I was barely seventeen. Somehow I envisioned the world as pristine outside of the turmoil of my childhood. My trust was implicit. I had met a few undesirables but had maintained this view of the world. For four years, I had escaped the brutality of my home through drugs. I woke one morning—kidneys screaming—a wisp of myself—ribs... Continue Reading →
This is Mental Health awareness month. I’m here to tell you a bit of my story. My story is one of many. Children die every day from the likes of what I suffered, and if they survive? Well, they turn out like me. My difficulties are not biological or of character flaws. My neurophysiology... Continue Reading →
This is a poem I wrote to that child that I was in the days I could not defend myself. https://darlenejharrisspeakerwriter.wordpress.com/2018/05/14/touch-i-say/
It’s been a while. Stories have swirled through my head but never made it to the keyboard. It’s as if the virgin territory of my new study forebodes me. It’s time to break this cherry. Light a cigarette, Joyce, and get going. I was nineteen, and I was in love—not with a man, but with... Continue Reading →
क्या यह मुस्कुराते हुए चेहरे याद है? मैंने अपनी पोस्ट में इस्तिक के बारे में लिखा: https://joycebowen.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/am-i-a-racist/ बार-बार, मैं सुविधा स्टोर में जाता हूं, और काउंटर के पीछे एक स्कॉलिंग इस्तिका होगा। मैं तड़के और मुस्कुराया, और अंत में पाया गया कि Istiak मुस्कुराते हुए इन तस्वीरों में महत्वपूर्ण रूप से चित्रित... Continue Reading →
Istiak necesita un riñón. ¿Recuerdas esta cara sonriente? Escribí sobre Istiak en mi publicación: https://joycebowen.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/am-i-a-racist/ A menudo, iba a la tienda de conveniencia, y había un Istiak frunciendo el ceño detrás del mostrador. Yo engatusé y sonreí, y finalmente encontré ese sonriente Istiak representado tan prominentemente en estas imágenes. Siendo enraizado en la mente de un... Continue Reading →
Do you remember this smiling face? I wrote about Istiak in my post: https://joycebowen.wordpress.com/2017/09/10/am-i-a-racist/. Oftentimes, I would go into the convenience store, and there would be a scowling Istiak behind the counter. I cajoled and smiled, and finally found that smiling Istiak so prominently depicted in these pictures. Being rooted in the mind of a journalist, I poked and prodded Istiak’s personality until... Continue Reading →
I’ve been sick for weeks; groveling in tributes to my body in the form of chicken soup and OJ. Lowering myself to this status began when I attended a speaking engagement on sexual assault and rape at a local college. I coughed mightily throughout the presentation. By the next day, both the experience and illness... Continue Reading →
A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell. She decided to check out each place first. As the writer descended into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.... Continue Reading →
अधिकांश मुझे अपने सामाजिक मुद्दों से निपटने के लिए जानते हैं यह एक टोल ले सकता है दुनिया के साथ जो गलत है उसके साथ घूमना भयानक हो सकता है मुझे कुछ पता चल गया है कि मैं नहीं जानना चाहता हूं। हां, इयान वेनबर्ग- कोई न्याय नहीं है आप सही हैं, लेकिन इसका... Continue Reading →
La mayoría me conoce por mi abordaje de asuntos sociales. Esto puede tomar un peaje. Mucking alrededor con qué está mal con el mundo puede ser horrible. Encontré cosas que no quiero saber. Sí, Ian Weinberg, no hay justicia. Tienes razón, pero eso no significa que me lleve ese hecho acostado. Voy a gritar y gritar... Continue Reading →
Most know me for my tackling of social issues. This can take a toll. Mucking around with what’s wrong with the world can be horrific. I find things out I don’t want to know. Yes, Ian Weinberg—there is no justice. You’re right, but that doesn’t mean I’ll take that fact lying down. I’ll scream and holler until I have no breath left.
That said, I went on a journey of exploration recently. I suffered trauma as a child. My mother wanted to kill me, and my father, well, my father had other things in mind. When I let him know things wouldn’t work out with me, he impregnated children from other families. I have siblings here and siblings there, and I don’t even want to know their names. I don’t blame them—I just don’t want to know them.
So I went in search for my “triggers.” Those…
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I often feel like the harbinger of doom-and-gloom. There are so many issues that I see as important. Most of them result in death. Some have happy endings. Fiction has been a respite for me. I don’t indulge in it often. It feels like a desert after a burnt roast. It’s hard to immerse... Continue Reading →
I’ve been disabled in one way or other all my life. For the decades my Multiple Sclerosis went undiagnosed, they said the periods of time my MS drove to my bed were disabling bouts of depression--that the progressive numbing of my body was nothing. They were wrong. I was having bouts of MS. They... Continue Reading →
This is a difficult piece for me. I remind myself every day that five children in the US will die today. Baby Doe already had her deathday. She is, for me, a poster-child for what happens when we deny the incredulous—parents and caretakers kill and traffic their children. Another face that haunts me is... Continue Reading →
The pursuit was on. Equality of the contestants was not issue. Their goals were not the same. The stalker had in mind to catch her prey, who wanted only to escape. Survival was the issue here. The prey would do what it had to to survive. This scene had exploded far beyond stalking. The issue of route had... Continue Reading →
What is the view of child abuse? I struggle with that question. I've found that child abuse survivors are viewed as damaged goods. I see pity in people’s eyes. I say, don’t see me and my ordeal—understand that there are children out there right this second that are undergoing the same kind of ordeal. ... Continue Reading →
Joyce Bowen ✅ Freelance Writer, ✅ Child Advocate, ✅ beBee Brand Ambassador 🐝 Doctors are Gods; are they not? I don’t think so, but they think they are. I once had a doctor say to me, “Things are getting better.” And he was right—for doctors—not for patients. The Atlanta Journal Consitution wrote a scathing review of physicians... Continue Reading →
Christmas 1980 marked a turning point in my life. I was newly widowed with two small children. During the day I plied my trade as an electronic technician. At night, I was Mommy. What a juggling act. I went from angstroms to angst on a daily basis. I tamed electrons during the day and sought... Continue Reading →
I’m not driven to tears often. I see myself as staunch and stoic. Last night, however, I found my face bathed in that salty fluid as I listened to myself assure a victim of a crime that justice would now be done. “They know about him now,” I said. “They’ll do something.” It is an... Continue Reading →
We are a society of subcultures. As such, each subculture develops its own policing mechanism. Doctors have Board of Medicines; lawyers have the Bar; etc. We have to follow the Law. In most cases, these subcultures do not. I have no experience with anything other than our Massachusetts Board of Medicine. My first allegation... Continue Reading →
I wrote this for my readership back in University. I had a following comprised of teachers and students. This is what writing meant to me then--and now: ‘This Side of Life’ The last issue of “The Log” brought you your first glimpse of This Side. The Log Lords must have approved because they’re letting me... Continue Reading →
A Touch of the Past
It’s been a while. Stories have swirled through my head but never made it to the keyboard. It’s as if the virgin territory of my new study forebodes me. It’s time to break this cherry.
Light a cigarette, Joyce, and get going.
I was nineteen, and I was in love—not with a man, but with a voice. Lou Rawls owned it. It was his, but I embraced it.
Play him as I write.
When he came to Boston, I took every chance I could to listen to him. It was in a dark, dusty little joint in the underbelly of a building on Boylston Street. It was small and cozy. Probably not the venue for which he was hoping.
I had been able to get there for a few nights, but funds were running tight.
Wait—the music stopped:
Ahhhh—back to the story.
There was only one way I’d…
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Welcome wafts through the air. It rides on the delicious aromas of the fare offered by the Depot Diner (located at 23 Enon St. Beverly, MA 01915 978-922-6200). The food is unique in its presentation and plentifulness. Breakfast is comforting here. Early morning dwells in quietude, whereas dinnertime offers a celebratory atmosphere. I set... Continue Reading →
A little thought given to this.
This is Mental Health awareness month. I’m here to tell you a bit of my story. My story is one of many. Children die every day from the likes of what I suffered, and if they survive? Well, they turn out like me. My difficulties are not biological or of character flaws. My neurophysiology is the result of inadvertent training. I learned to survive from the moment I was born. Every second was a question of do I step this way or that? Do I run or stand pat? Can I breathe or should I hold my breath?
The rage on my mother’s face always twisted my torment with fear. By an early age, I had learned to temper my fear by dissociating. I floated my mind away from my body’s associations and drowned my fear with oblivion. But I had to squeak out a bit to assure my mother…
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The month is quiet. People are going outside to enjoy the sun. It’s time for a departure to the real world for me, and I chose to do so with a fine meal at a local establishment. Finz is located on the waterfront. Its outer lines are as crisp as its food. But what... Continue Reading →