Some mornings you wake up, you see the sunshine, you breathe in that first deep breath of life, that first bit of a new day. You may smell coffee brewing, hiss, hiss, gurgle, in your shiny coffee ***.
Some days you look out at the horizon, not afraid of what the day holds because in that moment you're happy, and alive, and free, and nothing but the warm rays of curious sun beat upon your face pulling, holding, caressing, welcoming you. "You're alive, love." it says to you. You've been reborn as you will be many more times from here on. Wake up to the jolt of life that's been brought upon you.
Some mornings you wake up, you see the sunshine, and you hold your hand up to shield your eyes from the harsh beams of light blasting you, tossing you, yanking you into reality because you've been in darkness for hours which turn into days, which turn to weeks, which turn to months, which turn to years, and your new born eyes can't take the intensity.
This was my morning. This was my shocking ascent from darkness but instead of welcoming sun, life, love, hope, happiness, this light illuminated my wasteland; my fears, my regrets, my demons. This morning I had my back turned as he drove away. A man who is my brother whom, though still here, I ignore. Why? Why did I do that? Just one simple turn of my head, one single motion and I would have known that he was still here, that I was still alive, and happy, and hopeful, and, well...
This morning was emptier than ever, and cold too. My life was/is upside down, and inside out, and sideways, and front ways, and slant ways, and back ways. All direction was lost and disorientation consumed me and I was nothing and nothingness was all there was.
Some mornings you wake up, and that's it. You're just there and with no guidance and left alone, only yourself to push yourself, to pull yourself, to throw yourself forward or in reverse or jump up and down screaming "I am living but I am so dead and numb, and, well..."
This morning I was that and more. I was empty yet full of all the hate, all the regret, all the sorrow, and wallowing in it. And though I write this short of breath, and wet eyed, and lump in throat, I can't cry. I can't scream loud enough for anyone but me to take it in, to hold it in and to have it, nurture it, give it life as it gave me life, it is my life. All the things I swore I let go of, that I was sure was in my past, is still here; still breathing, and starved, and hungry from my neglect of its acknowledgement. "I am zen. I am one. I am whole. I am alive." I told myself; but lies come wrapped with pretty ribbons and taste so sweet when you first hear them, when you first mutter them, and when you think you've gotten away with it all.
I am not okay in this morning where the rays of sun are like stray bullets not meant for me and yet only for me, and totally meant to give me breath, and life, and hope, and freedom, and, well...
"Maybe it's just the change of season. Yeah it's definitely that. Everything will be okay. These bad feelings will go away and leave me alone forever and tomorrow's sun will breathe deep into me and make me warm, and lift me up, and, and I can't keep doing this."
Honesty comes in pill bottles and razor blades and coping mechanisms. It's dishonesty's ugly brother. It's reality and pain and darkness, and blindness, kicking, screaming, cutting you down until your final breaths are wasted wondering out loud "How did things come to this?" And no amount of drugs, no amount of cigarettes will dull this pain, and pull it, throw it, push it out leaving you empty, and open, and bleeding, and so exposed.
This is how I felt this morning when I first cleared my lungs of all the smoke, all the anxiety, all the anger, and sorrow. I was, in that moment, full of dread, lost of all hope, angry, empty, hopeless, and, well...
No, I am not okay; despite the smile on my face and the rise in my voice I am still fighting back tears and struggling to keep from breaking down, and screaming, and crying, and hating everything and yet nothing but myself.
I am not okay, I am the tin man, rusty, creaky, falling to pieces; but still, I oil my rusty joints in hope of an easier day and that things will look up soon, that the clouds will be lifted, that I will wake up and all of this will just be a dream; that today is cloudy, and rainy, and cold, and that tomorrow I will wake up to the sun kissing me, pulling me, holding me, and loving me.
This poem is pretty verbose but I hope you'll give it a chance.