Therapy.... We will write.

I keep telling my Mom that she needs to write, that writing her story will help in the healing of the loss we are all feeling.


I need to follow my own advice..... I will also write.

Nothing planned, no specific topic, just the maddness in my mind flowing to the tips of my fingers.

4,3,2,1......

Mental Note(s)

Another unfinished piece I found while going through my folder so cleverly titled as "WRITE" One day I will finish some of the stuff in here, well there.....



Mental Note(s)


Mental Note(s) chronicles the struggles of mental illness. What makes my story unique is I wouldn’t receive a diagnosis until late in life, long after the self-destruction and damage had been done.

Looking back on my life I often do find humor in the insanity, but I am somewhat saddened that it wouldn’t be until my late twenties that I would be diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disorder. Bipolar disorder is a serious mental condition, sometimes called manic-depressive disorder causes mood swings that range from of the lows of depression to the highs of mania. When you become depressed, you may feel sad or hopeless and lose interest or pleasure in most activities. When your mood shifts in the other direction, you may feel euphoric and full of energy. Mood shifts may only occur only a few times a year, or as often as several times a day. In some cases, bipolar disorder causes symptoms of depression and mania at the same time.


Part One: Troubled Child

At a very young age I knew that I was far different from the other children in my family, and those who ran the streets of my neighborhood. My emotions were extreme and my thought process somewhat advanced and considerable dark. As a little girl I would often seek sanctuary in the closets of my childhood home in a desperate attempt to escape to absolute silence.

My moods would shift quickly and without warning. In one moment I am captivating my audience with playful humor and silly antics and in the next I am filled with such a sense of sadness. Sadness as I curled up in a tiny crawl space between the redbrick’s and evergreen shrub, my auburn hair tousled, in other moments I seem to have been struck with lighting as my little hands would work quickly to color the pages of a coloring book, careful not to break through the bold black line.

I would be seven years old when my first poem of darkness flowed to the wide lined paper, the execution of each letter perfectly placed within the blue lines. As the years passed I would fill spiral bound notebooks, folders and Trapper Keepers with tortured tales and random twisted thoughts, however within the pages of death, heartbreak and emotionally turmoil occasionally a poem of sun filled skies, love and humor would break like the dawn through a blackened sky.

Teachers and School authorities would often bring up some concern is to my behavior, whether it was my boisterous outbursts or my attempts to seek out pure isolation. They had no idea is to the chaos that wrapped my mind. I would often be sent to the counselor’s office where I would be encouraged to speak of my feelings, feelings that would change from day to day, moment to moment. By the time I reached 6th grade the insanity seemed to go through the same growth spurt that I was going through and the hormonal change that was going on inside my body seemed to feed the disorder. Day after day I would be led to the office due to an emotional outburst or some other emotionally charged situation, tardiness or my completely missing class because between my home and school the illness would take control and I would seek out the same sanctuary once found in closets of our home in the trees of Lions Park. It would be these journeys down the long tile hallway to the office that would eventually brand me as the “Troubled Child”



Part Two: Masquerade

I would be 12 years of age and in the 6th grade at Grandview Elementary School when I learned that whatever had taken residence in my head could not be understood by others, I knew that I had to pretend, mask the madness if you will. The earlier branding as the “Troubled Child” would assist in my deception. This would be the beginning of a life long struggle and Masquerade.

Number 6-Memoirs of the Red Brick House

The year 1970 something, my floors are a patchwork of vinyl and brown shag carpet. Five little ones would enter under my roof prior to number six, but in order to understand the reason for my having the ability to share their stories it requires my jumping years forward to when number six was roughly four years of age.

There on the living room floor in a sliver of light she laid, her auburn hair tousled across the shag. Her hand reaching into the air, her little finger twisting and turning at the shimmers of dust that the sunlight cast through the orange colored curtain. The despair and sadness that filled me grew stronger as a rage filled the heart of the figure they called “Dad”. Often the curtains were drawn and the doors shut as though they were attempting to keep the contents of me from spilling out. As number six laid mesmerized by the dancing flicks of dust she would push her lips tightly together and hum a soft tune that would be broken by a giggle. Her nose would scrunch causing her freckles to disappear, she would squirm and pull as though there was another little one lying beside her tickling and disrupting her tune. She would turn toward my window that was dressed in orange and beige and begin to mumble. The noise from the surrounding houses would for a moment capture my attention when her clear words of what appeared to be a conversation between two individuals would quickly draw me back to her wondering if one of the other numbers had quietly snuck in while I was distracted with the neighborhood fuss. But I would find her still laying there alone, now on her side, her dark brown eyes piercing the sunlight as her little mouth spoke “I don’t know why, it just is” as her hand reached out in front of her as to comfort someone or something. “I have to be here, you don’t” she continued. Her attention would be broke by the footsteps of number 5 running toward the screen door. “You get to go now” she whispered. She quickly jumped to her feet and headed down the hall way.

I had watched five before her age from infancy, none of them quite so as intriguing and entertaining as number six. This little one’s demeanor would change rapidly, in one moment she would be grasping the attention of the others with her silly antics and charm to seeking a quiet sanctuary in my closets. I would watch, at times confused as she appeared to be trying to entertain of what I thought at the time was an empty room. I would watch as she would pull her covers up over her head to hide from that in which she feared. I watched...

”… Memoirs of the Red Brick House a work in progress by Rainee Baldwin

Memoirs of the Red Brick House tells the story of those who resided in its walls. Based on my life and my recollection of events this story will touch on subjects of religion, depression, substance abuse, and mental illness but it will also take you on a journey into the imagination of our youth, the clever genius seven little ones used to escape their reality, and the love and loyalty of a family that faced adversities and hardships that would crumble the foundations of many.

Follow along as I post the Memoirs of the Red Brick House…..

420 Characters

I have been expressing myself in 420 characters on a social networking site for a little over a year now when today a friend suggested that I start a blog.

As I began to type my heart raced, the sweat beaded on my brow. My mind channeled thoughts and the words flowed from my core to my fingers, pecking the keyboard sending the insanity from my head to the screen in front of me. Slowly, I pecked, afraid; looking back at the words as though I was being chased. The anxiety of selecting the “Post” option only to see the box appear denying my ability to share, telling me that I had exceeded the maximum 420 characters. The emotion of having to back track, rearranging a thought that had been random, abbreviating words that no one should ever abbreviate, slaughtering the English language and my heart felt ramblings, poems or birthday wishes to adhere to the 420 character limit. As the paragraph grew so did the feeling of unease.

Gently my hand reached for the mouse, my heart once again racing. With the slightest move I laid my palm to rest on the device, my fingers clutched it delicately. Slowly, with the precision of a sober surgeon I rested the flashing arrow on the “Publish Post” my tongue rolled from my mouth moistening my lips, my eyes closed tightly, I inhaled… and CLICK!