I had nothing and I was still changed. Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added. --Louise Gluck

Personal Essays & Spirituality