Posted in stream of consciousness

Today You Won

Today I wondered
What I’d done to survive this long.
How have I
Kept seeing blue skies?
Thoughts kept quiet,
Crept steadily forward.
You weren’t there
But I felt you at my back.
Your voice becomes
The beat to my degenerative drum.
Today, you won.

Posted in Word Prompt

136 Untitled Drafts

Depression is 136 untitled drafts
Neatly ordered by cut and depth
Catalogued by tears spread 
And self destroying claims

It’s reflections
No longer resembling the party
And freezing floors
Under burning drunken skin

It’s purposely destroyed
Dreams, papers, applications
In the kitchen bin as you look on
And bloodshot scared animal eyes

It’s imploding
Pressured into ash
While never sleeping or even stopping
Because rules are always changing

It’s 136 pieces
Of torn papier-mâché soul
Too stupid, too sad, too bad
Scattered over cold tile floors

Posted in Word Prompt

It’s Just Not Fashionable (Repost)

Repost from some point earlier in this blog and because I hear the news now and feel this is just as relevant:

There was a time, in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that long ago, when my head was so fucking loud.

At any given second there were a thousand things all competing for a space on my mind. There was drama, loathing, negativity …

I hated everyone but most of all, above everything else, I hated myself.

I absolutely couldn’t stand myself and anytime a moment of pride, a good thought, a feeling of something well deserved, managed to sneak in … it only made me dig that dagger deeper.

I suffered from crippling depression. Killing myself was an almost daily thought although I never acted on it because I didn’t think I was worth the effort it would take to clean up.

It was more that I just wanted to disappear.

I wanted to go away but I wanted to do so in the least evasive way possible. Lest I find myself further inconveniencing others with my life, or lack thereof.

I couldn’t let myself have good things. In my mind I deserved the bad, I brought it down on myself like a wayward child purposely toppling case after case of books on themselves.

It hurt, I knew it would hurt but in my mind I deserved it.

And then one day something happened.

Something from my past came forward to find me. The universe so eloquently dropped it  right into my lap and reminded me that you can’t run from things that are meant to be a part of you.

I don’t know that I had ever cried as hard as I did in that moment.

I don’t know that I had ever felt the relief that I did in that moment.

I don’t know that I had ever felt anything in the way that I did in that moment.

After that I learned the art of being still and being quiet. I learned how to quiet my mind and how to bring myself peace. I learned to be ok with the times where I falter, because everybody makes mistakes. Everybody has days and moments and honestly that’s life with depression. It’s up and down and all around sometimes. I learned to steer myself instead of letting the noise in my head take the wheel.

All of this comes into sharp focus for me when I see things on TV that seem to glamorize things like suicide. TV shows that attempt to show it and explain it but do so in such teenage drama ways that they miss the point. Or when I see mass destruction, people driven by forces that are purely evil, raining terror down on others.

And I see ways that we could help these things, ways we could have real conversations but it’s fashionable, in some circles it seems, to be loud, to let the noise take the wheel. Those conversations will never happen when the noise is driving.

I don’t know how to implore the world to be still, to think, to be quiet then speak. I don’t know if we can and I honestly don’t if it would help but these days it seems like maybe the need for noise should fall out of fashion.

The word of the day at the time was fashionable.

The RDP prompt today is slippery which I also think is relevant because slippery slopes

Posted in Word Prompt

Writing Didn’t Save Me

Look out, actual kind of blog incoming. 

I’ve been thinking, as us sentient beings are wont to do, about life and the semi-permanence of it all.

And I’ve been tossing around the idea of reposting this here for a few days.

Just as a reminder: None of us are alone. 

Writing Didn’t Save Me

This week is all about writing through the pain, using our words to pull us through and out of the darkest of times.

Seems like it should be right up my alley, right?

The depressed chick with gothic tendencies that was always cynical and hated the world? She should definitely have something to say about that right?

Honestly, when I was at my lowest points, in my darkest corners, I didn’t write.

I went years without writing.

I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel sad, I didn’t feel inspired, I didn’t feel angry … I didn’t feel anything.

I was so numb that I hurt myself to feel anything.

I was so numb that I pushed everyone away because I was convinced I would just pull everyone down with me.

I lost family, friends, love.

And I did it all on purpose because I was scared. I believed that I deserved to be alone. I believed on the off-chance I managed to feel something, probably right at the moment of my death, then it shouldn’t be anyone’s responsibility to clean up after me.

If I couldn’t feel anything then I didn’t deserve the love and support of these people around me.

I didn’t write.

Not a word.

But I wrote on my way down. I pumped out poetry and stories by pouring every ounce of emotion I could muster into them. As if my preserving them onto pages and pages of lined notebook paper would somehow make them easier for me to recall when I truly needed them.

I was falling apart loudly and dramatically in my stories long before the cracks ever began to seep into my real life.

But once I was there? Once I was standing in the darkness facing the ultimate battle?

There wasn’t a single word I could have written.

Because depression steals things from you like a thief in the night. It turns up, triggered by something you never saw coming or sometimes nothing at all, and it takes until it can take no more.

But it’s silent.

It doesn’t come with screaming, crying fits … not in public anyway. It doesn’t sneak in on a jet plane with a roaring engine. It slides under your door like smoke from a fire brewing inside your walls, one you didn’t know you had to worry about.

It’s empty, like staring into a void that’s just sucked away everything you ever cared about but, for some reason you can’t comprehend, spared you. It’s that vast swirling nothingness that we imagined outer space to be so long ago. What is it they say about space? No one can hear you scream?

So, I didn’t write and I won’t pretend writing pulled me out of it.

I went to therapy and at some point, my therapist had to remind me there were things depression stole from me that I could take back. I could regain some control by reclaiming the passions I had so helplessly watched my depression make off with years before.

That’s when I started to write again.

At first it was hard, my words felt heavy and clumsy. I felt less than adequate, drained and like maybe depression had completely stolen my ability.

It was easy to put my pen down and simply say I just didn’t have it anymore. Writing would forever be a casualty of war.

However, I needed an outlet, I had words that I could use now but I needed somewhere to put them. Even though I thought my writing was horrible I kept returning to it. I kept picking my pen back up and scribbling away. Most of the time I re-read what I wrote and felt like a kindergartener trying to write on a Hemingway level.

The seeds of self-doubt had been sown pretty thick.

I was encouraged to keep practicing, even if what I was producing seemed to be awful, the point was I was doing something.

I was proving to myself that depression didn’t own me.

That’s what writing did for me. It helped to prove that depression, for me, did not win the war no matter how many battles I lost to its deafening silence. It helped me to see the person I thought depression did away with was still there, just tired and in dire need of a break. It helped to remind me that living with passion makes the moments worth it because when depression rears its head around the corner again I will need reminding.

Writing didn’t save me but it will always be a reminder of what I can never lose.

I originally posted this on a collaboration blog I’m part of, The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch, last year. 

Rush

Posted in Word Prompt

I Guess It’s Improvement – Redux

I wrote this last night and thought this morning of deleting it.

“You were just whining.”

“Your life is great.”

“Look at everything you have, everything you’ve done.”

These are all things that have been said to me over the years, they’re all true.

Logically I have no reason to be down, my life is good. I have so much more than some people could even dream of. The fact that I can even sit down and eat everyday is more than some people have. I have a job, a car, a house … I can afford to travel.

I have a child that I’ve somehow managed to not screw up.

Logically I’m doing great and that’s what people see when they look at me. I know that’s what prompts the comments I get.

The reality is that my brain is broken.

So one day I’ll be sitting at work and I’ll be fine then something will just hit me. I won’t know what it is. I won’t understand.

I’ll just want nothing more than to go hide. I won’t want to go to work. I won’t want to write. I won’t want to cook or clean or be responsible.

It will just all be too much and it will be sudden.

I’ll get anxious. I’ll want to run.

But after years of doing this, cycling through it and talking to therapists, I know it will pass.

I know how to take care of myself through it now.

But life doesn’t sit there and wait for me. People don’t understand when they look at me. I have to force myself to be responsible then I have to let myself break down.

Quietly. Away from where others can see.

I guess it’s improvement.

My head hurt
So I just kept drinking.
Now I can’t feel
My tongue
Or my heart,
Or the ache
That I’ve buried
Deep under this art.
But the tears keep coming
Like I’m mourning
This dead end
Dry crumbling piece of me.
I guess it’s improvement
Since before
I just didn’t cry
Because I didn’t feel
Anything at all.

Inscrutable

Posted in Word Prompt

Heartache Launched by Your Eyes

WordPress Daily Prompt – Launch

I wrote you a poem, but I know you’ll never read it,

Every word seems breathy and full of some self serving purpose

I really just want to tell you …

But it’s hard when I know it’s been so long.

The cracks have been buried deep yet sometimes still they quake,

Shaking violently only to remind me that they still exist,

Sending the words we said ricocheting around these dusty memories.

I want to believe these brief launches into the past

Are more than just old heart ache taking hold

But I know I’m just selling myself a daydream.

I know I’m reading too much into that look in your eyes.

I know you never think of me.


 

Shameless self promotion incoming – go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

There’s a new wonderful post up by Bisma, My Words, My Savior