You get used to
How are you?
and
Hope you are well!
and
overapologizing
and
I understand
and
long distance friends saying
I am here for you,
as if they could actually be physically there
as if they could give you what you needed
and as if
you could even articulate
what you really needed
and as if
they could read your mind
and somehow Know.
[Nobody can ever Know,
Hell, you don’t even Know.]
You get used to
working up the nerve
to tell everyone
about what you can’t
handle
[It’s a laundry list]
and you get used to
your requests being
Ignored or Forgotten.
[What can you say?
Everyone forgets.
And who are you to ask,
everyone else handles these things,
so can you.]
You get used to
Hopelessness
and
Guilt
and
Fear
and
Anxiety
and
Restlessness
and
Boredom
and
instability
and
Suicidality
[but have you ever Attempted? the docs will ask
and you get used to know knowing whether to say
Yes or No. ****** if you say yes, ****** if you say no.]
You get used to
extreme idealism
followed by
extreme cynicism
and
helpless anger
and
illogical
and
hot and cold
and
all these endless cycles
and
saying goodbye
to concentration,
academia,
reading,
the things you once loved.
You get used to
the names
and
the insults
that are not
Abuse
because you are not from a “broken family”:
too sensitive
and
selfish
and
lazy
and
self absorbed
and
practically white
and
Not Indian at all
and
What would you do
if you didn’t have us
to go home to?
You get used to
the excuses
and the tears of your mother:
"Don’t be mad at me,"
and
"Think of how we feel."
and
"What would you do
if you were us?"
and
"You have to try to
Communicate."
[You couldn’t possibly want this. You have to try.]
You get used to
Meds roulette
and
off and on therapy
and
explaining the whole sordid story
over
and
over
and
over
again,
your med details memorized
without you even trying,
and
nothing ever making it better
and
just feeling crazier at the end of the day
when the docs ignore you half of what you say
and the psych ward sends you home
with a bill and a piece of paper
that helpfully says,
“Depression with Suicidal ideation.”
You get used to
putting Dreams in the closet,
despite being told
that you’re allowed to dream,
and
huddling up
in your own closet
despite being told
that you can be Out and Proud
and
locking up all expectations
for Anyone or anything
or heaven forbid
the idea of
*** and/or Romantic Relationships,
[You are Asexual out of necessity now]
throwing away the key,
or at least,
burying it deep, deep, deep
where you can’t reach it easily
[You can’t afford those luxuries anymore]
You get used to
Lying
to anyone and everyone
whether it is necessary or not,
and
Not being Accountable,
despite telling people that you are
“trying the sobriety thing”:
[oh my god, what a ******* joke]
sneaked wine
or spiked drinks
or whatever is cheap and available
every night when you are at home
chased with a klonopin or maybe two
[what’s the difference to you, they don’t even work]
because you are used to
no one noticing
[during the right hours]
and
you are also used to
Not Caring,
or
Tempting fate,
or
Playing the Game
with no rules
Call it what you will
[it’s all the same]
and
Not caring about
whether people stick around
or not.
[They never do, nothing can last,
it’s just a fact.]
You get used to
the “advice”:
Well if you just left the house and were social
and
Well if you just cleaned your room
and
Well if you just did things for other people
and
Well if you just stopped hanging out with sad people
and
Well if you just tried reading or watching Happy things
and
Well if you just stopped spending so much time texting
and
Well if you just got off the Internet
and
Well if you just Eat Right
and
Well if you try to Do Things
[You must *always be doing things in this house.]
and
Well if you just got your license
and
Well have you tried Exercise?
and
Well have you tried Yoga?
and
Well if you just got a job again"
and
Well have you even bothered contacting these people who could help?
You get used to
just calm down
and
not knowing what to say
when you hear:
whywhywhywhywhy?
if you happen to breakdown
in front of your parents,
which happens more and more
now a days.
[How can you not know?]
You get used to
saying “fine”
no matter what –
the worse you feel
the more *fine you are
because you are used to
Never feeling better
no matter how much you
“talk about it.”
[Yes,
You are Fine,
because you should be,
you will be,
this is No Big Deal,
it could be worse
"you are not from a broken family."]
You get used to
holding back information
and
not reaching out
and
letting friendships wither
and
not trusting,
without knowing why
and
everything losing meaning
and
everything disintegrating
sooner or later.
What can you say?
Things change,
people leave,
people change,
feelings change,
you change.
What can you do?
If you’re a heartbreaker
then
you get used to that idea too.
[You secretly love the idea of
Hurting everyone else around you.
Maybe that makes you Abusive.]
You get used to
Every poem
ending up like this,
they’re all recycled words,
recycled themes,
recycled misery,
and, after all,
a dead white guy said
“there is nothing to writing
all you do is sit down
at a type writer
and bleed.”
[You get used to bleeding.]
-
But most of all,
you get used to
not being used to
Anything at all.
Long sad poem I wrote recently, hooray. I actually sent this to my therapist and she was pretty cool about it, but we didn't end up talking about it much oh well.