i’m disconnected from reality
and hemorrhaging anxiety

i don’t
belong here

i don’t
belong there

i don’t know if i
belong anywhere
anymore and i don’t know
if home is a real place
or just a wistful
concept shrouded in
the shadows of other
people’s perfect families

but i don’t
belong here

and i don’t
belong there

this town turned
into my town
and now i’m wandering
the sidewalks wondering
where i lost
myself

was it in the library
between the pages of
a book i’ll never
pick up again?

was it in the gas station
dropped with my pennies
and dimes for an
eleven pm cola?

or the grocery store
somewhere in piles of
scratch and dent produce
in the bins of beef bones
or hidden under loaves
of overpriced bread?

maybe in the liquor store
it got pushed behind
forgotten bottles on a
shelf so high you need a
ladder and a grabber to
reach what you’re looking for

i probably lost
myself somewhere in
the cafe on the corner
dropped in the oven
and burned to a crisp
inside the espresso machine
covered in a thick layer
of grounds and oil
under a table or tucked
in a stranger’s to go bag

or maybe it was simply
that i got dropped
on the sidewalk
kicked to the side with
an old beer can
and nobody ever noticed

maybe i lost myself
in what i call
my own home
in between floorboards
or in a crack
in the paint

but i don’t know
what happened
and i don’t know
how to fix it

all i know is that
i don’t belong here

Sadness
and regret is
overwhelming me.
luck,
left me down bad.
happiness,
deserted me as a child.
and depression?
it never left me.

but my mother did.

and I wonder why.

could it have been me?
maybe it has always been me.
stuck in a cycle of negativity,
I bring the clouds
and the thunderstorm follows.
When it rains,
it truly pours
and when I cry
my body begs for more.

I am addicted to the pain
that lives in my chest.
The one that has padded
And patted around.
Kneaded and kneaded,
this pain has made itself at home
and has become deaf to my pleading.
So as silence consumes me,
I wonder..
How long will life toy with me?
and when will death take its turn?

will the people around me ever learn?

The plastic straps
that smacked my back,
hurt
when I pulled them off
but I knew they’d
certainly, come back.

Dishtowels wrapped
around my knuckles
as the speed
of my fist’s needs
pounds against
a hanging bag.

Heavy weights
pressed up
or pulled in
repetitions
constantly repeating.

Sweat slickened skin
madly moistened
less from the heat
more from the forcing
of my body to move
fast and hard
across the street
past neighbors’ yards,
then jump rope
till I can hardly breath,

and repeat,
and repeat,
because I think
I need that pain
to feel alive
to feel my brain thrive
and sleep well tonight.

Sometimes,
a wish is not a dream.

It is a hope
that you will be seen
by the love
who haunts
the strange hallways
of your heart’s
maze like affection.

It is an M.C. Escher distortion
all upside down and sideways
or the middle part of a movie
with no reference to the presence
of any minutes before
and no end to come
cause it is paused before
the hero reaches the door
to save whoever
they were searching for.

Sometimes a dream
is not a wish
just an echo
of something
bittersweet
that you will miss.

Until, time takes
the potency of it
and replaces it with
pale nostalgia.

Sometimes,
I would exchange
all of this
for a moment
as brief as a kiss
just to hold you
and comfort both of us.

lonely
lonel
lone
lon
lo
l
lo
lov
love
lovel
lovely

my therapist told me to write more. problem is, i can't write in my journal at this very moment because that may tip him off that i'm up to no good. ever since he's been living here with me, i haven't had the alone time i need in order to purge my feelings. so i keep them inside glass jars in my head, but my inventory is overflowing.

he once told me that he thought i was "one of those people who will never be happy". i wanted to be offended, but instead i shut down. that was months ago, and i still haven't fully woken up yet.

i've come to realize that i can't recall the times when i'm feeling better than "not okay." my therapist tells me that's one of my biggest obstacles. she tells me i need to learn how to recognize positive emotions, as if i didn't already ******* know that. sometimes i feel like therapy is simply flushing money down the toilet.

i haven't had any episodes recently. the ssri's keep my emotions from occurring at all. i've learned to accept that my baseline attitude is "blah". though i can't say that whenever they ask how i'm doing. no sir. maybe if i can convince them that i'm doing better, i can convince myself??

there aren't any decent movies that address mental illness. hollywood is just now starting to address the topics of race, sexuality, and feminism. but you'd think with 16 million depressed people in america, those elitist ******* could come up with some way i can show my family what it's like to live without life. maybe then they'll be able to understand why they shouldn't keep asking if i'm okay.

i told him that i just wanted some alone time today and he said, "have you taken your pills?"

i keep having these dreams where i'm trying to say something, but it won't come out. i've literally woken my dog up several times during the night, because i've actually yelled out loud due to the struggle in my dreams.

i went hiking last week in the hopes that nature would bring me clarity. it didn't. in fact, i feel crazier than ever. i kept seeing myself lying in the clear freshwater as the current took me away. i'm not saying that to be poetic. i actually had hallucinations.

i think i may have a drinking problem