Confessions of a Woman Gone Mad: Addie

Posted on December 7, 2015 by Britt

Monday September 28th 7:30am:
I stand at the front door and rub my eyes awake. My sister’s there, going on and on about how she has to go to work. My niece is sick and can’t go to school. She has no choice; Addie has to stay with me for the day. She hands me a note, a pink lunch box, kisses Addie on the cheek and darts towards her running car. “See you at four,” she hollers out the window and drives away.

The note:
– Make sure Addie takes a teaspoon of her medicine (see in lunch box) every four hours. Don’t worry, she’s not contagious.
– She eats a lot (like every two hours) so I packed her lunch and plenty of snacks. If she wants anything else, make sure it’s ORGANIC. She only eats organic and her stomach will not be able to handle anything with hormones or pesticides in it. ORGANIC FOOD ONLY.
– NO-
I crumble the note in my hand and toss it into the garbage.


Ever wonder how writers start out? Or, about the process of writing a novel? If it were so easy wouldn’t everyone do it?

When I was studying undergrad, a student of English Lit, I drove four in a half hours to Hemingway’s archive at The JFK Library in Boston for research on my final project. The paper was a comparison between his first drafted manuscripts of The Sun Also Rises, vs. his final published version of the novel.

I spent nine hours rummaging through Hemingway’s journals, manuscripts, any paper with any mention of The Sun Also Rises. What an experience!!

As a reader, researcher and writer, I found it illuminating to see first hand Hemingway’s passion, work, and efforts that went into writing his first great novel.

Here is what I discovered:

MY LOVE, Published by “Women Around Town” 2/14/19

Look at me
look passed my eyes
and listen 
I do not love you because I have to
or because I fear being alone 
or because time moving forward means
having to settle for the things you need
I am not a broken heart 
but I get cold when standing under a tree 
with the sun on the other side of the world
though, I still crave the deep shades of night 
the silence of the sky

SHARE is a Podcast & Blog series about young women that provides an open platform of discussion for woman. SHARE is a safe space for women to open up, and share their personal stories of pain and adversity.

We will be going around speaking to women of all ages and learning about their stories. Stories of fear, harm and violence.  Stories of love, loss and illness, isolation and addiction. Whatever your story is, we are asking you to share it with us. 

By sharing our stories and learning about the journey others have faced in overcoming their difficulties, we learn that we are not alone. Sharing can help others through similar issues, it can help us grow. Sharing can grant us the strength to find our voice, which can ultimately lead us on the path to self discovery.

Sharing can inspire, it can heal. So join me. Share your story and together, we can bring a little peace and lightness into the hearts of those who need it the most.

Jupiter in Taurus, Published by “Boulder Weekly” 8/3/18

I press the snooze button on my alarm
three times and then 
finally wake up happy 
I step in to the outfit 
already laid out, place my foot 
in a shoe that didn’t cost 
too much, 
I sit on the couch drinking coffee
a stain appears on my shirt
I glance out the window – no rain
I scrub the stain out, 
eat the leftovers, 
eye old memories hanging 
like art on my fridge 
my phone is fully charged 

Monday Night Yoga, Published by “Women Around Town” 6/3/18

I’m flat on my back
my heels spread as wide as the mat
my fingers stretch like star shapes

my palms face up because I’m
trying to be open and at peace
I’m trying to welcome news things
like change and balance

but the man next to me is sleeping
through his shavasana and snoring
so loud I can’t count my breaths
or empty my mind or be grateful

I turn to him and whisper be here now
but he is somewhere else
and now I roam

Sunny Friday at 4:00 pm, Published April by “FishFood Magazine” 4/30/18

A lung has escaped my body.
I’d been walking down the street when
it emerged right out of my chest.
The left one. Not the right – the smaller one that keeps room for my heart.
It’s no longer in me but out. 
Not at all fleshy or muscular, but more 
like something boiled for far too long.
Painfully hot;
liquid lung trickling down my leg, 
swelling over the edge of my sneaker,
splatting like blob on the sidewalk.   

STEFAN, Published by “Red Fez Magazine” 2/13/18

I was twelve when I learned the truth about my father. I’d always wondered about him. Ever since I could talk, I asked my mother about him. Who was he? Where was he? Did he know about me? She would spark a cigarette and puff on it a minute before responding. And then, when she finally did, her answers were always different. He died in the war. He was lost at sea. Sometimes she’d ignore me, walk into her bedroom and lock herself inside. When I was eight, for an entire year she had me convinced the mailman from Cheers, Cliff Claven, was my dad. And when I found the nerve to ask her more about him, she switched the story up, telling me my dad was a spaceman, and then weeks later a pirate. She never repeated the same story twice. 

For years, I never understood why my mother made up stories about my dad. It was as if she wanted me to know there was something more to it than whatever lie she mustered up. It was why, I was sure, she left the picture and court papers in her sock drawer. She knew I’d find them. And when I did, I knew her and I could never have an honest conversation about who my father was. 

I became angry. I acted out. Fights at school, drugs and all that. I hated myself. I hated her. Even though it wasn’t her fault. It was him I wanted to hurt. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what my mother thought of me. When she looked at me, did she see him?