There are thoughts in my mind. My current state of mind. What I’m thinking, what I’m feeling is a consequence of the relationships I share with the world. I believe photographs have the power to depict what words simply just cannot. Moreover it’s a way to exhibit and project the thoughts in my mind. I have never felt better than expressing my mind in my photographs, as it makes me come to terms with myself, gives me a visual representation of what I’m feeling which comforts me. My only hope is that somewhere it does the same for someone else.

Expression is an expulsion of the self, sense of being, and a freedom to live, so here I am ready to express myself.

I am a human, and I am flawed. There is both light that is elicited from my bright and eager smiles, exposed from the volume of a careless laugh and exemplified in the tender expressions of love that radiate among my friends and I, but there is also a darkness. There is a darkness that gnaws at the crevices of my core, excited to discover any routes of escape. A darkness that overflows as it seeps through engagements of sadness and disparity. This darkness releases itself in waves of sadness or episodes of lavish rage. Remember I am a human and I am flawed.

I am my own destruction as I am my own foundation.

I am an entity of love just as I am constructed out of the most paramount forms of rage and despair. I am pure, but I am also as tainted as they come. I am loved, fetishized, desired, and revered just as I am hated, berated, slandered and ostracized.

To describe myself would simply be to state that I am a balance of right and wrong, of love and hate, of humanity and wilder.

There may be days that I want to cry a sorrow so deep and so wide that bewilders my spirit by its very thought, but there are days that my core rises afloat, illuminating my body and crawling through the creases of my mouth exposing a laugh or exposed grin.

I would like to express my entirety to all of you, its thick, tarnished poisons, its luminous explicit bliss, and its testifying fury. I would like to express my hatred of the demonizing enemy to my expression and to my very being, to indifference.

Indifference is the murderer, indifference is the culprit, and indifference is the one whom is praised, empowered and favored.

But what about love, what about a purity seemingly so far fetched as it is craved by any and every single being. It is the magnificence of love and its mystical lucidity that should be boasted about as opposed to the frigid and vile behavior of indifference.

I scowl at the ridicule inhabiting my mind as I ponder upon the indifference of a past lover, who dimmed my light as his shadow grew with every pittance of my unrequited love. Darkness so wild and strong submerged me in episodes of sadness and grief. How intense a feeling to bestow upon myself, a mind so dimmed and dampened, but so juvenile in thought and dare I say, existence.

“I do not care” is the birthplace of a monster, the castration of the feeling of warmth and tenderness that is love. How foolish it is to minimize your feelings, your emotions, and foundations just to emit a veil of dark energy throughout a world already filled with turmoil and evil, but then again you are ‘indifferent’, and you lack the ability to feel or to express.

Express yourself, express your love, and express your light.

To the friends that have entwined me in golden raptures of sweet bliss, I love you. To past friends, whom ponder on my image in pitch darkness, I wish you the best and I hope to have bestowed you with pride and the ability of growth and expression.

To a faint past lover, thank you for teaching me under your shadowed wings, thank you for teaching me that I must love myself first, and thank you for shrouding me in gloomy darkness in order for me recollect pieces of myself and place them together to build a stronger core and a greater capacity to love, to feel.

To all of you, you have the power to piece me together, to shape my memory and mind by the memories we have created together. Thank you to all and thank you for expression.

(Written by Matt Gillick)

Crooner, fashion icon, writer, actor, poet, alien. David Bowie’s passing at 69 comes as not only a shock to me but to millions of fans.

I remember being a high school freshman, a friend was driving me home after a particularly rough day. Some guys repeatedly called me ‘faggot’ throughout the afternoon. No reason, they just started calling me that. I didn’t retaliate, I just took the verbal blows ‘like a bitch,’ using their words. Petty high school bullshit, it still hurt though. I’m thankful it only lasted a week.

I was feeling sorry for myself, dejected, nearly crying until I heard on the stereo: ‘Ground control to Major Tom’ amidst an echoing acoustic guitar and a space-age chord providing a drawn out moan. That moment, that song, melted away my sadness and transported my mind to serenity.

I was hooked. I became a disciple of Bowie.

I guess you could say he got me through high school, along with The Sex Pistols, The Doors, and The Who.

Being so hard to put into words, Bowie’s legacy looking from the outside in seems like a hundred different lifetimes confusedly rolled into one. His reckless abandon in going against the norm whether it was appearing as the androgynous Ziggy Stardust: challenging the constraints of sexuality and gender roles, as 1980s pop-star performing alongside the likes of Mick Jagger and Freddie Mercury, or portraying an alien in the now-iconic cult-film The Man Who Fell to Earth; Bowie never faltered from what he wanted his own artistic vision to be.

In other words, he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.

He challenged the common conventions and never played safe. If you don’t believe me then check out his role in Jim Henson’s odd-ball classic Labyrinth. It’s funny, awkward, creepy…and it’s fantastic.

Not only were his personas rightfully memorable his music was unlike anything we have ever heard before or since. Sure, there are some adequate emulators like Kanye and Gaga but never quite at the level of Bowie. Just listen to the operatic poppy jazz riffs all combined within the classic ‘Young Americans’ or the odd, voice-bending masterpiece single that is ‘Fame.’

Many of Bowie’s songs were so ahead of their time genres hadn’t yet been conceived to categorize them.

If you listen to ‘Suffragette City’ the aggressive chord-play and that angst-ridden, manic chorus was punk at its core years prior to the Sex Pistols, arguably the first punk-rock band, getting together.

Another great quality of Bowie was that he never stopped working in whatever medium caught his fancy. Even at the end of his life he released his latest studio album Blackstar that will surely go down as a work of art. I have yet to give it a listen but most definitely will, peppering the playlist with other classics; reliving the Golden Years of my former (kind of) conflicted, confused, rebellious adolescence.

What Bowie did for so many people like myself was to see the possibility of self-expression, the impact that one voice can have on others if they choose to not be afraid. He took the power of his voice, the flare in his mannerisms, and started a cultural revolution that was constantly reinventing itself. If any of us could live up to a fraction of what he was able to do with his viewpoints, his expression, and his vision, then we could shine brighter than any star Ziggy dared to wander.

On a more personal level, his music did not make me feel like I was a boy sitting in a tin can, far above the earth. He made me feel as if I was connected to a possibility of reaching a point within myself. Where I could connect with others, showing them that oddities are not flaws but qualities. I am sad he is gone but what a life he lived. I wish you Godspeed, Mr. Bowie.

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Joining Wish Dish and taking part in our movement to connect the world in a meaningful way gives you the opportunity to create lasting relationships that never would have been created. Not only do we want you to be vocal by telling your story, but we encourage you to be vocal with us. We, the creators of Wish Dish, value your thoughts, so speak up! Tell your story. Give us feedback. You matter.

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Wish Dish aims to be the perfect home for the important stories of every chapter of your life story. We will connect you to similar community members automatically based on what you write, and based on your interests. Be it to musicians, creators, athletes, or professionals, you write your story and we will connect you. We aim to connect you both locally to the relatable individual down the road, or globally to your soul mate across the world.

We have big plans, so hang out and take a look around. We can’t do it without you.

To find out more about the personal story behind the platform, please visit Catalyst for Creation.

(Written by Anonymous)

Author’s Note: My recount of experiencing a panic attack is not a general model that all sufferers of panic disorder experience. Panic attacks can occur at any time and the triggers and signs of a panic attack are unique to each person experiencing one. However, many people have trouble describing what it’s like to experience a panic attack after it’s over. People who have never experienced a panic attack often wonder what’s “really happening” in someone’s head during a panic episode. I wrote this to answer that question: to show what’s happening in my head during a live panic attack.

10:00am

In bed. I need to get out of bed. I’ve been in bed all morning and I have so much I need to do. I need to put in my transfer application; I need to rewrite my resume; I need to check my email. But I’m so warm and comfortable and safe in bed. I don’t want to leave this comfortable, safe haven. I can wait a little longer…

11:30am

In bed. I really need to get out of bed. I’m starving and I need to pee. Fine, I’ll get up. I just don’t feel good: my stomach hurts, my back hurts, my head hurts, it all hurts. But I don’t want to stop feeling safe and comfortable. But… ok I’m getting up, I’ve really got to pee now.

11:35am

Bathroom. Alright, come on girl. Just wash your hands, brush your hair. Ugh, my teeth are disgusting. And I’m breaking out again. I swear, I don’t get why people say I’m pretty; all of these zits are disgusting. I don’t think it would make much of a difference if the zits weren’t there. Why would anyone think I’m pretty? Zit-faced, overweight, out of shape, small boobs; I don’t even want to show my face in public. People will know as soon as they look at me; they’ll know I’m screwed up, they’ll never help me. Why would anyone help someone like me? No one would bother helping me; they’ll just watch as I get yelled at again.

11:45am

Kitchen. Cereal: check. Milk: check. Coffee: check. I should check my email…I haven’t checked it in three weeks. How many emails do I have? Don’t think about that. I bet the statuses of those job applications are in, I should probably check to see if…Why would they give me a job? I screwed up college, I don’t even have an official degree yet, I look disgusting. They’ll just be rejections anyway, like all the others. And there’s probably a ton of other emails I have to answer. I don’t want to see that number on my inbox; I can’t look at it. If I see that number I’ll know just how much a failure I am. Why do I even need to see that number? I already know I’m a failure.

12:20pm

Dining room with laptop. Ok, I can do this. I need to put in my transfer application. Put in contact information, done. Income and taxes, done and done. College credits completed…crap. I don’t want to know.

I have to pull up my school’s student portal and look at my grades to find out how many credits I’ve finished. All those B’s and C’s and two F’s, and so many class withdrawals. I can’t see those grades again; they’re just proof that I’m a failure and I can’t even take a freaking class and do well. And withdrawing from everything last semester…that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t had him as a professor. He was so scary; he was just like her…No, stop! Don’t think about her, don’t do it. She’s in the past, just click save and go take a shower. Yeah, a shower will help.

1:00pm

In the shower. Breathe in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. In, two, three… It feels really small in here. Maybe if I open the curtain a little bit that’ll help, but then I could get hurt. If I open the curtain the water will get all over the floor.

Mom will be mad and she’ll yell; I can’t risk that. I can’t get yelled at, not again. I’ll get hit if I get yelled at. Everyone already knows I’m a loser and a failure and ugly; don’t yell at me because of that! I can’t breathe, I can’t, she’s going to hit me again, he’s going to yell. Sit down girl, just sit down, head between your knees like you learned in first aid training.

I’m not safe, they’re going to hurt me, they’re going to yell – *A gray-haired severe looking woman wields a hardcover textbook as I struggle to find the words. What was the question again? What do I like to do? “Me gusta… me gusta bailar, no, baila, no. Me, me gusta.. bailo?” Her face contorts, she walks to my desk, raising the textbook. “Repita!” I can’t remember how to start, what did I even say? “Me… yo no sé.” I see the book coming – SMACK. My head spins, I can’t stop the tears. “Repita!” I just cry harder, I can’t speak. “Repita!” More tears, everyone’s watching, I can’t move my mouth, I can’t even move my tongue, why doesn’t someone do something? SMACK. I can’t see, I can’t breathe, please God – SMACK.* Stop thinking about that! Just breathe in, breathe out. You’re just sitting in the shower breathing, it’s all ok, you’re ok. I breathe in; how long am I supposed to count for?

Do I count for breathing in or breathing out? Or both? Oh God, please help me, don’t let her hurt me! I need to get out, I need to get somewhere safe. If I stay here she’ll find me, she’ll make me cry in front of everyone, she’ll make me stay after everyone leaves like before, no one will be watching, no one can keep me safe. I need to get somewhere safe…

1:15pm

In bed. Breathe in, and out. Breathe in, and out. I’m safe here. It’s warm, no one can hurt me if I’m in bed. My chest hurts; am I having a heart attack? No, no I can’t be, that’s ridiculous. Just calm down. I don’t know how to be calm. All I can do is panic; they’re just going to hurt me again. Where are those pills for panic episodes? It says take one…but I feel like my world is ending and I won’t feel like this if I’m asleep. I’ll just take two. I wonder how many it would take for me to never feel like this again…

5:30pm

In bed. It’s so much darker than it was before. What time is it? 5:30pm. I just want to stay here forever…I haven’t done anything I was supposed to do. Nothing. Mom is going to be so mad; I’m just a useless lump at home that costs money and I’m too scared to even open my laptop and try to find a job. I don’t want her to yell; I hate that. I don’t want to screw up, I don’t want to be a failure. But if I stay in bed, I’ll be safe. I can’t get hurt if I’m in bed, under warm blankets.

6:15pm

Living room. I hate that I have to get out of bed to get food. I don’t want to eat; I can’t even finish this orange. My stomach hurts so much, I feel like I’m going to be sick. It sucks that I’m starving at the same time. Wait, that’s the garage door. Mom’s home. Crap, I haven’t done anything. She’s going to ask, she’s going to get mad, she’s going to yell. She’s coming up the stairs.”Hi sweetheart. How was your day?’ I can’t breathe, my vision blurs. I can’t do it, I can’t answer, she’s going to think I’m such a failure. “Sweetie, are you ok?” It’s coming, she’s going to yell because I fail to do anything right.

I can’t even check my email because all it shows is a number saying I’m a good-for-nothing failure. No one can help me, no one understands. I can’t even taking a damn shower without bursting into tears and streaking back to bed.

She’s using her sharp voice now: “Sweetie, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” I can’t do it. She’s going to yell, when she finds out I didn’t do anything; she’s going to call me out just like he did. In front of everyone watching, making sure I know just how little I’m worth; just let me have the illusion that I’m worth something for God’s sake! I know I’m a pathetic failure but let me pretend I’m someone worthwhile! Don’t yell at me, don’t – *He’s asking me a question about the homework.

I have no clue, I spent last night studying for last class’ test. “I didn’t do the reading.” He looks at me, unsurprised. “Well then, you aren’t prepared for class. Shouldn’t you leave so you don’t keep your classmates behind with your negligence?” I just sit and stare; I don’t know what to say. Am I even supposed to say anything? He looks at me and says, “I think any student who fails to complete the required homework shouldn’t be allowed to take a class where others’ work hard to learn; do you agree with that?”

I keep staring. Do I agree with that?

Of course not! Everyone said before he walked into class that none of us had done the reading; why is he singling me out? “You haven’t shown any inclination to put any effort into this class at all. I think that someone like you who only cares about finding a husband in college should drop my class. I only teach students who have something worthwhile to offer to the world, and you clearly need to learn a few lessons from them.”

My jaw drops, the tears well up. “Professor, I just- “What? I don’t need to hear your pathetic excuses! If you had done the work you might have had the chance to earn a B in my class; not many girls are willing to take a class this challenging and I think we can all see why from your poor example.” I start crying as I look around at my classmates; they’re all looking back at me silently. No one’s going to stand up to him, no one’s going to report him, not even the one other girl in the class. “I’m – I’m sorry…” “You’re disrupting this class. If you’re going to be this emotional you should drop this class and see a therapist. Although based on the effort you obviously put into the necessary work, you should drop this class anyway.”

I have to escape the yelling, I can’t sit here and be a target for all of this.

No one will help me, no one will believe me, just like with her… no one will ever help me. I can’t breathe, I’m literally choking as my tears fall in my mouth. He gets up and opens the door. I can’t go near him without knowing…there it is, he left his textbook on the table. He’s not holding it. If I run he won’t have time to hurt me. I get my backpack and run. I can’t ever see him again.

He’s right. I’m just a failure and it doesn’t matter how hard I try; I’ll never stop being a failure.* I start crying and shaking; I’m not safe. I can’t feel my legs, I can’t get somewhere safe. Mom is going to yell, she’s coming closer. God please help me, please dear God help me, I can’t have her yell at me, I can’t handle this, please God! She knows I didn’t get anything done today, she knows I’m a failure, she’s coming closer just to yell at me even louder, God protect me please! Mom comes over and sits next to me.

I’m shaking, I’m crying, I want to be strong but I just can’t, I can’t handle her disappointment. I’m in trouble, I need to be in bed, I’m not safe, I’m never safe where they can find me. She envelops me in a warm hug. “It’s ok sweetheart, it’s going to be ok.” I shake even more. “I love you.” I crack. Those words mean I’m not alone. They mean that those people can never hurt me again.

They mean that I’m finally safe.

(Written by Ashleigh Shay)

When I first wrote On The Sidelines I was nervous. Bryan contacted me more or less a day after I published my first post on my blog.

That was the first time I was posting personal writing on a public platform. Then he asked me to do the same on his website. And this time it was a story about me, not just things that were going on around me.

Once I sat down to write the words flowed out of me so fast I knew I must have been all over the place. Although after I read it over it made as much sense on the screen as it did in my head.

That was a gratifying and terrifying thought.

It meant I was competent and people we’re actually going to read a story about me. That made me vulnerable, something I don’t like being. But I mustered up all the courage that I could and I hit “submit.”

I linked the story to my blog and from then it was like. Looking back at some statistics, 17 people read the story on my blog. However I’m unsure how many people read it on The Wish Dish. Either way, it made me feel confident about my writing.

I hope that freshmen in college or even just those who want to work in the world of sports have benefitted from my post. I was a regular freshman whose goal was to get on the field of the game. Luck came my way and here I am two years later and I have had field access for every home game.

I’m a big believer that everything happens for a reason and you have to work for what you want. I was at the right place at the right time to get me started. But I have worked my butt off since then to make a statement.

My job is early mornings, long days and late hours. I love every since second of it. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have made it past the second football game last season.

You know those 12 o’clock kick-offs? While the rest of you are getting up at 8 am I’m already at the football stadium. It’s not an easy life but it’s one that I’ve chosen. I hope what I wrote last spring has inspired others to do the same.

It doesn’t have to do with sports and it doesn’t have to be in college. It can be anything and anytime. The purpose of me sharing my story was to accomplish two things.

The first one was to put myself out there. To be come comfortable with others reading something very personal. It was like publishing part of myself.

The second thing was to show people that if you are determined, you want something, and work hard for it, that you will get it. I had no idea how I was going to obtain what I wanted in the beginning. But I gave up weekends and nights out in order to get it. I love what I do. I hope others will one day too.