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

Soaked To The Bone (Repost)

Repost from Sept 2017 (closer to a year ago than I thought!)

For the word of the day challenge yesterday, cacophony

It starts with a low buzzing
A light humming,
Echoing, bouncing, off the bricked walls of my mind.
Quickly it grows, a wildfire
Clanging and banging along the barred windows of my soul.
It can not be freed.
It will not be unleashed.
But the steady clash grows, a cacophonous symphony of chainsaws
Hacking away at the binding to the cement of my heart.
Reaching a crescendo,
There’s only one way to stop it now.
Ripping away at the flesh that holds us,
Stabbing forth the hearts that blind us,
The deeds are done, the buzz has gone,
Soaked to the bone,
In the blood of a crescendo.

Posted in Word Prompt

The After

The silence is the most mesmerizing piece of this puzzle. It grows harder every day to remember just how noisy the world once was. Planes, trains, cars? Do I even remember those things? They’re vague memories now, things that existed in the before.

This is the after.

This is different.

Before … before I could tell you the sound of my father’s bike. I could hear it’s roaring engine, feel the vibrations and wind whipping through my clothes even before I saw it.

After … in the after I struggle to describe just how loud, just what pitch. In the after I can no longer hear the engine grumble to life in my dreams.

No longer do I look both ways before crossing streets.

No longer do I worry for the constant distractions of phones forever connected to everyone yet no one.

It’s been fifteen years since we crossed the line from the before to this silent space, this after.

Ten since I’ve seen more than two people together.

Four since I’ve seen anyone at all.

Until yesterday.

She can’t be more than five. She came barreling out of the thickets, matted hair and a ripped night gown.

Surely she belongs to someone.

She speaks.

She sings.

At first she spoke not to me but to the trees, the sky, the birds. She asked them if I was the one.

I couldn’t leave her, the wild dogs would devour her for a snack.

Then she spoke to me.

“I came here on a plane.”

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

Noisy Journal Writing

Noise

This is stuff I found written in an old journal. I typed it up here but never published so it’s been hanging out as a draft for about a year.

How many tears have you cried
Waiting for mine?
Twist your bones, peel away
Scars of old, open on their own.
You’ve always been alone
Watching the world in slow motion.
You’ve never heard the screams
Even when they were your own.

Twist the knife
Ever slow
Make me yours
Take it by force
Worse than hate
Is the apathy
Push me down
Make me feel
Worthless.

I’ll lay in the mud
Face down
Drowning
Just to make me feel
Twist the knife
Cut just right

I remember the way you feel
In my dreams
Slow and deliberate
Why didn’t you speak?
Why didn’t we speak?

The buzzing is loud.
There are a thousand flies on one body alone.
Not counting the thousands more,
Bodies I mean.
It’s done, in a blaze of glory,
The world was razed.
Now it’s ready.
All the flies,
Swarming a blank slate.
The buzzing drowns everything else out.
I can’t hear you scream,
I’m too busy watching the world burn.
Not that we ever cared anyway.
Not that you ever cared anyway.
Tell me a thousand lies,
One for every fly.
Give me just one reason.
Not that you ever cared anyway.


Check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in Photo

I Gave My Soul to a New Religion … 16 – 21/365

Pictures to catch me up on “picture a day”. I should start calling it picture dump to catch me up. We all know I love music. I’ve been feeling down and having a hard time lately so this weekend I hopped around to a couple of cities to visit my favorite soul surgeons.

Leah Shapiro , drummer for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

Robert Levon Been, bass (and all the instruments also) of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

Peter Hayes, guitar (and all kinds of other instruments) of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

These guys were the opening band, The Night Beats. Lovely way to open the shows. In Houston the bassist’s mom came up and got on the rail with us. She couldn’t stop gushing about how adorable her son was on stage. That’s support man

I went to two cities, Houston and New Orleans. Other than my pictures of the show in Houston I didn’t really take many others. I just didn’t find as much that captivated me.

New Orleans … that’s going to be it’s own post because it’s one of my favorite US cities (with the exception of the band pictures, BRMC pics above are the New Orleans show).

Candid

Posted in Word Prompt

Bucket

I’ve got a bucket full of memories.
I spill from my deepest estuaries.
Like blood from fresh cuts,
Across the beds of my fingers,
Driving down to my thighs
Where the rivers run deeper
And the water bleeds darker.
My bucket fills with hazy days,
Dark specters and figures
Blending with the nightly shadows,
Caressing the darkest pieces
Just beyond the noise.
You bring me silence.
You bring me quiet.
You build dams to my scars;
Stopping the flow to my bucket of hell.
I’ve never found one like you before,
A soul that beats so close to mine.
Your blood flows darker,
Deeper,
Divine,
Through this bucket of mine.
You touch the chaos,
No fear etched across your face.
You try to take it all away,
Try to steal my bucket of time.

Posted in Word Prompt

The Noise

WordPress Daily Prompt – Cacophony

It started simply enough, there were birds screeching. I covered my ears while running for cover as if a roof or dark room would be enough to drown the grating noise of those birds circling overhead while cawing their skin crawling songs.

The birds screeching started the dogs howling. A discordant symphony of trebles and baritones, longs and shorts, rough and smooth, all beating at different levels. I cowered under my covers, as if the thin blanket would be enough to stifle the cacophony.

The dogs howling started the cats yowling. A song of horrible hisses and kisses between screeching fighter screams. I pulled at my hair and clawed at my clothes, as if viciously ripping myself apart would stop the disharmony of noises stumbling through the streets.

The cats yowling started the cicadas whirring. They bounce from wall to wall, clanging from window to bar and brick to wood, a never stopping symphony of chainsaw buzzing.  I bang my ears against the floors, as if I could knock the never ending uproar from my head and straight below where it belongs.

The cicadas whirring started the hunters firing. Bullets zinging, glass shattering, as their frustrations whirl through the sky taking aim at the boundless noise. I dig into the concrete, tearing my fingers, as if I could bury myself away from the discord.

Then the noise is gone.

And I’m on the number 9 headed to nowhere with tears streaming down my cheek and a pistol in my bag. My stomach churns at the memory, as clear as my reflection in the window, with half a face and a dozen other souls hunted by the noise just like me.


There are posts over at The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch waiting for you!

Posted in Word Prompt

It’s Just Not Fashionable …

WordPress Daily Prompt – Fashionable

Look out! Actual blog incoming!

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.


Also, go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch! We have some amazing collaborators with great insights on the art of writing

Posted in Word Prompt

Soaked to the Bone

WordPress Daily Prompt – Crescendo

It starts with a low buzzing
A light humming,
Echoing, bouncing, off the bricked walls of my mind.
Quickly it grows, a wildfire
Clanging and banging along the barred windows of my soul.
It can not be freed.
It will not be unleashed.
But the steady clash grows, a cacophonous symphony of chainsaws
Hacking away at the binding to the cement of my heart.
Reaching a crescendo,
There’s only one way to stop it now.
Ripping away at the flesh that holds us,
Stabbing forth the hearts that blind us,
The deeds are done, the buzz has gone,
Soaked to the bone,
In the blood of a crescendo.