K. Alex Walker's Blog, page 19

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Myths, Legends, and Monsters is a new anthology series by Bestselling Author, K. Alex Walker, debuting in late 2019 focusing on mythical Samoan Warriors, African Gods & Goddesses, Greek Monsters…and so much more. Book One will feature Mataio, Polynesian God of the Underworld and Tia Coleman, the woman prophesied to be his ultimate weakness.

Come check me out.

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Do you believe dreams have meaning?

But it’s not necessarily in the prophetic sense. My take on it is, we are all exposed to many of the same symbols. The ocean and the color blue often mean serenity. Green can mean money or jealousy. These symbols are part of our daily life and can be found woven in our favorite pieces of literature.

It would make sense (right?) for the brain to take these same symbols and mold them like Play-Doh while we sleep in order to give them form and function.

The only reason I’m here, typing this post like some sort of existentialist, is because I had a dream last night I can’t figure out, but I feel like it was supposed to be easy to decipher.

The gist of it was—I was somehow chosen, out of a large group of tryouts, to play the role of “Cinderella” in a play. I’d, apparently, tried out because I hadn’t expected to be chosen because of my weight, my infallible shyness, and my horrible memory. Yet, no matter how much I brought this up, no one seemed to believe me. They felt like I was a perfect fit for the role.

The majority of the dream was me having several panic attacks, from major to minor, when I thought about playing the role because I was pretty sure I was going to suck. And, apparently, the play was a big deal.

Now, you see what I mean when I say there’s an obvious message there. Either that or my brain just screamed, “INSECURITIES, I CHOOSE YOU!” Pokemon-style and just tossed everything in a pot and scrambled.

anxiety
(noun)
 
a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome
 
* * * * *
 
Anxiety affects many people. However, many of us, when we think of it, see a room filled with the well-adjusted and cocksure. People who would never and have never doubted themselves, second-guessed themselves, or made a mistake. People who have never so much as taken medication to control the racing thoughts, quell the marching band in their chest, stop the pools of sweat. 
 
But Anxiety Disorder is the most common mental illness in the United States. It affects nearly twenty-percent of the population. That means if you’re out with five friends, at least one of you has anxiety. I’d be willing to bet, statistics aside and delving into realism, at least three of you have it to some varying degree.
 
I have anxiety. I’ve had it so long, it could be argued I was born with it. I am also no stranger to debilitating depression. My anxiety is wrapped up in a little thing called post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of several anvils of trauma having been dropped on my head throughout life. I’ve managed to lift them all–though my chubby arms show no evidence of this–but there are several I still hold above my head. Studies show I might hold them above my head for life.
 
Anxiety and control are like brother and sister. Best friends. Spiritually linked. Anxiety can be in a restful slumber for weeks, days, months…but then it gets that call in the middle of the night. It’s not Jolene, and it sure as hell ain’t Barbara. It’s Control reminding it that it’s time for a panic attack. The thing hasn’t happened -or- maybe it has. Maybe there’s no “thing” at all, just your amygdala staging a coup against your prefrontal cortex (PFC) before Paul Revere has a chance to go on a ride to let the PFC know it’s coming.
 
If I had the solution on how to defeat anxiety (or at least trap it in an effective sleeper hold or Rock Bottom the shit out of it), it wouldn’t still control me as much as it does. My social anxiety has the power of a nuclear weapon, and I never went to school to figure out how to disarm it. I mean, I could have, but then it gave me test anxiety and doubt and made me fear people until I switched majors.
 
Do not let it convince you that you are alone. The Anxiety and Depression Society of America also has some helpful as hell tips to keep you centered when anxiety has you by the ankles and the cliff has come into view. What has helped and is helping me is identifying my triggers. Hidden triggers are what makes the little bug so effective at what it does–a smell, a face, a temperature and you’re in panic mode before you know it.
 
Also, keep in mind, taking medication or talk-therapy (or both) is normal and healthy. I was on anxiety medication for about four years. My goal has always been to try at life without them, and I am currently working on that, but that doesn’t have to be your goal. Listen to your body; it is very user-friendly. Even in a crowded room, in the most silent meeting you have ever attended, it will gurgle to let you know danger is coming, growl to let the world know it’s hungry.
 
All in all, please take care of yourself, and know you have a safe space here, with me, a fellow warrior. Just don’t call me. It’ll kill me.
 

For a limited time, you’ll be able to download a copy at whatever price point you choose.

Click the book cover

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xoxo,

Alex

#giomo

She reached for the door handle, but the door was suddenly pushed open. Mo smelled him before she saw him—spice, lemon, bergamot. Armani Code. Then, he stepped into the entryway.

As if he’d smelled her too, his eyes were already on hers. 
 His name slipped and tumbled from her mouth. “Gio?”


“Bez.” He cocked his head to the side as if something suddenly dawned on him. “Privet.”

[image error] Photo by slugette via DeviantArt

Hi everyone! There’s been a slight delay with the publisher today, but I’ll be staying on top of it to make sure the minute it’s released, you guys know. I apologize for the inconvenience. Rest assured, I’m doing everything I can.

Keep your eyes on THIS link.

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REPOST



WHO’S READY?

Pozza took a step toward her.

“Stop.” She tightened her grip on the gun. “Don’t come any closer.”

He didn’t listen. She didn’t lower the gun, but she didn’t shoot. And now, tremors of lust were running through her at the most inopportune time—as she watched death slowly approach until it was just an arm’s length away.

His eyes were so dark, they made the unlit space around them look gray. His hair fell about his face, hanging in thick strands just below his chin, gracing the tops of his shoulders. A slit in his brow was perfectly aligned with a scar on his eyelid and the top of his cheekbone.

“Please.” Her pleas, to her ears, sounded as ferocious as a kitten’s. “Don’t.”

He lifted his hands. She closed her eyes. Her index finger graced the trigger. Then, she heard something tearing.

When she reopened her eyes, Pozza’s dark shirt was gone. Before her stood a beautiful mural disguised as a hard, male body.

“I appreciate you more because of the road I’ve traveled. My story brought me to you and I wouldn’t revise a word of my past if it led me anywhere but to your door.” —Aaron Polson

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