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World’s Best School Psychologist

When I was twelve, I came to the conclusion that everyone in the world, including my own family, was against me. I was never a problem child, but my parents sure treated me like one. For example, I used to need to be home by 5:00 pm every day. This clearly restricted my amount of …

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Santa’s Magic

The night of Christmas Eve 2008 is a blur, depending on how much medication I am given that day. I can avoid the nurses for a couple of hours, but not too long. I suppose you’ve heard about me in the papers or on your favorite serial killer show. No, I was never convicted. What …

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My Father Punished Me When I Talked to Ghosts

I’ve been blind since birth. As I grew up, everything was described to me in such vivid detail that I didn’t even realize why it was that important to see, especially having no reference point to compare it. We lived in a single-floor ranch house, that’s what Father told me. In my mind, of course, …

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I Followed An Angel of Death and Read Her Diary

A couple of months ago, I found a diary written by a young girl, Florence Blackwell, who was a patient at the Kings Park Psychiatric Hospital on Long Island. Without telling the entirety of the story over again, there was one person who was instrumental in Florence’s survival of inhumane treatment at the hospital; a nurse named Mary.

I Found a Diary Tucked in a Brick at an Abandoned Psych Hospital

I grew up on Long Island, right outside of the Kings Park Psychiatric Center, home of the legend of Cropsey. I was always a good kid, never broke any rules, never really pushed the limits of what was and wasn’t “allowed”. But recently, I moved home after graduating from college, and just started looking for …

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The Candy Man

“The Candy Man can ’cause he mixes it with love, and makes the world taste good.” ~Willy Wonka Every town has its ghost stories. Maybe it’s the haunted house on the other side of the railroad tracks, or the spirit that haunts the tunnel in the woods, but people love talking about things that go …

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My Son Committed Suicide, and My Wife Blames Me

I’ve never posted like this before. But I suppose I’ve never needed to. If you’ve read the title, you know what to expect, and you can move on if you’d like to avoid the topic. I’ll understand. Grief is a funny thing. Professor Farina taught me that in the first class I ever took for …

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The Artist

There’s this painting my wife loves, called “Death and Life”, by Klimt. I don’t know what she finds so fascinating about it. I made all the right noises when she showed me her beloved framed print when we were first dating, “oohing” and “ahhing” and making up some bullshit about warm and cold color schemes and …

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Daddy’s Girl

After Momma got sick, Daddy didn’t act the same. He’d go off into their room and not come out for days. I was just thirteen at that time, but Daddy said I was big and needed to take care of things. I liked feelin’ responsible. Back then, it was just me, Sarah-Beth, and baby Junie, …

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1999

The year is nineteen-ninety-nine. That sentence brings me back to my senior kindergarten class when I was five years old, where we used to read out the date on the blackboard every single day. The year 1999 exists as a stain in my mind, however, as a memory that will not go away no matter how I try to forget it. 1999 marked the year I lost my first tooth, my first time on a plane, and unfortunately the early loss of my childhood innocence.