Sep 2014
To my psychiatrist: I sit seated on one of the four chairs in the room…
I want to read you this, because every time I come in here, I can’t describe my dilemma, I feed you thoughts and words and all of it gets messy… so if you can listen to this for two minutes, maybe you can tell me what I need
I find that people enjoy me more when I’m outgoing, the life of the party, and a breath of fresh air
However who I really am is quiet, shy, a girl that pushes herself to go out, and awkwardly makes conversation in order to feel normal
I’ve had this inner challenge of wanting to be happy- however I won’t use the word happy here because I was never truly happy
It’s as though a band aid covered my scars and temporarily blind folded my memories
When your medication suppresses your words… all inner feelings of what we truly feel and what we truly believe in. It’s the medication, the therapy; the faking a smile around a group that I feel never truly gets it
It’s a cardboard box that on Christmas appears special, but every other day of the year isn’t much to look at
It’s the pretending that the action movie the love of your life is interested in, is any bit exciting to you
It’s wanting to be loved but finding that the only times you’ve ever found love are the times you weren’t you
The times that a guitar on it’s stand appears “nice” from far away, but when a brilliant musician comes by it brings it all to life
The book that on a shelf, dusty and not worth any bit of looking at is pages filled with letters. But when read by someone who appreciates it enters a different world, one of his or her own to make that book worth reading
Am I that book?
Only worth understanding if the story means anything to the person reading
I feel as though often times I’m that guitar
Only brought to life when someone strums by chords
Am I that cardboard box?
Only felt special dressed up and looked at on holidays
So what does it take to feel special on your own?
What does it take to be a dusty book and be content, a guitar that sits without someone to play it, and a box to be important sitting in an attic on its own
The medications, the therapy, the pushing yourself to get out, it provides temporary relief.
Yesterday driving home at 9:36 pm, my windows were blurred and I couldn’t see much
Heavy storms were rolling in, and words of a tornado were discussed
I thought about how easy it would be to drive into a medium
“911 we have an emergency… young girl, unconscious, car totaled, in what appears to be a hydroplaned accident"
A perfect escape, no one can be upset with you, it didn’t look like suicide, it was an accident, how could anyone be upset…it was nature, it was “meant to be”
But I didn’t
I want to learn how to live and find those small moments where everything is in place
I can’t explain to a happy person what it feels to never feel anything
I don’t want happy
I don’t want sad
I want both
But this …whatever it is isn’t either
Is it I?
Is it how I’m wired?
Am I the problem or am I making my own problems?
And every psychologist, professional, doctor, & psychiatrist will tell you
“It’s a mix of both…a combination”
Because every educated person in mental health often understands that nothing is often linked to one variable but often two, or three, or more. Given that life is not a controlled environment. One can never fully pinpoint the problem. So it is also impossible to pinpoint the solution?
Yet still I don’t know anything anymore, lost control, not completely yet
Because the 911 call was never made
Yet not recognizing yourself in the mirror any longer is one of the scariest feelings I believe I’ve ever had
Because it’s one thing to be alone, and it’s another to not even have you anymore
We can label this as depression, but I don’t want to fake who I am any longer… I need to know, should I be me…will that ultimately lead me to happiness
Or do I change who I am… in order to fit standards and not live miserably
To not hear, “You’re too emotional, cut yourself a break”,
But not changing who I am is slowly killing me; they say it gets harder before it gets easier. Yet they also tell you to reflect and perhaps change things up if you aren’t happy
I just need to know what path is better
Because - and I think- my hearts telling me to stay who I am, and my brains telling me get help…and if my brain is the one that is supposedly broken …how do I know which one to listen to?
Because even if my brain is the unhealthy part, my heart has taken a few too many bullets as well
And if only any of them knew, if I knew the right answer I would do what needs to be done
And after reading this several times, I feel guilty that I spent two hours sculpting a poem completely about myself.
So from an outside point of view….what do I do?
I want to read you this, because every time I come in here, I can’t describe my dilemma, I feed you thoughts and words and all of it gets messy… so if you can listen to this for two minutes, maybe you can tell me what I need
I find that people enjoy me more when I’m outgoing, the life of the party, and a breath of fresh air
However who I really am is quiet, shy, a girl that pushes herself to go out, and awkwardly makes conversation in order to feel normal
I’ve had this inner challenge of wanting to be happy- however I won’t use the word happy here because I was never truly happy
It’s as though a band aid covered my scars and temporarily blind folded my memories
When your medication suppresses your words… all inner feelings of what we truly feel and what we truly believe in. It’s the medication, the therapy; the faking a smile around a group that I feel never truly gets it
It’s a cardboard box that on Christmas appears special, but every other day of the year isn’t much to look at
It’s the pretending that the action movie the love of your life is interested in, is any bit exciting to you
It’s wanting to be loved but finding that the only times you’ve ever found love are the times you weren’t you
The times that a guitar on it’s stand appears “nice” from far away, but when a brilliant musician comes by it brings it all to life
The book that on a shelf, dusty and not worth any bit of looking at is pages filled with letters. But when read by someone who appreciates it enters a different world, one of his or her own to make that book worth reading
Am I that book?
Only worth understanding if the story means anything to the person reading
I feel as though often times I’m that guitar
Only brought to life when someone strums by chords
Am I that cardboard box?
Only felt special dressed up and looked at on holidays
So what does it take to feel special on your own?
What does it take to be a dusty book and be content, a guitar that sits without someone to play it, and a box to be important sitting in an attic on its own
The medications, the therapy, the pushing yourself to get out, it provides temporary relief.
Yesterday driving home at 9:36 pm, my windows were blurred and I couldn’t see much
Heavy storms were rolling in, and words of a tornado were discussed
I thought about how easy it would be to drive into a medium
“911 we have an emergency… young girl, unconscious, car totaled, in what appears to be a hydroplaned accident"
A perfect escape, no one can be upset with you, it didn’t look like suicide, it was an accident, how could anyone be upset…it was nature, it was “meant to be”
But I didn’t
I want to learn how to live and find those small moments where everything is in place
I can’t explain to a happy person what it feels to never feel anything
I don’t want happy
I don’t want sad
I want both
But this …whatever it is isn’t either
Is it I?
Is it how I’m wired?
Am I the problem or am I making my own problems?
And every psychologist, professional, doctor, & psychiatrist will tell you
“It’s a mix of both…a combination”
Because every educated person in mental health often understands that nothing is often linked to one variable but often two, or three, or more. Given that life is not a controlled environment. One can never fully pinpoint the problem. So it is also impossible to pinpoint the solution?
Yet still I don’t know anything anymore, lost control, not completely yet
Because the 911 call was never made
Yet not recognizing yourself in the mirror any longer is one of the scariest feelings I believe I’ve ever had
Because it’s one thing to be alone, and it’s another to not even have you anymore
We can label this as depression, but I don’t want to fake who I am any longer… I need to know, should I be me…will that ultimately lead me to happiness
Or do I change who I am… in order to fit standards and not live miserably
To not hear, “You’re too emotional, cut yourself a break”,
But not changing who I am is slowly killing me; they say it gets harder before it gets easier. Yet they also tell you to reflect and perhaps change things up if you aren’t happy
I just need to know what path is better
Because - and I think- my hearts telling me to stay who I am, and my brains telling me get help…and if my brain is the one that is supposedly broken …how do I know which one to listen to?
Because even if my brain is the unhealthy part, my heart has taken a few too many bullets as well
And if only any of them knew, if I knew the right answer I would do what needs to be done
And after reading this several times, I feel guilty that I spent two hours sculpting a poem completely about myself.
So from an outside point of view….what do I do?
