Yelling at trees is a serial story that is written from the perspective of a fictitious amateur female blogger, Kelsey Whitney, and is published through Instagram, Twitter, Goodreads, and this blog.

Yelling at trees (episode 1)

My sister, the psychologist, says that I should write a blog. She says that it will help me “learn to deal with it,” and that writing “might give me a way to express my inner pain.” What a pejorative way to say that. And anyway, what if I don’t want to “express my inner pain”? And how is sharing my deepest pain with a bunch of complete strangers online any bit healthier than simply taking a walk through Jones’ Creek and just screaming at the top of my lungs?—which is what I told her. But of course to that she said, “Well, fine, go on and scream your head off out in the woods, too, if you think that will help.”

I did. And it didn’t… It just made it so my pre-schoolers couldn’t understand me the next morning, during circle time.

And another thing, “how is writing going to help me ‘learn to deal with it’?” I told her (my sister Ana). Some things you can deal with: you find out you owe back taxes, you pay them; you’re driving back from Fayetteville at midnight and your tire blows, you call for a tow truck. (And it takes them two hours to get there.)

But there are some other things that can’t be dealt with. And when somethings are broken, they’re just broken forever. And no amount of writing to strangers is gonna fix that—there’s no AAA for death.

“I never said it was gonna fix it,” she said. She said it was only supposed to help me learn to deal with it. “I know somethings are broken and they can’t ever come back,” she said. But maybe by writing about it, it’ll help me to “learn to live in the brokenness.” ‘Cause a blog, she says, is more than just a story; it’s a conversation.

And so that’s the story of why I’m writing. There’s a lot more to say, obviously, but I just don’t think I’m at that place yet to talk about it, maybe next time. And you can feel free to leave your comments down at the bottom; and if I don’t answer right away, it’s probably ’cause I’m down at Jones’ Creek, screaming at the trees.

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