coping
Life presents variables; learning how to cope in order to master, minimize, or tolerate what has come to pass.
Dysmorphia
I used to love science fiction until I realized I was living in a reality stranger than fiction. It was on a mediocre Wednesday morning that my world was turned upside down and sideways - literally. On a typical foggy autumn morning in San Francisco, I took the ill fated decision to get a start on my 10,000 steps that day and walk the 7 blocks to work from BART. I heard the nagging words of my Nana commenting on the freshman 15 I never lost after quitting college 2 years ago. She never let it go that my grandpa lent me 20k for my education after he died just to let myself go. I lived in a tiny studio apartment above a coffee shop off of Shattuck in Berkeley. It was always smelling of burnt coffee grounds and stale scones that regularly churned my stomach to the point of never wanting breakfast nonetheless coffee or tea. Less calories in my life anyway. So when I was on my walk, it was odd that a café would entice me enough to distract me from my route to work. The smell was-forgive me for being punny-otherworldly. Transcendent if a smell ever was. I walked into the café, bewildered with a sudden hunger. I found myself pulled to a small table next to an even smaller shelf of books. A shapely young woman sauntered over to me, eyes locked with a certain intensity that made me blush. She had what seemed to be a blue hue to her skin. Translucent almost. Intoxicating definitely.
By Lindsay Lutomski5 years ago in Psyche
Le Attaché
It’s 6am at a poignant little coffee shop that makes legit coffee shipped from Ethiopia. The clanking and the steam from the fancy vintage La Marzocco espresso machine conceals details of small talks and chatters. The room filled with masked people walking in and out picking up their orders. I know I’m practically invisible, grazing my peek and taking small sips of my cappuccino, while the person sits down one table from me. My eyes were locked on the right hand that grips tightly around the bindings of a classic black notebook, about 5x8inches, fixating on the thumb that circles back and forth anxiously and flipping the corner of the notebook like a deck of cards. Pausing and jotting something feverishly, then shutting the notebook again. Is it important information written in those pages, thoughts, words, or chain of events that could never be said aloud? My eyes darted trying not to get caught staring. It would be rude.
By Vinnie Quan5 years ago in Psyche
The Quantum Hour
“You got a cig, bro?” Bill asks walking by with his crew. “Nah, man,” I reply, both of us aware of the lie and that he’d reached full-tilt. Starring at me blankly - he does this frequently and I never know what he’s thinking or seeing - he mutters something to his posse and bounces.
By Sam Tahmassebi5 years ago in Psyche
Slowing Down the Shame-Nami
Have you had this dream? A fun day at the beach, sun on your shoulders, sand between your toes. You're loading up on sunscreen, when suddenly, a rumble. A collective inhale sweeps across the beach as, quicker than realistically possible, you look up to see a tsunami almost upon you. You run, ankles bending this way and that. Sometimes you make it, sometimes you don't.
By Chelsea Delaney5 years ago in Psyche
In Case of Loss
I was dark when I walked home that night. The clouds had eclipsed the moon and the streetlights were dimmed by overgrowth. The narrow road wound atop of the gorge and was lined simply by an old stone wall. I stopped on the bridge and watched the raindrops soldier solemnly into the stationary water below. It was soberly peaceful. I felt blissfully alone.
By Naomi Giesbrecht5 years ago in Psyche
without her
The words aren’t formed as thought words in his mind; but the feeling is gnawing. Occasional moments of relief come as a sort of distance from the feeling. A silly video. The cat. Its absence is barely lived before he’s again consumed with added weight.
By Sarah Tyers5 years ago in Psyche
Life's Chance
“Ah for Christ’s sake Lenny, give me one chance” “Are you kidding me kid? You’ve shown up stoned at best every other shift you’ve ever worked, and don’t think I don’t know it’s actually every goddamn day. You may be as broke as this city’s school system but that sure’s never stopped you from spending all your money on dope. For crying out loud, you gave Mr. Janikowski the sweet potato soup - and it’s got fuckin’ peanuts in it! He’s been coming here for 6 years and you were still too damn high to realize! Well look here, you saw him in anaphylactic shock, you saw the goddamn paramedics stretcher him out. I sympathize with ya kid. But this time I got no choice.”
By Austen Henry5 years ago in Psyche
Her Name Is Red
I sat; elbows pressed against the bar letting my eyes trace the rim of my glass. Peering up through my unkempt hair I noticed my reflection in the mirror behind the empty liquor shelves. The mirror was lined with faded green tile, chipped at the edges, aging against the mid-Florida heat. It was late afternoon in this hopeless hotel bar.
By Eljay Feuerman5 years ago in Psyche
