Archive for September, 2015

I am a mother. Biologically and physically. Mentally and in practice. I cradle the deflated and distended flesh were my babes once grew. I bear the perpetual markings of crusted handprints on my pant legs and snot dried on my shoulder. I sacrifice for my children: sleep, time, my body, my space as my bank accounts bleed dry. I smile bigger than I knew I could. I weep out of joy and astonishment. I feel the love for them in my bone marrow.

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I am a lover, a life partner. I am the teenager he met at a keg party and the woman who birthed his children. I am beneath him saying “I love you” and beside him holding his hand at her funeral. I am rolling my eyes in rage as I throw out one more bicker; I am laughing uncontrollably as he pinches my hip bone. I am awash with gratitude as I watch him play with our children. I am lost without him and stronger because of him.

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I am a tormented writer, slave to the page, victim of the word. I have a million characters living and breathing inside of me, crowding my consciousness, fogging up my brain with their writhing heat. I dissolve and disappear into other worlds, vanish into stories untold and lives unlived. I belong to my twisted imagination, both persecuted and enlightened by its sharp edge. I carve out chunks of my soul and bind them in a file, tossing them out and asking strangers to buy and love them as I did.

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I am bipolar. I am the depression that makes me want to open a vein; I am the mania that makes me feel like an unchained heart. I am bliss and agony. I am the swirling dance between two minds, a refugee left traveling between two fleeting worlds. I am emotions amplified, perceptions distorted, self turned enemy. I am beautiful suffering and painful happiness. I am artfully crazy.

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I am a runner. I am the pavement beneath shoes. I am the panting breath and relentless sweat. I am the exertion of the body against the protest of the mind. I am the stubbornness to keep going, one more mile, one more stride. I am the float disconnecting brain from body. I am the endorphins to breed sanity. I am the trial, the accomplishment, the addiction.

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I am a dancer. I am the music in my hips, the melody manifest in my bones. I am sealed lips and active flesh. I am expression and freedom. I am confidence in a scandalous costume above of an audience. I am the ferocity to mangle choreography before a crowd, with a smile. I am lost in the beat. I am transient of the sound. I am reduced and concentrated down into movement.

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I am savage. I am the base and ugly core. I am the reality and the desperation. I am the decision between you and me, the line between us and them. I am fight and flight. I am selfish and self-serving. I am ultimate priority. I am survival at all costs.

I am the tattooed and pierced freak. I am the orange hair and the black clothes. I am a high school goth floundering through professional adulthood. I am my inner darkness on the outside. I am questing to show myself as different. I am the art on my body, the pieces of my mind drilled into the flesh. I am the socially condoned pain and body modification. I am the struggle to find the outside expression of the inside brain.

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I am an eating disorder. I am an obsession with food, a fixation on numbers. I am the weight on the scale, the inches on the tape measure, the calories in my last meal. I am the compulsive tracking of every workout. I am hours spent in the mirror poking at unsatisfactory skin. I am the demon in the back of my brain, never satisfied. I am the perception distortion in my eyes. I am the insecurity.

I am a dreamer. I am belief and possibility. I am ideal and ambition. I am the forecast of the mind, the silver lining in the pain. I am lost in the world at night, a prisoner of the subconscious musings of my sleep. I am reaching out past reality, stretching into the alternative. I am seeing something else.

I am a child. I am still that child and that teenager from decades ago. I am still small, overwhelmed and confused by the world. I still call out for my mother when I am sick, my father when something is broken. I long to find shelter under that wing of unconditional love. I finally see that I never knew anything all along as I shunned the older and wiser voices pleading advice to my closed ears. I now see that my parents knew everything and that I remain their ignorant child.

I am horror. I am the darkness in us all, the hidden crimes, the primal undertones. I am the hairs rising on the back of your neck, the quickened pulse, the shallow breathing, the thin, cold layer of sweat, the blank mind. I am the fear rising up from behind your thoughts, whispering to you in a deeper, more persuasive tongue. I am the exquisite mingling of thrill and panic, the delicate line between entertainment and terror. I am the edge.

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I am everything.
I am nothing.

Christina Bergling

christinabergling.com
facebook.com/chrstnabergling
@ChrstnaBergling
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SavagesCoverChristinaSavages

Two survivors search the ruins of America for the last strain of humanity. Marcus believes they are still human; Parker knows her own darkness. Until one discovery changes everything.

Available now on Amazon!
savagesnovella.com

TheWaning_CoverThe Waning

Beatrix woke up in a cage. Can she survive long enough to escape, or will he succeed at breaking her down into a possession?

Available now on Amazon!
thewaning.com

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(Originally published on MoviePilot.com)

Let’s face it: dating can be horrible. Some might even say that dating is a horror in itself. The endless parade of repeated failed relationships, the perpetually dashed hopes, the awful ways people hurt each other.

My dating life was thankfully brief, though still plenty traumatic. Now, as a spectator to several friends who are currently navigating the single and dating scene, I can say it is not unlike watching a horror movie. Disturbing yet I cannot turn away.

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Here are 10 ways dating can be like a horror movie.

There will be at least one corny line. Probably more.

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From “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” to “How’s this for a wet dream?”, whether in a horror movie or on your first date, someone is going to say something painful stupid. You might smile; you might roll your eyes. Either way, you cannot avoid the cheesy one-liners. And the worse the date or movie, the more corny lines you are going to endure.

Someone always turns into a monster; the suspense is finding out who that is.

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In the beginning, it is all sunshine and roses. This person could be THE ONE. This camp on Crystal Lake could be a delightful summer pastime. My boyfriend isn’t possessive; he just really loves me (is that one horror movie or dating? or both?) Yet as the euphoria and infatuation wanes and reality creeps back in, the characters start to show their true colors. We all sit on the edge of our seats, waiting to see if that person turns out to be a douchebag or a serial killer.

The sequel is never good as the original; in most cases, no one even wants a sequel.

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Nothing compares to the original. Everything else is a just a faded copy of the first love, the first date, the first movie in a franchise. Try as we might, we just cannot duplicate the magic of the first. Yet we just keep trying. And the more we push and claw to cling to the same characters, the more disappointing they become.

When it is bad, it goes on much longer than it should.

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It might just be perception distortion, but whether it is awkward date or painful horror movie, it seems like when it is bad, it never ends. Suddenly, you are trapped in a time warp that drags out every excruciating detail. You are counting the seconds through every uncomfortable conversation or every poorly composed scene. Sure, you could get up from the table and leave the crappy dinner or pick up the remote and flip off that lackluster scene. In both cases, you probably just suffer to the bitter end, later telling your friends how awful it was.

There are times you do not want to look but you just cannot help yourself.

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The messier things get, the less we seem to be able to turn away. We may date someone just for the thrill of the drama, or we may watch entire horror movie franchises just for the death scenes (*cough, cough!* Final Destination, what?). In both cases, we might be cringing and covering our eyes, but, just like when it is awful, we do not leave. Instead, we keep coming back.

There is always blood.

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In the dating world, we can hope that there is not literal blood involved; however, there is always carnage. Whether it is the physical bleeding from being stabbed in the chest with a butcher knife or the emotional damage of having your metaphorical heart ripped out, there is always pain and “blood.” In the end, the thrill of that pain and that blood is probably what keeps us coming back for more.

The less you sin, the more likely you are to survive; if you sin big, it is over.

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In old school horror, particularly the slasher variety, the more moral infractions you incurred, the more you guaranteed your own demise. Have sex, you die. Do drugs, you die. Commit enough dating sins, especially of the deal-breaker variety like infidelity, and you have ensured the untimely death of the relationship.

The slut always loses.

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This vintage horror concept piggybacks on the sin convention. And by the same regard, while the slut may get laid with ease, in the old horror movie, she ends up dead. In the dating realm, she may be doomed to be uncommitted (especially in the era that parallels when this horror convention applied). In our modern times, we can hope for sexual liberation and equality, but that really just depends on who you are dating.

There is just something special about the virgin.

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I do not understand it personally, but serial killers and men in general seem to have a unique attraction to virgins. There is just something special about a virgin, as if she has it tattooed on her untouched forehead. Maybe it is something about unexplored territory. I am not quite sure why sexual inexperience attracts more interest and makes you smart enough to be the final girl, yet there it is.

You have to go through a lot of victims to find the final survivor.

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These poor serial killers just spend movie after movie, franchise after franchise cutting and carving their way through incompatible victims. None of them were “the one.” So the killing continues, frame after frame, until they meet their match, that clever survivor that just seems to complete them. So too do we date and date, on a quest to find that one worth of “’til death do us part.”

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Christina Bergling

christinabergling.com
facebook.com/chrstnabergling
@ChrstnaBergling
chrstnaberglingfierypen.wordpress.com
pinterest.com/chrstnabergling

SavagesCoverChristinaSavages

Two survivors search the ruins of America for the last strain of humanity. Marcus believes they are still human; Parker knows her own darkness. Until one discovery changes everything.

Available now on Amazon!
savagesnovella.com

TheWaning_CoverThe Waning

Beatrix woke up in a cage. Can she survive long enough to escape, or will he succeed at breaking her down into a possession?

Available now on Amazon!
thewaning.com

Savages Giveaway

Posted: September 3, 2015 in savages
Tags: , , ,

I recently gave away copies of The Waning on Goodreads. Now I am giving away a few copies of Savages. Enter to win!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Savages by Christina Bergling

Savages

by Christina Bergling

Giveaway ends October 07, 2015.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

Christina Bergling

christinabergling.com
facebook.com/chrstnabergling
@ChrstnaBergling
chrstnaberglingfierypen.wordpress.com
pinterest.com/chrstnabergling

SavagesCoverChristinaSavages

Two survivors search the ruins of America for the last strain of humanity. Marcus believes they are still human; Parker knows her own darkness. Until one discovery changes everything.

Available now on Amazon!
savagesnovella.com

TheWaning_CoverThe Waning

Beatrix woke up in a cage. Can she survive long enough to escape, or will he succeed at breaking her down into a possession?

Available now on Amazon!
thewaning.com

I do not usually post here or write about the happenings in Hollywood, even when particularly influential figures pass on. However, I am making an exception in the case of horror master Wes Craven.

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Wes Craven made so many masterful horror movies and greatly shaped and influenced the genre. Everyone knows that. For me, it was all about Scream and Nightmare on Elm Street.

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I have written about it before. Scream was my very first horror movie. At age 12, after my parents got divorced, this was my introduction to the genre. I loved it instantly, both the movie and the genre. Scream scared me and also made me laugh; it was fun to watch.

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Nightmare on Elm Street blew my mind. I saw it much later than its release, well into my adulthood. It filled a hole in my horror heart that I did not know was there. Again, fear perfectly edged with humor. Again, just perfect entertainment for me. I watched with my jaw on the floor and had nightmares about it for nights afterward.

Of the many contributions Wes Craven made to the horror genre, these were the two that changed me. I will greatly miss his influence.

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Christina Bergling

christinabergling.com
facebook.com/chrstnabergling
@ChrstnaBergling
chrstnaberglingfierypen.wordpress.com
pinterest.com/chrstnabergling

SavagesCoverChristinaSavages

Two survivors search the ruins of America for the last strain of humanity. Marcus believes they are still human; Parker knows her own darkness. Until one discovery changes everything.

Available now on Amazon!
savagesnovella.com

TheWaning_CoverThe Waning

Beatrix woke up in a cage. Can she survive long enough to escape, or will he succeed at breaking her down into a possession?

Available now on Amazon!
thewaning.com