Tales of Development


We are so much our parents. They expand beyond our skin, and hair color. They are the tongues that form our words. They are the eyes that see our world. They are the sulci and gyri that interpret thoughts and make decisions. Our parents are in our beds because they are in our heads. Rooted insecurities and desires grow from the seeds planted by our parents long ago. 

We are more of our parents than we will ever admit. Not wanting to make their mistakes, we disown their flaws and claim the traits that mimic their successes–though all of these are only perceived from the viewpoint that was shaped by your parents. Our silence is their silence. Our judgement is their judgement. Our happiness is theirs. And they are their parents, too.

All in some way. 








All in some way, many ways, we are so like our parents.


New science writing blog!

I’m starting a new venture as a freelance science writer, so check out my new blog for a different pace in my writing. 

Today marked the kick-off of my new series, Thursday’s 10 Things, in which I give 10 factoids that you didn’t know you wanted to know. This week’s topic is soil. 

Chenille Writes

ramblings fromĀ an unresolved a state of mind.

paranoias have been creeping in–looming in the peripherals and bubbling up from some place within me I didn’t know existed.

It’s raining: Did I leave something outside?  Are my car windows down? Does the neighborhood cat have a dry place to stay?

It’s dark: Are my car doors locked? Are my partner’s? Can someone break into our house without us knowing? If someone did break in, would I be able to defend us?

I feel energetic: Did I have too much caffeine? Or am I on the verge of a manic episode?

I’m driving: Is someone going to run a red light and hit me? Am I going to suddenly lose control of my car (or my mind) and drive off a bridge into the river? What if an animal runs out into the road in front of my car?

Even while writing about it my body tenses and my breath shortens. Without reason.

Paranoias are only a side effect. Things feel like they’re falling a part in bits and pieces. Not everything, just bits and pieces. But it’s a matter of time before everything else does comes crashing down and I am in The Place I never want to be because no matter how open-minded and respectful I am about other people’s mental health journeys I can never find it acceptable for me to go there.

I tighten strings to keep all the little things in place.
And ignore frustration bred from futility (none of those little things really matter).
I sit, and wait, and stifle unhappiness that nourishes the paranoias.
And each emotion bleeds into the next. And I can’t figure out anything. And it’s all a massive lump on a hardwood floor–a pile of dirty clothes. And there’s no point to sorting them if they have nowhere to go.

And I’m just here. Stuck. Powerless. Discouraged. Inept.