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Fox
Sometimes you haunt me still
In my dreams
When someone mentions your name
When we pass by with a tepid smile
I feel your words
That meant so much to me in the moment
Swirling around my head
Lacerating as they go by
I feel the pain you caused anew
Feel the moment it crashed down
A wave of force to my chest
Leaving me sore and breathless
In these moments I miss you
I yearn for even the pain
Because at least it came from you
At least I was near you
In moments of clarity
I remind myself you yet live
You do not haunt my being
You do not think of me
The storm within is of my own making
It is my voice that screams raw
You do not haunt me
I haunt myself
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Unleashing repression
I've been putting this off for a little while but apparently I'm mentally healthy enough that I can't repress things as well as I used to. A palpable irony to that. It means that current circumstances have actually affected me far more than I would expect.
It's always exacerbated by relationship issues. That's always the way isn't it. It was supposed to be casual. That's always the way too, huh? We agreed. I checked in so many times and you always agreed it should be casual. You were lying though. I suppose I knew it too. Things were always a little tense. You'd fly off the handle when I spoke to basically anyone but you. You were possessive over me before you ever had a right to be. Yet I pursued. Because I was lonely. Because I enjoyed the physical affection.
It was stupid of me. Of both of us. Everyone I've spoken to about it says it's not my fault. I was clear. I constantly communicated. Yet I saw the red flags and ignored them. You certainly think it's my fault. That I used you. When you seemed ready to actually date I asked you if you wanted to date me and you shot me down.
I don't know where I stand here. It reminds me of my relationship with Nichola in a way but I don't know if I'm over adjusting. You've said some things that have really hurt me. If I choose to discard that as just mean things am I being overly sensitive? Am I being self-centred, only thinking about myself?
It's so easy for me to believe I'm at fault. Therapy hasn't been able to fully take that away. I'm better than I was though. Better at rationalising, at examining. So let's examine.
I'm struggling to think it through properly. It's as if I've put up an emergency wall. Fenced it all in to avoid it. I suppose the first step is to figure out why. I know why the fence is there of course. It's because my self-esteem is too fragile. If I pick at this scab and find that I'm in the wrong it feels like it will confirm everything my past traumas said to me.
I'm not wrong though, am I. Keep going, don't let this train of thought escape you. I make stupid decisions sometimes, everyone does. You're insecurities weren't mine to control though. I saw what I thought to be red flags but it would be arrogant of me to assume it was my duty to control your feelings. I'm not responsible for how you feel just as you aren't for me. No one can control another person to that extent. I know this. I've tried. Far too many times with far too many people. Tried to keep them happy at all cost. Tried to make myself so small, so convenient in a bid to make others lives easier. I didn't this time. To begin with at least. I definitely did towards the end. I faltered. It happens.
It wasn't casual because I only wanted sex. It was casual because you were already with someone. Unhappily of course. Someone you'd told many times you didn't love, told him you were only together for the kids. I couldn't invest in that though. Not again. I couldn't tie myself to someone who would possibly never leave their life for me. I've played that game a million times. After you did leave him I did try to pursue you but then it was too late. Honestly, us being together in any form would have undoubtably been devastating to my mental health. I was more than willing to let you break me down all over again
You did I suppose. I didn't want to get angry or upset with you. I couldn't. Every time we saw one another it was an insight into what I did wrong. That's how it always is I suppose. Never a flurry, just a constant trickle that erodes.
It's almost like the old me vs the new me. The habits of giving in, relenting, trying to change for someone every time they bring up issues is ingrained deeply in me. But I am someone else now too. There's that part of me that can stand up. Tell myself I deserve better than that.
It sets about a sort of crisis. Trying to not people-please. Trying to live up to expectations. The reality is though, you wanted me to be someone I'm not. You wanted me to not display any traits of mental health issues. Not allowed to be depressed because it made you not feel wanted. Not allowed to forget or be impulsive ala ADHD because it made you feel like you didn't know where I stood.
I think that's the crux of it. We could never understand one another. To you anything I did was with malice. You said I only supported you to fuck you despite the fact we were friends for almost 5 years prior to anything happening. Despite the fact it was just a drunken night that we agreed to keep on a casual basis.
I am not broken, cruel, malicious as you often imply. I'm just different. I just think differently. Any time I meet someone with those neurodiverse traits they understand instantly. Hell, even most people who are neurotypical seem to understand my intentions.
I've discussed this with friends but never with myself. I defaulted back to my old crutches. External validation. It's taken me a long time to get any kind of internal validation and it's ok that I struggled to apply validation to myself. This is the first scenario post therapy that has challenged these issues.
I went through this with my mother. With Nichola. Now with you. This insistent that I am wholly responsible for their mood. That it is me that needs to fix it. That I need to tend to all your needs and emotions, I need to make you feel secure, I need to be the one to do it all.
I don't though. Not anymore. It took some time to get here but less than the last two times. I'm getting better. There is nothing to even forgive myself for. I would be mortified at the idea of trying to make someone solely responsible for my emotions and self-worth now. I've been there too.
I continue to improve on myself. I don't yet have that confidence to know when I'm in the right. Or perhaps it would be arrogance to be that sure of myself. I don't even know. But I'm doing better than yesterday. That is all that I can ask of myself.
I tried really hard to consider every point you brought up. Nothing I did was good enough. You always acted as if I wasn't good enough. Talking to you makes me feel like a shitty person. I'm not though. I'm just not. That shouldn't be so hard for me to type.
I persist. Despite mental health issues, despite relationship issues, despite everything I will continue to persist. I matter. I matter to me. I'm worth more than this.
#relationships#mental health#repression#repressed emotions#people pleaser#relapse#therapy#adhd problems#depression
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My fragile love
As the summer gives into Autumn
my fragile love for you falls
a leaf floating ever down
It’s once new green colouring fading to brown
My fragile love for you finds the ground
in company of all the loves that came before
mixing itself into the mess of once was
another love gone passed
And as I step through my memories
the pressure of my step
finds itself on my fragile love for you
it crunches, cracks, breaks
As I walk away
my once fragile love for you
Finds itself in parts
amongst many once fragile loves
The wind picks up and catches them
a maelstrom of old auburn flames
my many once fragile loves
live in this forest of my past
My once fragile love for you
will live in shards with all the rest
in my soul indistinguishable
from all that came before
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I won't let myself move on
I feel like a petulant child. But it's not fair. I've spent a lot of energy trying to make sure I don't feel any of this. I loved you so much. I do love you so much. We will never be together and that just isn't fair. I just want to scream and shout and cry because it isn't fair.
I know you so well at this point. So well. I have to live with the fact that I know you love me too. We can't talk about it anymore. I get that. I get that boundary. You won't even think about it anymore because you say it's too painful. That's not fair. None of it is fair.
You say we decided to just be friends. We. Like it was ever a decision I was in on. I accept it because I have to but don't put that on me. It was never my choice. You were always my choice. I chose you despite everything else. How could I not? Don't you dare convince yourself I chose not to be with you.
You have to believe that though, don't you. So it hurts less. You have to believe it could never happen. You have to tell yourself it was just never going to be, never could be so you can seal it all away.
How am I supposed to just continue being your best friend? How am I supposed to do any of this?
I never thought I would craft a mask even you couldn't see through. I probably haven't. It's easier not to see behind it supposedly. We both see through one another's mask. You know that right? Of course you do.
Why can't I just forget you? Why can I not forget us? But how could I? How could I ever?
We will continue to pretend this is nothing. Ad infinitum. That is truly heart breaking. I have had many loves in my life. I just don't see how I could love anyone more than you though.
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Journey into my madness with me
It all finally makes sense, none of it makes sense, you see? I don’t know how to explain it other than that, other than this state of constant flux and contradiction, of two directly opposing and certain truths that both exist and don’t exist simultaneously. None of it matters and that is terrifying and that is fine because across the entire spectrum of space and time it has all already happened and it all never happened.
Your wildest dreams and greatest fears all came true and they all never came to pass. You fell in love with everyone you thought you could and everyone you thought you hated and you hated everyone you thought you’d love and loved everyone it made sense to hate. Across all the timelines and the spectrums of time and space it all happened but it never happened and none of it actually matters.
I can see it. In this brief moment, this brief window I can see it and I’m not sure if I can ever get back to this place once it’s gone and I’m not sure I’ll ever leave it and both of these eventualities are true and false simultaneously. You are reading this and you understand and you don’t understand and for a moment you feel peace and you roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all.
We are the same entity you and I, we always were and we’re totally different and could never be the same. We are connected by every little iota of the ever expanding universes and we share absolutely no connection whatsoever.
Do you see what I can see? What I can’t see? Can you hold both of these in your mind and truly understand, actually understand it all? All the pain in the world and all the love is all your doing and my doing and our doing and it has absolutely nothing to do with any of us. It’s all so connected and so far apart and that’s the beauty of it all.
It’s all so important and so meaningless. So small and so big. Do you understand? It’s all everything and nothing. It all happened and could never happen. It’s all connected and devoid of connection. It is everything. It is nothing. Do you see it too? You can feel it can’t you? Both in it’s presence and it’s absence and how everything is right and wrong to everyone and no one all the time.
You think you are lost but you are not. We are all entirely lost and exactly where we’re meant to be. We are all on the exact path we always were going to be and always needed to be and we’re on the wrong path we should have never trod and we are on every single eventuality and absolutely nothing has happened.
I can feel the madness dripping through my words, dear reader and I can feel the sanity and understanding of it all. It’s both. All things are both. Every single contradiction is true and we can’t fathom that and yet we know. You Know. I know.
It’s all just uncontrollable thoughts, it’s all a stream of nothingness of consciousness yet it all has so much meaning, it all makes so much sense, it’s all exactly as it was supposed to be and it holds all the meaning.
You don’t need to fight and you don’t need to stop fighting. It will just be. All of it will be. You will die a thousand deaths and live a thousand lives and I understand it all right now and I’m so lost in the very idea of any of it.
It feels like I’m high and sober. Like I’ve lost my mind and finally seen. Like I’ve disassociated but I’ve never been so connected. Will any of this make sense when I wake up, when I return back to the world I usually reside in or will I never return and stay in this new plane eternally where I can see it all and nothing. All of this and none of this will occur. All and none.
It’s the most beautiful day of my life and the worst day of my life. Of our life. Of your life.
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A realisation of worth
For some reason I’m really struggling with this one. I’ve been putting off actually thinking about it all day. So today I was talking to my therapist about the fear of people seeing the real me and realising that I’m a shitty person. That idea that if you remove the mask people will recoil from what’s underneath. That I don’t want people to know everything about me because then they would surely dislike me. Then she asked me “Do you think I hate you?” or something to that effect.
I’m very open with my therapist. She knows everything about me. So this question really hit me. The answer was no. She knows all my deep, dirty secrets and the answer is no, she doesn’t appear to hate me. She doesn’t appear to recoil. It froze my brain up a little, like I couldn’t process this for some reason. I came up with reasons against it. “Well this is simply transactional. You have to be kind to me, it’s your job.” She sat with this and then asked how the closest friends I have react to me. The people in real life who have seen the worst of me.
The answer again was no. I even asked one of my friends who’s seen the absolute worst I feel I have to offer. The desperation and obsessive nature I generally try to hide. The broken parts I hide beneath the veneer. I asked her if there was a part of her that abhors a part of me. If my fear of being hated when people see who I really am was true. She simply replied “absolutely not.” I believe her. I believe her.
I don’t know why this feels so unsettling deep within my soul. Surely it should be a good realisation. Congratulations! The people who truly know you don’t hate you. Something about it makes me feel nauseous though.
When I was with Nichola it was clear she hated parts of me. It was visceral, it was apparent. It was constant reminders that who I was deep down was something to be pitied, to be despised. I’m too emotional, too intense, think too much. Feel too much. These were negative things and her loathing of me was reasonable.
It was apparent with my mother growing up. When I did something she didn’t like there was always that intense, white hot anger. That proof that certain elements of myself need to be hidden, to be tamped down so as not to offend.
Through these people I learned to be quiet. To be secretive. To take the things that are “Too much” of me and hide them away, only allowing them to come out in bursts when I lost control and could no longer hide my emotions, my pain. I shouldn’t be angry. I shouldn’t be sad. I shouldn’t show too much love. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t. Because if I did people would get angry. They would hate me because of how it would affect them.
It was so important to control their moods. Mine didn’t matter, not really. I was a seeker of peace. If people displayed negative emotions it was my fault. For being weak. For not trying hard enough. If people didn’t love me, didn’t give me everything it was because I was wrong. I was broken. I was unlovable.
Then someone turns around and tells you that actually, you’re not unlovable. You’re not broken. You’re just human. Your strengths and weaknesses, your good and bad. It’s all worth being loved. Why does that make me feel so sick to my core.
It’s almost like I have to ask myself; If there are people in this world who love me regardless, love me entirely despite my eccentricities, despite what I still perceive as my flaws then... What have I been doing all this time? Why have I been debasing myself by listening to people who say these parts of me are bad, are wrong? Why did I allow myself to let the hatred of these people infect my self, allow it to turn inwards?
I’m not entirely sure whether I have an answer or not. I suppose if you spend all your time standing in toxins, they eventually permeate your skin, your being. They eventually infect you. If you’re infected long enough then the cure feels wrong. It feels unnatural to challenge these ingrained beliefs.
They were wrong. They were always wrong. That’s such a strange thought. I’ve been so bad for denying myself compassion because I believed that fundamentally there was something wrong with me. There was something deep inside broken and ugly. I didn’t deserve it, not once you reach under the surface. It was all wrong though. My inner thoughts, my inner being. It isn’t repulsive. It isn’t something to recoil from. I think that’s the true tragedy. It wasn’t other people who were recoiling from what was under the mask. Not anymore, not for a long time now. It was myself recoiling. It was me who was scared of what lay beneath.
I don’t think I need to recoil anymore. It turns out there are people who love me in my entirety, despite any flaws I have or perceive myself to have. Perhaps with time, from the kernel of this truth, I can learn to love these parts myself.
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Time to call it
I've been putting off writing about you here for a long time. It's been a long time coming I suppose. I think I was just so certain things were going to work out somehow and now it's finally time to admit I was wrong.
You've gone so cold these days. A sign of being out of love. I've tried to find a million reasons why but none of it really matters. You say you just value our friendship so much that you decided to repress any feelings for me. Who knows if that's true. Maybe it was just a bit of fun that got out of hand. Maybe you never meant to fall in love with me, never meant to tell me that you had.
I was so sure about you. So, so sure. God knows I've been wrong before though. It's time for me to let go now. I've been trying, I really have. I tried to be there for you, tried to talk about this, tried to understand. You don't want to discuss it though. You shut down when I ask and now you've said it's never to be discussed again. I have to respect that choice.
It hurts. It hurts how quickly you turned around on it. It's like one day you loved me and the next it was just done. I'm not used to that. Or maybe it was fading away for a long time and I just didn't realise it.
It's strange. Maybe it's just because of how recent this is but it feels worse than any heartbreak I've ever had. It felt more real with you. A kind of love I'd never experienced before.
It's time to let go now though. I've spent a long time grieving, fighting, begging, bargaining. I've been through my stages of grief for you.
Let it be known that I never wanted to stop loving you. I could have for eternity. I would have given my everything. Perhaps that's the problem. Perhaps I should have never been so willing to give it all. That's just how I fall though. I think that's how I'll fall next time too. Maybe one day I'll meet that person who sees that and loves it, who returns my invested energy. Who knows.
It was a pleasure. An honour. Now it fades away. May you never haunt my dreams or thoughts again. This is my goodbye.
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The words
Tumb
Led
From my lips
With such
Ease
Every night
Filled with
Thoughts
Fears
Worries
Hopes
Something broke
And now I lie
Awake
And it seems
I have lost
All my pretty words
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How do I understand that life is real?
The past month or so has just been a combination of drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, energy drinks and junk food. Longer than that. The last few years has been any combination of these things but the last month or two especially I’ve been hitting all these notes.
I think I have a problem with understanding that life is real. I realise that sounds ridiculous but let me try and explain. It’s like none of these things have consequences to me. Obviously I get hungover, fatter, dry mouth, short of breath. That’s not enough though. They’re all so temporary. There’s a solution to all these things if I just wanted to take them. Sometimes it feels like I’ll only quit my addictions if it’s a case of quit or die. Even then though, if I survived would I stay quit or would I just pick up the bad habits again? I’ve seen a lot of people die from these things. I’m the nurse who holds your hand and gives a sympathetic smile as these things kill you. That somehow makes it harder. You can escape all these addictions but you can’t escape time, can you?
I’m deeply unhappy. This is no surprise. These aren’t the habits of a truly happy person, these are the habits of someone trying to escape something. What exactly am I trying to escape though? Just life in general I suppose. I’m so tired. All these addictions are a little dopamine boost to get me through another day identical to the last.
There’s so much I want to do. So much I want to be. I’m scared though. Not necessarily scared of self improvement. I’m scared that if I achieve my dreams, do everything I can do improve myself, I’ll still look in the mirror and feel empty. If If I improve myself in all facets and find life still lacking, what then?
I get paralysed when I think of how best to spend my time. I’m so indecisive about everything, all the choices, that the majority of the time I’ll opt to do nothing. I barely do the things I enjoy - Yes, I’m thoroughly aware this is a sign of depression. This isn’t my first go around on this particular ride.
I romanticise my vices. I think we all do. That attitude of just not caring, just living. There’s something so alluring about it. In myself. In others. It’s such a cliche.
I know how to improve my life. I know what I need to do. Why can’t I do it? Why do I refuse to improve? Why am I so scared? So what if I get there and nothing has changed. I haven’t lost anything. The alternative is I look after myself and things do change. Is the risk not worth it?
I’m so tired all the time. So, so tired. The easy answer is depression and of course there’s elements of that. It’s the cigarettes too tho. The caffeine, the sugar. All these things I ply myself with to get through the day. If I could just drop and/or reduce them all for a month I know I’d feel better. I know I’d have the energy for self care.
If I’d just exercise and shower and move, I’d have so much more in me. It’s so difficult though. I mean it’s not, I just need to do it. Why do I make it difficult?
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If there's one thing I've always struggled with in life, it's knowing when to stop pursuing something before I get hurt.
I see it this time though. It's time to stop.
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Smoke of the past
Every so often, I will remember your taste
The way you sat in my hand so precisely
A practised motion, side to mouth and back again
I’ll remember the times we spent together
Sitting on a balcony in a high rise
Watching the people pass by
I remember the way you would greet me in the morning
Your smell intertwining with that of the first coffee
A fusion that marked the beginning of a new day
I remember how you’d dance on my lips
Permeating my trembling body
A salute to a good time had
In this haze of memories I’ll convince myself
You were good to me
That I miss your presence in my life
On my weaker days
I press my lips to you again
Trying to capture an imagined ease
And you will choke my lungs
Sting my eyes
And lay heavy on my soul
You serve as an important reminder
That sometimes memory can make you miss something
That never truly brought you joy
My mistakes of coming back to you
Stop me from visiting other parts of my life
Best left in the past
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The terrifying ordeal of knowing yourself
The older I get, the more I seem to understand who I am as a person. No, I suppose it's not actually tied to age. The past year I've put a lot of work into understanding who I am.
I get that this is a good thing. I know more about who I am, what drives me, what I want out of life. At the same time though this deeper understanding is coupled with a strange kind of fear. A fear of knowing myself.
I suppose the more I learn about who I truly am, the more it seems like a concrete fact. I don't like that. I don't want to be something that can just be seen and understood, even by myself.
I want to be ever shifting, ever changing. It's strange, this feeling is coinciding with me exploring my gender identity. The more I get comfortable with the fact that I don't particularly identify with male or female, the more I dislike the idea of being pinpointed.
It's just a mess of contradictions. Maybe I'm just railing against the idea of truly being aware of who I am just in case I don't like what I see. If you pour time and effort into self discovery only to find yourself mortified with what you have found, where do you go next?
Reading back I realise the irony of what I'm writing. It's an ouroboros. I say I understand myself whilst talking about how I don't understand myself.
This is a bizarre comparison to make in a serious post but sometimes I feel like Hermaeus Mora. Just a writhing mass of things coming into and blinking out of existence. Like my character, my person isn't set.
I guess that's what I want to be. I want to be totally defiant of stagnation. I don't want to find myself setting into one being, I don't want to be defined. I want to be ever changing as I adapt to the world around me and the things I learn and the people I love.
In understanding who I am I realise I don't want to be a being that is understood for all time. I don't want to be figured out. I want to be ever changing. Understand I never wish to be understood. If my parts stop moving, stop growing, I've failed.
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And I find that
When I'm with you poetry
Seems to drip from my lips
And when I'm in
Your presence I think
Maybe I'm home
I'm home
#poem#poetry#strange thoughts leaking from my mind straight to the page#relationships#love#hope#home
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Just free-flowing poetry that tumbled out of my mind when faced with the question
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Acting, Fate and the embers of creativity
You know I used to take acting classes? This was so long ago that I almost forgot about it. My claim to fame is that I was almost an extra in a period drama I can’t even remember the name of anymore. It was a pretentious little place nestled within the end of Ripley, ran by an aged actress. Whatever images this conjures, you’re right. I used to enjoy it until eventually I didn’t and I just stopped showing up. That’s the story of my passions I suppose. I use to act a lot when I was younger, all the way up until college where I dropped my drama course for sociology because my grades were better and I thought it’d look better on my resume. The idea of putting it on any kind of resume seems insane now, it truly doesn’t matter anymore. Sometimes I wonder what life I’d be living if I’d had continued to pursue acting. Probably a very different one. Had I dedicated myself to any of my college education I wouldn’t have known Anna or Nichola. My closest friend and my abusive ex.
If I hadn’t known Nichola I may have never left Harriet and I’d be living some cozy suburban life with kids and a marriage by now. Though if I’d never known Nichola I probably wouldn’t have purusued Harriet in the first place, I wouldn’t have been spurned on by a broken heart. If I had never left the acting class I might have been on TV and thus pursued drama doggedly instead. A different uni course, a different life.
I almost took philosophy in Liverpool as my career path. It’s strange to think about because as most major decisions in my life, it was taken purely on a whim. Yet nursing is my entire life now. It has shaped my entire being. It’s taught me empathy, compromise, assertiveness, social skills. I owe a lot of who I am now to my career. I suppose that’s why those in the world of buisness can become callous and jaded. You’re shaped by the experiences you encounter everyday.
If I was a philosphy student would I be some stoner working in a coffee shop now? God knows I spent enough time high at Uni without being on a course that encourages thinking and opening your mind. I’d probably be living with my parents still. There are so many parallel lives running alongside our own and sometimes I feel like I could almost reach out and touch them, hold the hand of my parallel self and let them know it’s okay. There’s so much in the world, so many possibilities and it’s going to be okay.
The strands of fate are a strange thing. Inexplicably inseperable, defining one another and feeding off of one another.
Sometimes, I mourn the death of a version of me that’s tinted with rose. I used to act, to write, to fence. All of those things seem so foreign now. I still write, I guess. I write personal pieces but it’s ultimately just masturbation. A reflection on my life, a coming to terms with everything. It’s not what I used to write. I used to create worlds and I miss that creativity.
It’s still there though isn’t it? My creativity. Your creativity. It’s a fire that sits within and sometimes it roars whilst other times it barely whimpers. You have to feed fires. You have to feed creativity. I’ve been bad at feeding my creativity. I think it’s something you can forget with age. I get my creativity from my mum. She writes poetry, or at least she did many years ago. She doesn’t anymore, as far as I know. Her old poems are a gut wrenching experience. They usually talk of a girl who’s lost herself, which speaks well to my mums heart.
That’s what art is, at least to me. It’s recycling pain. Putting a fresh coat of paint on something old and worn and making it into something beautiful, a relic of the past made into a shining landmark. I was here. This is how I felt. Listen to my story.
I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve written here, everywhere, that I’m about to start writing again. That once roaring fire is just embers now and kick starting it is harder than I ever imagined. I’ll do it one day. Maybe it’ll be today, maybe it’ll be ten years from now but one day I’ll drop something into that poor suffering, dying creativity and maybe from that single drop, I will create a spark that will light my way.
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Being lost in your own thoughts
I struggle to write most days. This is no secret. Although I have a myraid of thoughts swirling around in my head, I seem to spend all of my time lost to them rather than examining them. Thinking, or rather over-thinking, is tantamount to being lost in a storm. There is no stream of conciousness but rather a vicious attack of thoughts, overlapping and clashing against you, trying to capsize you. Not out of any kind of malicious intent but borne from it’s nature. It’s a storm of our own creation of course. It’s a choice or a learned behaviour, throwing yourself into a tempest rather than idling down a gentle stream.
Most days it’s difficult to fight against. I find myself petrified of simply living, plagued by so many variables that I’d rather choose inaction than to make a wrong turn. It’s no way to live. It’s allowing myself to be consumed by my own mental illness.
The difficulty is, I know the way out. I know how to combat this. I need to write my thoughts down, organise them in such a way that I can breath. Whenever I do this I feel my mind relax, finally given space away from the crashing waves that have now been succinctly catalogued into one direction, all channeled together. I need to exercise, to give my body a much needed workout in order to release all the pent up energy. Without the density of a thousand entangled thoughts and the power of unspent energy, my mind can calm and I can finally start to see straight.
This writing helps but it’s only the beginning. What I truly desire is to be able to shape my thoughts. I don’t want to just be organising panic and mania, instead I want to use my mind to create worlds, characters, creatures. I want to write stories and poetry that speaks to people’s souls. I want to let you in to my mind and maybe tell you, through my own creativity, that you’re not alone in this world. That I hear you and feel what you feel. I want to write stories that tell you, it’s ok. There are people just like you who face challenges and disappointment and mental health issues and they overcome them and they thrive.
Some people hate happy endings. Living happily ever after is a cliche. More than that it’s not true to life. After the happy ending there are always more challenges, more failures. There’s death and illness and misforutne that stories just can’t account for. I wonder though, is that a reason not to strive for a happy ending? Is hating happy endings not just spurred on by a general distrust of the world? The knowledge that everything dies, everyone grows old, everything rusts and decays. These are bad things, we all say. But they’re just another part of life aren’t they? A different colour in the tapestry that helps highlight it’s beauty.
I want to write again. Not as a tool to aid my mental health but as an art. I want to bring back the meaning it used to have to me. Writing because I have stories I need to tell, even if no one is around to hear them. I need to give myself time to be poetic and grandoise, not just time to info dump and then allow myself to slump back into the ever creeping vines of depression, allowing them to encase me, wrap around my throat until I can barely breath, until tears stream from my eyes clouding my vision. I need to help myself break free from this self made melancholy.
I know I can use my words to create images, to create life, to create art. I just need to take that step. I need to stop living in the realm of “Maybe today” and thrust myself forward into now. Right now is the time. I begin now.
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