Chloe Carter
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Stories (2)
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recovery and the music that guided me to it
“I’m so absorbed by worry, and so blinded by the ugliness in my brain that I’m forgetting how to live.” These are words I would have choked out over the phone to my therapist in the summer of last year. By that point, I’d been existing in the shadow of depression for around twelve years, and for maybe eight years, I’d also lived in the company of a vicious swarm of wasps known medically as Generalised Anxiety Disorder. The depression kept me in gloomy corners and crept its way into every pleasant memory, dimming the lights and turning down the saturation. It even had the audacity to lull me into a false sense of security, of dense and sickening faux-comfort, and tricked me to accept the numbness it concocted. With anxiety, that swarm of wasps constantly buzzed nearby, and every now and again, a wasp or two would dislodge from its cloud and sting me. Sometimes, I’d react to the sting with meer annoyance, but other times, I’d entirely swell and forget how to breathe. I guess, with experience and over time, I learned how to see in the dark, and how to fend off the wasps from attacking my more vulnerable spots. But that’s not living.
By Chloe Carter5 years ago in Beat
Animus
I suppose he grew fond of me in the end, though I swear I did not invite the old mans trust through ill intent. He was rich and alone, and I too was the latter, and though I understand that admitting it paints a somewhat seedy perception upon my association to him, I certainly was not rich. It had come to my attention that the old man had no family, no friends, and scarcely an associate with which to share the last few months of his life, and my heart ached on his behalf. This information was slipped to me by a nurse compelled to share due to my “kind face”, who had visited the factory in which I worked and the old man owned after he’d had something of a funny turn. It only took a glance upon his haggard face with its cheeks as pale and gaunt as chalk cliffs, for me to determine that his personal hourglass was emptying out its last few grains of sand.
By Chloe Carter5 years ago in Horror
