Author Aija Monique Butler, was born in San Diego California, in 1979. She currently resides in the San Francisco Bay area where she is a student of Medicine pursing a graduate degree in Healthcare Management. She is an Advocate and Philanthropist for non-profit program development in the areas of Youth and Social Service Development. She is a grant writer and holds an extensive background in Psychology and has a host of medical certifications. Aija has a love for the arts and is a writer of poetry both fiction and non-fiction novels and memoirs.

Aija Butler is the Author of the Fiction Mystery Suspense Drama, My Nemesis a book series, Non-Fiction Memoirs, “Life Honestly After, The Undeniable Truth,” and “The Rebirth of My Soul,” an intimidate look at her walk with illness, sharing her journey through recovery and independence. She is also the Poet/Songstress of the Poetic Experience, My Butterfly Effect, and Non-Fiction Poetic Memoirs, In the Mourning.

Latest works involve freelance article writing,and an album of musical and poetic memoirs. Aija also looks to put together her first script and plans to release three new books in the year 2012. Look out for this creative genious she is taking on the world of creative arts by storm.

Friday, October 29, 2010

The Twitter Experiment, "The Truth and Nothing But..."

So I wanted to find out what the big deal was with this Twitter business. I set up an account months ago but I had yet to test out its true function. With all the opposing social networking sites I got confused to tell you the truth. I am a working mother, with whom just started a new career. I am in school, and dealing with terminal disease. My mind is on its way out the door. So you can imagine my thoughts on all these sites for dating and networking your business as they say.

Google me…” I think that is such a cute line. Be careful you may want to type in your name and check that out. You never know what your nemesis will exploit. So any who. I decided to conduct a small experiment with Twitter. Face book was no good. All my friends were persons I actually knew, and I wasn’t that bold yet. I wanted to vent yes. I wanted to talk trash, yes. But I wanted to do it where the opinions were non-biased.

Venting to strangers is always a breath of fresh air, for all party’s considered. The person venting doesn’t expect much just for a good listener, or shoulder to cry on. Perhaps a oh or wow, here and there; but never a solution. The listener, has no real pressure. All he or she is there for is an ear, and adlib, when necessary. Comments are welcome, as well. Its not like you know the people right?

Would you believe my publisher approved such garbage? Such a gamble on the exploitation of someone’s life. I can. Who doesn’t love a good scandal.? As long as their dirt isn’t dished. Many will sit back and say that I have completely lost my mind. Perhaps, this is an attempt at social suicide. A cry for help. Maybe you’re right. I’d just ask that you have mercy on me since I’m technically a sickly woman and reduce your urge to throw rocks to perhaps the use of cherry tomatoes or rice. I thought that was funny.

So it began. My quest for release. A chance to take up some group counseling to render the pain of depression and uncertainty. I felt as if my head was about to explode. I made an appointment to see my mental health doctor. Just my luck, it was canceled the day before the appointment was set. That’s the county for you.

So there I was with an old pill bottle that had 2 refills left on them. I didn’t feel much like being sedated. I was too blah. What ever happens, happens sort of attitude. I felt like I had been a victim of a bad batch of botox. Not pretty at all people. I couldn’t smile, laugh, or show emotions of anger and sadness.

A resolution was in order. I thought why not tweet my issues. Everyone does. They tell either what’s on their minds, or dinner menu, who looks best or worst on the red carpet, and bad mouthed whom ever they so wished. It wasn’t a fashion show or popularity contest. Everyone was invited to tell what they were up to. So I decided to take 7 days of my life and do just that.

Tweet! Tweet for 7 days 100 tweets a day, exploiting my thoughts and happenings of my day. Whether embarrassing or contrary to popular opinion, I would tweet the truth and nothing but.

During which time I would journal my thoughts, see if writing out my issues help to rectify some of them. By my venting to the public about my problematic mental instability, I could get to the bottom of what was really bothering me. I could be going through the emotions of accepting my illness. I fight daily with this notion. For If I surrender and accept my fate. I admit to defeat. I’d rather live in denial. I am worried about my children, their well-being. What happens after I’m gone. My husband is saddened. He lives in fear. He never sleeps. I am a burden to him, if only he would admit to this he could leave and heal before he grows to hate me.

The twitter experiment was my only out. I am the cure to this disease. Writing my thoughts must be my voice of reason. I make this plan to use twitter as members of my group therapy session, my peers. Once strangers and mere cyber associates will become my friends. The friends I will now entrust with my deepest and darkest secrets. To be judged or not to be judged. I plunge forward. Mentally unstable, battered and bruised by disease. Haunted by the dreams of loosing my career, life and husband. I am loosing my mind, but not without a fight.

My true nemesis is me. So long I have fought with my fear of success, by stifling my own abilities. Today I know that it is truly my fear of failure that inhibits my growth. My heart beats fast when I am under stress, My blood pressure rises when I come too close success. The eyes bring forth fear, the eyes that may rest upon me, as I am responsible. You see how disoriented I am? How disheveled my thoughts and mind state? My children may kill me before this disease does.

My stress may be do the same. At home I am in constant battle with my conscience. I speak to God often. The thoughts that I ponder tend to focus on my future, and how my life may be ending soon. It is this fear that causes me to false start. I rush my goals, and get flustered when they fail at first try. Frustration is nurtured when I express my doubt to friends and family. They tend to stir the pot, and bring my fears to a boil. Thus I sit and lie to myself about how I truly feel. I say that I am ok. That I could care less about the put downs others spew. When words of comfort and guidance, is needed there is nothing. Nothing but the quiet winds against my back. As if left out in the dead of winter, freezing in the cold of night.

Day one begins soon. The Twitter Experiment, The Truth and nothing but….

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