hello hello hello again
you made me cry again
i said i wouldn’t spill tears over you
i said i was sicking of
i purged you
i burned you
i ran fro you
i ran into myself
burning burning burning alive
stop being so casual
this is not a casual conversation
stop breaking my heart
you fuck me up
and not in a way I’d like
lets jump off cliffs together
lets become star crossed lovers
you broke my heart
you broke me
stop it stop it stop it
i am not
you were supposed to be strong
i am too weak
to carry this
drop the casualties
To be happy.
She stared at me, the message of control
Wanting a dream life, isn't it my turn?
She shook in question, why I would her
Needing to be let go, escape it should be my turn?
She stabbed in delight of torture, she was winning
Craving love outside and to deserve, cannot it be my turn?
She sank within my veins, to close the gate to light
Urging to make purpose without noise, when will it be my turn?
To be happy.
When will I ever be satisfied?
Will the earth have to shake and the heavens burst open and the almighty whomever have to come down specifically to me and award me for my good improvement?
Will I have to become a perfect, ethereal being who feels nothing but strength and goodness and saves the entire land?
Will I have to not be me anymore?
What do I have to do to stop feeling so defeated by merely doing things that come naturally to my breathing self?
What do I have to think to stop hating myself at every ounce of weakness that i show, no matter how human?
What do I have to give up to ever not be inevitably dissatisfied with myself every once in awhile, having to accept this occasional misery or frustration to keep myself alive?
What does it take to be happy with who I am?
What is it like to be satisfied?
I don't know if I've ever known.
Remembering oats at bedtime,
a little light pops on.
The mind races,
frantic about the decision.
10 minutes, Hell in 2
a downward spiral
assaults my mood.
Should have remembered
should have done this sooner for rest.
Hands working swiftly,
The rabbit runs a maze,
give it way to light.
Get lost in the goodness that you do.
Let your fingers move with love.
The sustenance you create.
Store it away.
As I lay my head to rest
a smile fires through my brain.
Chemicals brew a joy that fills my limbs
fulfillment in my day.
This is manic high.
The intoxication of my last act,
the will to steal a moment
and prepare the coming dawn.
Should those demons start to speak
raining blood and black on my resolve,
I remembered oats
and shan't be weak.
After lazily binging Spawn for most of the night once my boyfriend came home, I realized I hadn't done the prep work to get my work week started right & was starting to beat myself up & get stressed because I needed to get to bed but what the fuck do I do? So I took the 15 minutes & did it. I shut up the negative self talk by falling in love with the vibrant colors of the fruit & thinking gratitude for having taken the time for myself, that ultimately would make the next day easier. If I dropped, if I didn't get a lunch break to come home, whatever came up, my breakfast & lunch were taken care of & this would strengthen & armor me for the coming day. I went to bed so proud & elated that for a moment I was at a high, simply buzzing with the having the fortitude to push through that anxiety in my head. My boyfriend, that most helpful dominant push at times, initially was the one to tell me to cook the oats. It was that permission almost, to ease my mind & support the notion. Dealing with my inside voice & energy was the challenge & it was gratifying to have overcome it. I'm learning & trying & working hard to be my best. The words were coming to me & felt fun & free & its relieving to share them.
I knock on the door, shaking.
They answer, tell me to come in.
"I am not my self" I say.
"That's okay" they say.
I hesitate, brace for impact.
"Its okay" they say.
I stumble, asking for forgiveness.
"For what?" they say.
The past four years have been a triumph of self loathing, of learning to apologize while regretting saying sorry. I have felt I am not even a person without a bottle or a pill. I do not know where my story began, and where I wish it ended. But I am slowly learning to be okay, to accept myself, I think that is why it has taken me such a long time to write.
The thing is, I don't know who I am, I have been a couple different souls: some are weak, some are strong, some are as passive as ocean sand.
I'm 22, female, and lost.
I have contemplated death many times, I've attempted it even more. If you are still reading I applaud you. Bless your soul.
I love you more than you will truly, ever know. I am stricken with so much fear. I am so scared because, truthfully admitting, I have no certainty that I obtain enough strength to defeat this "monster". I can't stop hearing this shit on a loop in my head. What if I never break myself free, what if I am trapped inside my own demise forever? It's the most frightening thing that I've ever known, I have been too afraid to be anything other than still; so, so, still.
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There it was
In my head
Screaming at me
Wishing I was dead
Between the pages
I learned to live again
Be somewhere other
Than the wasteland
In my head
I learned to be a princess
A brilliant fool
Anything but what was actually true
Grew chameleon skin
To flicker better
Between character to character
Just like the weather
All to forget the truth of what
Lingered within my head
It was fun playing perfect
Being everyone's art
But things started to get hazy
When cracks began to part
My body became numb
I let fingers crawl all over
Payment to get anyone
To glue me back together
But I couldn't really run
Nothing could blot out its stead
Unbeknownst to me
I never had been free
From the temptation to be dead
Preying on my head
So I buried in words harder
Trusting the denial
Pretending to be anything else
Must be a new character
Couldn't really just be me
The fingers grabbed harder
And I hungrily let them still
If my flesh became shredded
What would be left to kill?
Yet determination was stronger
Than my bloodlust to murder me
It only left me screaming
Left me lonely
Left me in dread
From the death taking residence
Inside my pretty head
Our character knew
She could not live such asunder
The death would win
If she did not change her color
Through wretched teeth
And fierce blows of power
The foolish, brilliant princess warrior
Refused to lose her mental tower
Through years of war
She won the rights to herself again
And with her mighty sword led
Away the demons
Inside her head
And now the tale halts
Where the chameleon begins to change
A lovely new form
One haphazard and so strange
Its a visage mixed of all
The characters played before
Yet now the skin's unmoving
And the parts become a whole
The fingers are only one
And soft and loving to touch
And pills and words are now used
For good instead of a crutch
The death has hissed its final roar
The reader final quits
They keep on reading stories
But they do not negatively benefit
Its more at peace
But still a clustered composure
Within the head
Of a happy dreamer much bipolar
If I close my eyes I smell the butter of fresh popcorn and hear the whirring of a laptop powerful and bright. Can taste the dichotomy of the crisp melting of the popped kernel in my mouth, feel the happiness of being in a desk chair in front of a screen and surrounded by books.
Then I open my eyes and see I have to edit everything I've written to be even vaguely coherent.
Happiness is hard when you're never satisfied. When the childhood curiosity stapled to your youthful lips never unpinned as you aged. Neither did the idealistic expectations. Couple that with a pessimistic anxiety disorder and a mood disorder to swing things between the two disparities and it gets a little more complicated.
I've been my most relieved and anxious in this place of empty, of nowhere, that I've settled myself into for the next three weeks. A piece of me enjoys the rest and possibilities. The other hates it for those exact reasons.
I need to breathe, I tell myself. Being so separate is my fault, I insist.
But another voice in my head pipes up quietly, offering a new idea. I'm demonizing myself for not being ideas, for not being normal, for not being one.
But perhaps be bipolar, in more ways than just disorder, is exactly what concocts the human I like being.
Perhaps the great empathetic thoughtfulness yet great introspection work so well in tandem.
Maybe the assertive extroversion yet pleasured isolation balance in their own, special way.
In a way, I might just need to look back on the old Sunday afternoon specials and speak to myself the lessons of their half-hour programs. In particular, admit maybe its ok if I'm weird. perhaps its ok I just be the own odd balance that is me.
The Nowhere, the empty, can be itchy with the possibilities sometimes. Yet these moments, that help me breathe through my own neurotics and idiosyncrasies, may just be the best kind of nothing.
Maybe the bothersome nowhere can also be something grand and great for me as well.
There perhaps is another side of nowhere, and perhaps it is my favorite.