Mien; Bearing

I have been living with severe Pure O OCD for 2 years now, just after I got off of drugs. In just one of my many attempts at peace of mind, I drove to a building downtown and opened the door to an elaborate office, where I met a woman who does brain scans with those weird electrode caps. She gave me a therapy session after the brain scan, in which she asked me to close my eyes and picture my anxiety when it's at its worst. (She also told me to stop listening to rock and take up smooth jazz... haaa.)

OCD and anxiety was a black and white static in my abdomen, like a TV on the wrong channel. She walked me through picturing my feelings as colors and objects.

My peaceful feeling looked like a floating purple balloon in my stomach, which was suddenly evaded by a small red boxing glove trying to punch it and move it over; the boxing glove was trying to get bigger and bigger, competing with the purple balloon that held the air of peace...

As she walked me through my feelings, the annoying boxing glove got smaller and smaller, until POOF! The boxing glove was gone.

I used to write as a little girl, but since the traumatic events of witnessing both of my parents die, and losing my childhood home, I developed writers block for years..then, I met someone.

One night as I was talking to this someone, God was telling me to pick up a pen and paper. My creativity had finally sparked... my mind was drenched in color once again.

This is what I came up with.

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Mien; Bearing

by Karly Jo

She asked me, "What's it look like? That endless panic renting out the middle grounds?"

More like an intruder than an agreeable tenant.

That black and white static seemed timeless on the television, the off button was broken.

It was taking every last drop of my effort to try and to change the channel; up, down.

Suddenly a broad silence contained the room; a buoyant purple balloon, over-taking whatever chaos existed, before heavy brick and mortar built this unsurmountable wall.

Red and blue flowing simultaneously like the river rapids, painting the cursive way of your words,

Gently filling the balloon with air.

My lungs have taken their first breath.

She asked me, "What's it look like?; The hues of a spirit laden with rest?"

No arguments between the object and her air, rightly.

More like a home than that old confine.

You let go of the string and let her fly.

POP! The new air evades the atmosphere..

Free

I own the rights to all my writings.