I started publishing stories on Medium in February 2021, and with my forever-growing content, a kind of index was needed. I found that in the list feature on Medium, which makes it easy for you too to browse my postings: https://marierebelle.medium.com/lists
Other places you can find me are:
In 2012 I chose ‘Marie Rebelle’ as my pseudonym — my pen name. The name fitted me like a glove, so much so, that I added the initial of my birth name to it, and became Marie A. Rebelle.
Up to 2012, I used several different pen names, the last one being ‘Rebel’, which for years had been my handle in online chat rooms. When I chose Marie Rebelle as a pen name, I wanted the ‘Rebel’ to be reflected in there, and the name Marie fitted so perfectly with my given name, that the name just felt like me…
It’s been a while since I had last been to the coach — Nelle — because of my husband’s operation, her holiday and then me being on opiates and not allowed to drive.
I was more than ready to see her again, to continue our talks. I also had a lot of questions… doubts. After our last session, where we spoke about guilt, questions continuously crossed my mind: How am I going to apply what she ‘teaches’ me in my daily life? How is it going to help me?
A smile crossed her face when she entered the bedroom, seeing him looking at her from where he sat in his recliner. She was about to go to the other side of the bed, but he — Paul — held her back, grabbing the fabric of her skirt to stop her.
“Hey, come on!” Carry said, with a half-smile, but also with some irritation shining through in her voice. She was tired and wanted to go to bed.
“On your knees!”
“Pa-a-au-ul,” she moaned his name in dismay, “I’m tired.” She cried out in pain before she fully realized what…
The man on the stool in the corner of the bar smelled of beer and oil as I sat down next to him, but he didn’t even notice me. No one else paid him any attention, and his only went out to the glass in front of him. His shoulders slumped forward; his head bowed. He was in his own world.
With only the wall on his other side, the only way for him to leave the pub was to pass behind me. I ordered a glass of red wine, and when I retrieved my phone from my purse, I…
I was born in 1967, the first child to my parents — my father twenty-five, my mom was only nineteen years old. I doubt at the moment they held me, the thought had crossed their minds only about seventeen years later, they would become grandparents.
Three months before I turned seventeen, my daughter was born. I fell pregnant that very first time I had sex before I could even begin to understand the stupidity of my thoughts.
Abortion was not an option, neither was giving my child up for adoption. …
What would you do if your child disappears without any trace? To anyone who is a parent, no matter how old your children are now, this is a horror scenario. Imagine a child of only two years old, one moment sitting in her buggy, inside the house, and the next she’s gone. No matter how hard you search, no matter how many people are looking for her. She’s gone.
When lockdowns started, and my stress levels were too high — these two were unrelated — I was recommended to listen to audiobooks. I took the advice, and literally got hooked…
She’s onto me. The coach — let’s call her Nelle — she gets me. When the opportunity arose to see a coach, I jumped at it, desperately needing someone to talk to.
During our third session, I admitted to Nelle that before coming to her, I had been thinking about going back to the psychologist who helped me when I collapsed the year after my mom passed away. One thing constantly kept me from contacting her. One thought going round and round in my mind.
You see, I know I keep people at a distance. When they come too close…
I know this isn’t true.
I know he’s not there, but still I feel his eyes on me.
Angry eyes. Sad eyes. Eyes filled with his own pain. Pain he needs to work through, but lacks the emotional bandwidth to do so.
Eighteen months ago he was strong. He had structure in his life. A job, tending to his house where by then he had lived for six months, cooking for himself, caring for himself. I was so proud of him. I knew he could do this, even at times when I wondered if he ever would.
Ten months ago…
There is one specific song, that when I hear it, I always think of my father. With my mom, it’s different. When I want to link her to a song, I cannot choose only one.
As I sat thinking about one song that always makes me think of my mom, nothing specific came to mind. I think if you ask my children the same question about me, they will also not be able to mention only one song. Just like my mom did, I love many different kinds of music, from classical to rock and many genres in between.