Blackout

Blackout

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Stunted by his own social awkwardness, Jack Kelley sets out to distinguish his scientific career by partaking in a series of intoxicating experiments with the goal of finding a cure for humanity's most debilitating affliction: Addiction.

Dissociated

Dissociated

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Exhausted by the meaningless career he had built for himself as a clinical psychiatrist, Dr. Timothy Grant accepts a prestigious position at the Paracelsus Institution, where he would oversee therapy for several of the world's most deranged and dangerous patients.

Ella's Shelter

Ella's Shelter

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Steven Gallagher was an entrepreneur above all the rest, never ceasing to surpass his own ambitious, yet selfish goals. Given the chance to invest in social change, Steven challenges himself to be a better father to his Ella by building the world's biggest homeless shelter- if only he can withstand the unintended consequences of his newfound altruism.

Flint Ridge

Flint Ridge

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An elderly man reflects upon the summer he spent in a juvenile detention work camp after committing a crime he couldn't escape. A time filled with abuse, comradery, mentorship, and self-discovery would shape him into the man he is today.

Take Me Home

TAKE ME HOME

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Tommy's life hadn't been as fulfilling as he thought he it might. Being dumped is the final straw, so he decides to take a nostalgic road trip back to his hometown to visit friends and family, while revisiting tortured memories of his forgotten past before ending his life once and for all.

Living Legends

LIVING LEGENDS

A Play in Three Acts

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Five beloved celebrities: a startlet, a rebel without a cause, a rocker, a tortured musician, and a comedian, were all missed by the public as they all died before their time. The only thing is, they are still alive and living on an island together.

Dealing with Your Parents' Divorce as an Adult

            Living in a time when the concept of marriage has become less of a life-long commitment and more of a short chapter in the story of a person’s biography, the prevalence of divorce is higher than ever. Possibly due to the shortening attention spans of the most recent generations or because of our insatiable dissatisfaction with delayed gratification, a lifetime of partnership seems to be endangered at the toxic hands of debilitating indifference, easily procured infidelity, and a disheartening lack of dedication. Although these vices have existed for as long as faithfulness and love itself, broken relationships and marriages have never been more glaring as they currently do in the twenty-first century.

            There was a time when children of divorce were forced to deal with the traumatizing shift in family dynamic at an unfortunately young age- usually in elementary, or at the very latest in high school. However, with the emergence of socially disruptive mediums like Ashley Madison and Tinder indiscriminately invading the older demographics, a lot of us are being left to deal with watching our middle-aged parents separate in our twenties, thirties, and oddly enough, even forties. As we naively enjoyed the comfort of a stable home throughout our formative years, watching friends experience the turmoil of bouncing between two houses, the thought of enduring that hardship never seemed plausible. Then, entering into adulthood, we were filled with an unfounded sense of security as we optimistically assumed that we had surpassed a fabricated window of time when parents were allowed to reconsider their dedication to one another. Sadly, that window of time is apparently non-existent and the dissolution of parental partnerships will forever be an unnerving possibility.

            Having to deal with the reality that your parents did not have the perfect marriage, nor did they provide you with the perfect example of how to develop a permanent bond is quite disconcerting as a self-aware adult. It is undoubtedly easy to imagine how difficult it would be for a child to react to the news of having to celebrate the holidays in shifts or wrapping his or her developing mind around step-parents and step-siblings. Recognizing that a substantial break in a household is unspeakably trying on a youth, it must be said that it is complex for an adult to process these same undesirable feelings. Acting on a different level of complexity, adults internalize parental divorce with resentment and self-doubt- different than children, who respond to their parents’ divorce with sadness.

            Sharing the exact same perception, most children and adults alike prefer to view their parents’ marriage as being unconditional and everlasting. When a child witnesses a flaw in that impenetrable love, it is common to infer culpability. On the contrary, when an adult witnesses the same flaw in the worshiped relationship on which personal values and beliefs are formed, it is common to infer susceptibility. As adults, we are equipped with enough rationale to understand that if we were able to weaken the strength of our parents’ love, we would have effectively done so years earlier. Nevertheless, we cannot entirely avoid the unwelcomed thought that our own relationships are susceptible to a definite time frame since our image of a perfect marriage was anything but.

            Regardless of if we are entertaining the idea of abandoning independence in search for true love, entering a meaningful relationship, or have already tied the proverbial knot, evidence that marriage is not necessarily ideal for even the most kismet of spirits, is dizzying. Troubled by the fear that we too are in jeopardy of becoming a part of the dreaded fifty percent statistic of failed matrimonies, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy if we allow that fear to invade our own relationship. Even if the relationship was healthier than ever- elated by the bliss of unwavering companionship- there is a chance that doubt might slip into your mind.

            Unfounded by impractical projections of disappointment that should be directed towards one or both of your parents, the biggest mistake an adult child of divorce can make is to direct that angst towards their own partner. The generalization that all relationships are doomed to fail at any unannounced time is one that will expedite your own failed partnership. However difficult, realize that the marriage shared by your parents stands alone and does not have the power to predict or even influence your own. Though you might have adopted one or more unhealthy relationship faults that would be best left in the recesses of your memory, discarded along with other undesirable attributes embodied by your younger self, attempt the impossible by utilizing misfortune as a learning experience.

            The devastating truth is that the stability of marriage and long-term commitment has been shaken by a minority of its participants choosing alternate life plans. As to how optimistically or pessimistically we expect this statistic to decline or increase over future generations would be engaging in an act of futility. All a person can do in the face of watching their parents pursue independent lives from one another is to consider the benefits of the new arrangements. If it seems impossible to identify any benefits from the bleak situation and you are understandably confused- not to mention frustrated- then at least examine the unfortunate knowledge you have at your disposal.

            Although the silver lining of parental divorce is obstructed by the overt glare of failure, simultaneously shadowed by the towering debris from the selfish demolition of your fantasy of how a supposedly perfect marriage should be, simply look harder. Easier said than accepted or even understood: you are not your parents. Following what feels like a tragedy, reacting morosely to the news of your parents’ divorce as if a family member had died, you will likely be subject to a plethora of negative emotions. Whether or not you interpret these emotions pragmatically will be a result of your unique personality and will ultimately be at the mercy of your coping mechanisms, thereby beyond your direct control. Therefore, the best you could do for yourself is to distance yourself from the self-doubt and believe in the relationship you whole-heartedly want to succeed.

           

An Education in Trauma

For my first official story, I figured I would jump right into a raw, authentic story that is unfortunately true. As I mentioned in my introductory post, there are certain events in my life that have shaped me into the person I am today- this specific event being the most impactful of all.

I would be remiss not to warn readers that this true account is terrifying in a way that only unfortunate victims can understand, so if you or someone you know has been a victim of gun violence, please seek the necessary supports before continuing down the page. Moreover, if you experience any troubling thoughts or feelings after reading this story, I encourage you to speak to a trusted mental health professional.

                The scariest, most unnerving outlook on life is to expect the worst on the most ordinary of days. Unfortunately, for not only myself, but for thousands of other students in attendance at Dawson College in Montreal on one ill fated day, September 13^th, 2006 would be the date on which this bleak mindset would spawn. Having personally disassociated my naively tranquil mind from the notion of being subjected to an act of random, yet extreme violence by assuming that school shootings were more of a problem faced abroad, I was completely taken off guard when a deranged man took it upon himself to disrupt an entire academic community.

                Having shown up at the Dawson College campus for my first class at around 9:00 am, the only dread I had brought with me that day was the unwillingness to coast through a full day of mind numbing lectures and migraine inducing study sessions. On top of the angst of being dragged out of bed, quickly becoming wistful of the underappreciated summer mornings, my morning routine had been veered off course when my close friend did not show up for school that day. My friend’s absence meant that I didn’t have someone to enjoy my many cigarette breaks with in between lectures- a serendipitous coincidence that may have very well saved my life. Instead of enjoying the establishment of a delightful nicotine addiction, I was diverted to spend the day with another college friend, who was in fact repulsed by smoking and condemned me from partaking in the soothing, yet disgusting habit. Responding to her sounds of disgust and constant irritated eye rolls whenever I would mention the possibility of going outside to satisfy my intensifying craving, I begrudgingly refrained from leaving her side and instead aimlessly followed her into the computer room to finish an assignment- a task that was not as high on my list of priorities as inhaling some much desired carbon monoxide.

                Despite my studious friend’s attempts at encouraging me to focus on my academic endeavors, I quickly grew bored with whatever weekly assignment I had tried to complete and pleaded with her to pass the time in a much less productive manner. Finally succumbing to my relentless pleas to indulge my lethargic ambitions for the day, she gave in and agreed to spend the rest of our free time in the atrium before heading to our next class. We ventured to a familiar spot, where we would lean against the wooden railing in the middle of the college atrium, looking down on the bottom floor of the immense structure. Although we were inexplicably engaged in trivial conversation- discussing topics that now seem insignificant, relating to body image and budding adolescent romantic relationships- it is now refreshing to remember a time, only seconds before imminent trauma, which was untainted from the permanence of irrational fear and anxiety.

                Surrounded by hundreds of blissfully unaware students, some of whom were engaging in normative collegial socialization, whereas others were making a commendable attempt at pursuing a promising academic career, we were all separated by individual ambitions, stressors, and fixations. This disconnection, at least for myself, would swiftly fade into an undesired common ground of basic survival instinct as I heard my friend abruptly interrupt her sentence by uttering in a curiously concerned tone of voice, “Why does he have a gun?”

                Before I could turn around to understand the vague, yet frightening connotation of what my friend had been trying to gain insight towards, to assess the bizarre inquiry, the echoing of a gunshot triggered my unprecedented instinct to leap to the floor. Although I had never in reality heard a gunshot, I knew that my life was in danger; so much so that I regrettably forgot about my friend, whose delayed response to the threatening sound left her frozen against the wooden railing. The gut-wrenching realization of having abandoned a close friend in the face of danger confirmed a fear of cowardice, while simultaneously instilling a long-term sense of profound guilt.

                Although temporarily frozen by the audibly startling gunfire, my stunned friend soon followed my cowardly lead by jumping to the floor and joining my quivering body behind a large recycling bin. Never in my life had a flimsy plastic structure felt so secure and not once did the rational thought cross my mind regarding the easily penetrable, far from bulletproof, shield I had claimed as my own. As we held each other to offer a mutually disheartening and unconvincing sense of reassurance, the gunfire continued to echo through the panicked atrium. Unbeknownst to myself, alongside half of the student body cowering behind any and all available objects on the left side of the building, we were currently safe from the psychotic gunman, who had chosen to begin his planned massacre from the right side of the school’s entrance.

                As the chillingly audible sound of shots bellowed through the deathly still atrium, I had no perception of where the gunfire was originating, or where they would lead. I therefore took advantage of the brief silence as a sign of cease fire and thereby prompted my shell shocked friend to blindly follow me towards an exit to an adjoining hallway at the far end of the cafeteria. Not only being ignorant as to where I was going, I was dangerously unaware as to whether I had enough time to sufficiently coordinate my wobbly legs to sprint towards my unknown destination. Leaving all rationale behind me, I fled towards what looked like my only escape from a conscious nightmare; once again, my shaken friend followed me without hesitation. Running faster than I thought to be physically possible, my imagination manifested the gunman gripping at my heels, provoking my body to attain unlikely momentum. Nearing the closed, potentially locked door, the gunfire once again started the break the unsettling silence, prompting a wave of unforgettably terrifying shrieks and screams from throughout the college. Still unaware of the gunman’s proximity in relation to my path to freedom, we maintained our fast pace until both I and my friend passed through the cafeteria door, feeling the slightest bit safer from the wrath of the mystery assassin.

                Following the flood of fleeing students, like trailing a herd of spooked sheep, we ended up back in the same computer lab we had just left several minutes earlier. Walking into an already occupied room, there seemed to be about a dozen trembling students, all speculating towards the particulars of the crisis. Amongst the impromptu, unfounded theories, many believed that there were two shooters in the building and that another lunatic was making his way down from the sixth floor. Having heard that unsubstantiated, yet worrisome piece of speculation, I began to feel as though my fate had been subject to claustrophobia- my chances of staying alive were minimizing, reducing my chance of escape. With nothing to do but join the rest of the entrapped student body, my friend and I kneeled down by the far end of the computer room, crouching under a desk already occupied by a few fearful students.

                As we waited impatiently to be either optimistically rescued or dreadfully discovered by a number of predators, there was nothing left to do except initiate small talk in order to distract one another for as long as possible. Despite the unfamiliarity that existed between this specific group of students- due to the disconnection that existed within our large student body- we had unfortunately gained common ground that day and bonded as though we had been close friends for as long as we cared to remember. Trying to divert the conversation away from the morbid speculation regarding the number of our apparent captors, I turned to console my friend; one person I truly had a vested interest in reassuring. Seeing the devastation in her brave façade, I attempted to use comedy to lighten the situation and even provoke the smallest formation of a smile, so I stated that she shouldn’t worry since, as all horror movies have taught us, virgins never die. For once in my adolescent life, I used that nonsensical cinematic convention to praise my delayed sexual experience.

                Successfully provoking the slightest hint of laughter from my preoccupied friend, I knew that playfulness and crude humor could not make the thought of imminent doom fade from her bleak mind. Other than engaging in ineffective chatter, my instinct was to contact my parents to inform them of the troubling situation, despite the despair I would inevitably pass on to them. Upon realizing that the cell phone reception was temporarily unavailable, my paranoid mind assumed that it was the gunman’s conspiracy to block our means of contact with the outside world. Although the reality of the situation was that the volume of calls had congested the local reception, I had decided to hold off on getting in touch with my parents until I was confident in saying that I would be safe. We waited for a few more minutes, discussing our options and wondering if we could barricade the door with a computer desk, only to get discouraged by the fact that the door opened outwards, which made our bunker quite vulnerable to intruders. Our conversation halted as all of our hearts simultaneously dropped at the sound of the heavy door swinging open, exposing our vulnerable group of prisoners to the danger that awaited in the atrium. We all looked towards the open door, hoping to get a glimpse of an unexpected superhero, who would conveniently reassure us that the assailant had been captured and we were finally safe. Instead, our first glimpse through the doorway was of a determined man with a handgun.

                Fortunately, the man with the handgun was wearing a police uniform and forcefully instructed the panicked group to quickly exit the room with hands held in the air. Feeling like a suspect in the whole ordeal, I nevertheless indulged the precautious police officer and put my hands over my head, then wasted little time before running past his intimidatingly large stature. Leaving the room, not yet feeling free enough to catch my breath in relief, I circled around the corner, being directed by the leadership of the brute officer, only to be greeted by another man pointing a gun in my direction. Once again, my heart unnecessarily skipped a beat at the sight of a man yielding a firearm when I realized that he was in fact another police officer escorting us out in a protective manner.

                I then obediently followed the second police officer’s impatient directives, viewing the man as a hardened drill sergeant, subsequently ending up going through a fire exit that brought me directly to the street. The feelings of impending doom began to fade as I enjoyed the polluted air and chaotic streets of downtown Montreal, realizing that I may have very well survived an unimaginable crisis and overcame the lethal odds of escaping from a deranged gunman. Even though we were free from the confines of what felt like a predestined tombstone, it felt as though we lacked both the direction and ability to compose our minds long enough to distance ourselves more than a few feet from the college. We stood on the side street rattled, lacking sufficient confidence to assure ourselves that we were finally safe. The ability to achieve such confidence was once again hindered by the shrill shriek of a fellow classmate exclaiming, “He’s got a gun!”

                Panic immediately returned to the faces of the recently extracted student body, instigating a stampede of traumatized young adults, partaking in the flight defensive mechanism, since the instinct to fight had become futile upon hearing the first shots a mere twenty minutes earlier. As each student understandably ran to protect his and her own life, the crowd of hysterical students gained speed, forcing the sluggish people in the group to the ground. Suspecting that the impact of fifty charging students would leave any fallen individual trampled, my fear escalated when my friend lost her balance over the momentum of my racing feet, sending her tumbling to the ground. In a swift motion, I reached down and grabbed her before the stampede of victims left her injured and vulnerable. We continued to run down the street until it was proclaimed that the second gunman was none other than a third police officer in civilian clothing- an ill-advised law enforcement strategy that could have been given a bit more foresight to avoid superfluous chaos.

                Once we escaped what was thought to be another threat, we finally shook off the recently instilled shock and ventured down a main street to distance ourselves from the perpetual chaos that encompassed our school. Walking arm in arm down the street, noticing that the rest of the moving mob retained the same look of undeserved relief as was painted on each of our disturbed faces, I responded to the many calls from friends and family members who had received word of the incident on the news- even family members from across the continent had been worried by the fast traveling news of the shooting. Varying from light-hearted well wishes, to sincere inquiries towards my well-being, I assured every person who called that I was safe and out of harm’s way.

                We collected ourselves and waited at a nearby metro station, where my friend’s father was on his way to come and pick us up, as to avoid being subjected to the frantic crowds and possibly of having the unknown gunman flee via the underground transit system. Isolating ourselves from the many groups of grief stricken students, we found solace on a solitary rock adjacent to the metro entrance. My friend eventually gave into her volatile emotions and broke down, unable to speak, only able to hold onto my sweater, leaving a trace of blood from a wound inflicted by the earlier stampede of panicked college students. That particular blood stain on a sweater I find difficulty in wearing to this day, remains an indefinite visual reminder of the trauma experienced by a dear friend on that devastating day.

                For the remainder of the afternoon, even though we were relatively safe from any known dangers, I was still concerned as to the condition of the rest of the student body. I thought to myself that if- at the very least- nobody was killed, the whole ordeal would fade with time, as impermanent devastation typically does. Moreover, even if some students were inflicted with the unthinkable injury of a gunshot wound, their bodies would heal and nothing would have been physically taken from us. Despite my very last attempt at finding a silver lining on an opaque and ominous incident, there had indeed been something taken away from us.

                Even though many escaped the unfortunately fatal incident by means of evasiveness, quick thinking, or sheer luck- the latter being my only reason for leaving the gunfire with pulse intact- one life had been taken at the hands of a psychologically disturbed individual. One life had been removed from an innocent young woman, who showed up at school on that earth shattering day only to pursue higher education. Since this young woman had been stripped of her future, I do in fact feel guilty for experiencing emotions associated with being a victim. Not only do I feel guilty for constant self-pity, while receiving sympathy from others even though I came out of the incident physically unscathed, I feel guilty that I have retained the mental capacity to remember that awful day, when that poor young woman cannot. As I am sure many have recounted in their minds over and over, there is much I wish I could have changed, but I am fortunate for the many serendipitous events that kept me alive.

                What started as an ordinary day quickly turned into a dreaded memory that impacts how I remember my college days. It is a tragedy that reminds me of the fear that imminent death is never very far off; on a daily basis, from watching a movie in a theatre, to sitting at my office desk, the fear of encountering another psychopath never dissipates. Since I can only speak for myself, I am only able to share one account of the feelings associated with experiencing a traumatic event, but I must say that for the better part of a decade since the incident, the world has not felt as warm, people do not seem as trustworthy, and my own mortality has never been more apparent.

                Noting that there are no names mentioned in this story to conserve confidentiality, it must be said that countless people with names, faces, and unique personalities, were very much affected by this tragedy. These individuals cope and heal in their own way, as best and as quickly as they can, but it is safe to say that the scar of immense trauma will forever be slashed onto each and everyone’s psyche. As for the man who caused unspeakable grief, I choose not to identify him by name or acknowledge his existence; the morally bankrupt entity that disrupted an entire population, subsequently ruining healthy futures for thousands, should be regarded as nothing more than a social problem and a mentally ill organism. It is my belief that no single person should be granted power over another, which is why the reality of the life this particular organism selfishly took, is more than I can stand to bear.

Before I get started, who am I?

As much as I would like to appear insightful, if not downright enlightened, by answering the existential question "who am I?" with a carefully chosen quote by a deep-thinking philosopher like Socrates, or a notable historical figure like Gandhi, I wouldn't dare insult your intelligence, nor would I try to write disingenuously. So, staying true to the type of person I really am, I can only answer the "who am I?" question with the same response given by male model, Derek Zoolander: "I don't know." When I first say Ben Stiller uttered those vague words to himself through his reflection in a puddle back in 2001, I found solace in knowing that it was all right to be uncertain with one's own identity or purpose. Fast track 18 years, skipping over a lifetime of accomplishments, tragedies, and celebrations, I am still as uncertain as to who I am and Zoolander's words ring just as true as they did all those years ago.

Although I won't try to define myself with another- perhaps more intelligible- quote, I can share a few milestones that likely led me to go where every man and woman with internet access has gone before, by writing a blog. Albeit, to describe myself is a struggle in and of itself since I would rather write tens of thousands of words (and have) about the lives of fictional characters rather than write a few sentences about myself. I get uneasy when I write about my past, feeling an overwhelming amount of angst- what Freud might refer to as "the uncanny"- when I force myself to relive familiar emotions and events. If that sly Freud reference didn't go unnoticed, you would correctly assume that I have a background in psychology- or an unhealthy obsession with over analyzing myself, which is also true. When I initially pursued a psychology degree and subsequent career in social services, I misled myself into thinking that my passion was to help people with dysfunctional personalities and problems, but it was only when I started writing creatively and changed careers to marketing that I finally realized that I didn't want to cure people of their abnormalities, I wanted to simply understand their motives for doing the irrational things they do. It was- and still is- a matter of sheer curiosity.

So, rather than continue in an emotionally draining field catering to the addicts and homeless of the world, I found it much less taxing to develop stories based on second-hand anecdotes, observations, and off-beat insights I had into the world of abnormality. To make a long story even longer than it has to be, the point is that I find writing to be both amusing and therapeutic. I write to evoke a reaction in not only the reader, but myself; to feel aroused, nauseated, or delighted by wordplay or a particularly clever sentence is my ultimate goal. Having said that, I hope you enjoy your journey into my twisted mind and do not get lost in the abundant eccentricities along the way.