“It’s not my size!!!” the joey shrieked. Her voice could be heard for miles, for thousands of feet. “I…DON’T…WANT…IT!” she enunciated, while for each syllable she stomped her feet, she was the most ungrateful marsupial the land had ever seen. She threw off the over-sized fuchsia sweater, and with definite difficulty she scurried over to her mother, and then hid inside the only warmth providing ‘garment’ that she could ever desire, the one and only pouch of her loving, accepting mother. For only a mother could love an animal so brat-like, she had been catered to far too often, during her young life her whims would never be cast aside by Mother or Father, never forgotten. Instead she received everything that she wished for, the worst time her father anticipated would be when she wanted to own her own car. But she was only five months old and that time was far off, and Mother had felt that, today, a spot of shopping would go down well. But in the sweater shop, where Mother was known to bound in, bounce around, quickly select something flattering and form fitting for herself, this time, the assistants would have a mission ahead of themselves.
Joey was picky, she wanted everything this way, her way, that way, and she wasn’t careful to hold her tone, whether snappy, selfish, or snide, she didn’t care at all, she had unfortunately not been taught manners, she was simply a terror to behold. Mother had thought it would be rather fetching if Joey were to have an oversized sweater, it would be cute, sloppy, and a play on words: Sloppy Joe! She thought Joey would appreciate this particular two toned jumper, with her favourite colours, fuchsia and amber. But no, when the assistants placed it over her head, the spoilt joey shrieked for them to get it off immediately, it was stuck around her head, and her arms would not reach, the sleeves were far too long, what idiocy was this??? she shrieked further, as she hopped up and down the change room corridors, when she didn’t wish to belong. She was a whirlwind of the utmost destruction now, she wanted to destroy everything in the store, bounding around and ruining the displays, teaching them all a thing or two about how to treat a privileged animal who should be wearing her own elaborate, exquisite crown.
There were two options here presented, of how dear Joey had reacted, which one do you think rings of truth? The more subdued reality, or the angered emotion of her truth? Sadly, I must inform you that it was the latter that was the correct unfolding.
“But, darrrrling,” her mother purred. “Come here, stop being destructive,” she said. “Hop into my pouch, where you can rest and hide.” Confused, Joey shook her head, stunned to come to reality herself, she thought she had already done so, she thought she was already nestled in, just so. With widened eyes she looked around, “What on earth, what have I done?” Her mind was a whirlwind, she tried to fixate her memories upon what had just unfolded, and then with a start, she understood she needed to ask her mum.
“What is going on with me?” she wailed. “I don’t know where to begin, how to think, where to start!”
“It’s okay,” her mother said, patting her little furry head. “Let us go to the cafe, I’ll explain to you there.” And slowly they hopped away, right after paying the register girl some money to fix the results of Joey’s one-kangaroo affray, and with a hop and a jump, they landed at Coffee O’Smiley’s, and this is what her mother had to say.
“My darling, you experience a wiping sensation of your memories. What occurs, only to you, is that you think you are performing an action, when in reality, it is another type of a move. You can be in two realities, one in truth, and the other in your mind, and the terrifying thing is that you don’t know always, even though the reality is to snap alert, to reveal what had occurred outside, and inside.” Joey didn’t seem to completely understand, though she did know that she was somehow disadvantaged, not everyone had a disorder such as this, whatever it was called it was the opposite of blind bliss. Why couldn’t she be like everyone else who had one thought pattern, one world? This was why she was such a spoiled rotten girl. Her family knew that she was different, and paining at this reality, that their poor daughter would often be suffering, they provided her with everything materialistic that she wanted, and endless food, treats, all the while, to provide her with something worth remembering.
Because if she had all these things at her disposal, at her whim, then maybe she would construct some happy memories to experience. Even if she didn’t, then surely she could tell, that once having come to, she would realise she was utterly loved by her parents, themselves. However, nothing could make up for this fact, that she was split in her realities, one leading forth, the other delving inside, confusion, never coming back, and it was with great sadness that Joey realised, her life now, was going to be hell, always. She wouldn’t remember what she had done, there would be times she’d think she performed the right actions, but then it was not right, it was wrong, and she’d be stunned. She decided to isolate herself from the world, and write, write, write, of her truths, as they unfurled.
Her style of writing proved very unique, she snapped back and forth from the present, the apparent future, the persuasive inner dreams, and it was with her own version of charming haikus and soliloquy, other forms of poetry, reams of it, she slept surrounded by piles of paper, churned from her dreams. I’d like to say something came of her writing, something beautiful was formed, created, but you’d have to see for yourselves, to view her scrawled notes, and read the empathy and touching sentimentality for yourselves.
What measure of success is there when the ability to write is present, when the desire to share one’s innermost thoughts succinctly, clearly, is the ultimate goal, to touch other’s hearts as they read your words, why, Joey learned of this desire and made it her truth, she had carefully learned, she knew what to do. With her life now focused, she didn’t spend time dwelling on her illness. It didn’t matter anyway, as long as she could project and promote a sense of inner wellness. Then surely through her art she would become well, and if not, at least she had nurtured her talent, and had expressed it in a manner she knew so well.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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