For anyone following this blog specifically for the mental health content, I have moved all that stuff (and more!) to my new site Wellness with M.K. I’m excited to have a new platform specifically for (what tends to be more personal) Mental Health content that I can separate from my “professional” writing portfolio and more academic work.
I’ll still be putting the same amount of effort and research into my posts. They’ll just be in a place to which potential employers won’t be immediately directed as I look for a job. Because of the personal nature of some of the information I share, and the stigma surrounding mental health, I think the best thing for me to do right now is to separate my information into two different outlets.
I think this separation is actually something that will motivate me to post more often in both places. So, if you’re here for health and wellness information and my personal health journey, head over to Wellness with M.K. and click “Follow!”
Nowhere; you’re in the middle of it.
Corn is the only metaphor available to you. Illinois actually produces more soybeans than corn annually, but you still choose corn as the metaphor because it is more relatable to the general population. You compare your skin as it dries in the autumn breeze to the recently scythed cornhusks withering in the dusk. The corn will be stamped into the earth by months of harsh midwest winter weather just as Johnson & Johnson moisturizer will be slathered onto your face when you go back inside. You only came out here to contemplate corn, hoping to derive from it more than a metaphor for dry skin. Your hopes are dashed. It is just corn. You are just a sad midwest writer. Continue reading “A Sad Midwest Essay”
When we were younger, my family would watch storms together. We rolled up the garage door, and sat in lawn chairs, just under the edge of the roof. Close enough to the rain to touch it, but not close enough to get wet. We only watched when there was lightning. If there was just a shower, we kept inside. We liked to feel the electricity in the air.
Last spring in Galesburg, the city where I sometimes live, the Spoon River tipped its banks and spilled down a hill into a student lounge at Carl Sandburg College. The force of the water was so strong that it ripped the doors of the building off its hinges and set computer desks afloat. The rest of the city flooded, too. People were stranded, afraid their homes would be destroyed. The most I saw was the mote around my school’s library. We live on a hill. Continue reading “When It Rains, It Floods”