dissociation a curse
dissociation my enemy
enemy barges in
enemy takes control
control is crippling
control must go
go seek advise
go to friends
friends may ignore
friends may listen
listen to god
listen to nothing
nothing is something
nothing is numbing
numbing craves alcohol
numbing craves drugs
drugs are prescribed  
drugs will fix
fix my brain
fix cracked mirrors
mirrors taunt me
mirrors tell lies
lies i tell
lies cover bruise
bruise my hand
bruise my brother
brother is silent
brother please forgive
forgive me father
forgive me mother
father please help
father is futile
futile defines me
futile invites suicide
suicide with pills
suicide i survived
survived from coma
survived in hospital
hospital is helpful
hospital gives answers
answers for family
answers to problems
problems with doctors
problems with diagnosis
diagnosis is discovered
diagnosis is depersonalization
depersonalization creates poet
depresonalization becomes mad

mad
poet

Nobody ever speaks of
The sadness that can be felt
In your bones
The kind that can be
Encompassed
By your whole being
Nobody ever tells you
How to manage
Feeling like a stranger in your own body
Sometimes
I am a stranger to my own body
Depersonalization
Is a term that
I have come to know all too well
I have come to know
What it's like
To watch life happen
From a distance
To feel
Persistant and constant
Dissociation
Nobody ever told me
About the depression
That can take over your soul
While simultaneously
Forcing you
To watch it happen
Without any ability to stop it
Sometimes I feel as if
I can't feel anything at all
And that in itself
Is truly terrifying
But I am trying my hardest
To take hold of the steering wheel
I refuse
To let it take control
In the past I have
Locked all of the doors to myself
Thinking that
If I was the only inhabitant
Than nothing could get to me
But lately
I've realized
That letting people in
Will not be the downfall of myself
Lately
I've realized
That opening up
Is the key
To finding answers
Is the key
To finding help.

Imagine your eyes
as bluegreenhazelgrayamber
windows to actuality.

Now imagine your eyes
s lo   w lllllllly

f
      a
              d

                      i
                    
                             n
              
                                    g

to






black.

The flowers will bloom, when will this child inside me bloom?
The vines have thorns.
Will these thorns keep pricking me?
I can't even really feel them.
Will I heal?
This deflated heart is waiting to be pumped with your love for all the right reasons.
This ain't no treason.
The emptiness in between the walls.
Spaces between my teeth.
Can I just feel again?
Make me feel again.

You can taste
the psychosis on my
lips but there's no
guarantee that I will feel it.
There's an umbilical chord
holding me down to ***** reality
and depending on my
perspective
it either looks like a
dog leash or a
noose.

Inject a sedative with a rusty
needle at the end of my
nervous system. I'm immune; there's
misery mixed in with my
white blood cells that swallows
all sense of introspection. When my
soul plummets down like an anchor
and the floating stops
feeling safe, I welcome the chest
pains with open arms. The pins and
needles in my lungs are better
than burning them.

Look through my eyes
and sometimes nothing is real.
Live through my heart and
it hurts like hell when
I'm not drowning in air.
Think with my head and
either you will want to get out,
or it will kick you out.

It's strange how through times of turmoil you discover who belongs in your life.
In that moment, you stop everything you're doing, just to let that one person know,
You love them.
They fight on, and live on, through the inner struggles in their heads,
Struggles some of us who are weaker, would not understand.
She said, "If this is the end, let it be beautiful."
So let it be beautiful,
Because she said so.

Mirror on my side.
Walls paper thin.
Empty shell on a bike.
Soulless soul count to ten.

Read my words
and hear my sorrow.
See as I have seen
into the depths of hell.

Serotonin flows within me once again
as I write this poem.
A soul filled soul
breaths once again.

Do you know how ******* hard it is to have a disorder with no cure?
“It’s all in your head.”, because it’s so complex that doctors can prescribe anything for you, of course shock therapy isn’t a thing anymore.

I look down at my hands and think, “Is this real?” Of course it’s ******* real, stop being irrational.
But, why doesn’t it feel real?
I’ve been eating fine, sleeping ok, taking my medicine. Why do I feel as if my brain is not connected with my body?
Well, maybe it is. Maybe a part of me just isn’t here anymore.
I don’t know how to explain it. I just feel, off. I’m not me. I’m not anything. I can feel the oblivion in my veins. My sense of reality is gone, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

I can see what’s going on, and I do have control over my actions, but my thoughts are a jumble and some tastes, smells, etc don’t feel the same.
I miss myself.
I miss myself so badly.
Don’t get me wrong, clinical depression and such has kind of guided me towards self hatred, but I’d rather feel self hatred, than feel, this.
Feel everything at once, yet feeling nothing at all.

I’m reckless. I say what I want, do what I want, because nothing feels real.
I even dropped out of school, quit my job, all at 16 and I stay home trying to play video games to distract myself.
Distracting myself always seems to be the best solution. It holds me back from the temptation of just laying on my floor, crying and screaming, just wanting to feel normal. Feel whole.

I can sometimes have normal conversations. Sometimes. Very rarely unless it’s someone very close. Even family members I avoid speaking to in general.
Calen has been helping me, alot. Mostly distracting me. He understands my needs in general, and doesn’t insist on my spilling my emotions to him. He just supports me through it all. If I need to cry, if I need to laugh, he’ll be there.
He’s honestly the only person, well the only thing that has made me think twice.

Now, I’ve laid on the floor, screaming to the moon and to any higher power that might be out there to make me feel sane.

But Calen has seemed to be the only thing that makes me feel, real.
Like, continuing life is actually purposeful.
You could give me a list of things I could do with my life, and amazing things I could accomplish, but all I have to do is talk to him for 5 minutes, even if we talk about nothing of the sort, and I’ll feel the need to live another 24 hours.

My eyes only focus on surroundings, though you’re ten inches away  
Looking into my eyes, I can’t focus.
My speech is fumbled. It takes forever. Can you see? Waiting.  You’re looking at me as my body is filling with concrete.

My thoughts are unclear,
Hide the tenseness with laughter. It okay if there is laughter.
I can see myself where I want to be free.

I am wrapped in plastic, under my skin, tightening against my flesh.

I don’t feel my heartbeat,
I don’t feel myself breathing. I feel my joints, I feel myself reacting to connect. I will do anything to get out of this never ending emotional chamber.

I want to know you,
I know you are talking to me. I don’t know where my soul is. It feels trapped in my bloodstream, locked in my fingernails.  

An apathetic wave hits my entire body, the undertow pulls me and I can only feel my ears filling with mumbled conversation.  

Paralyzed by my imagination. My reality has pushed me  out of  my well being.
Two boxes of doughnuts and cake at the office. Deprived meaning

My thoughts are unclear,
Hide the tenseness with laughter, its how you’re free.

How do you tell someone that they’re not real
Politely?
Quietly?
I don’t know what to do anymore
What if none of this really matters
What if we’re all going to be okay
Because I’m not real
And you’re not real
But how do you say that because we aren’t actually human
We’re just pretending
Because life is about the things that we don’t understand
We don’t see
But why can’t anyone tell me how to tell them I don’t experience
What I’m supposed to because
I’m not real
And you’re not real
And reality is just an illusion because we don’t really exist
And humans are just a concept
And life is just a fleeting idea in the mind of something we can’t even begin to understand
Because we’re not real
I’m not real
I don’t understand and I can’t see with all this dust around me
Dust kicked up by the thousands of feet
All copies of the same feet marching
Oh god we’re not real we all have the same feet look at your feet
How do I say this because we aren’t real so we can’t listen and we can’t hear
Is it polite to tell someone that their entire life is false?
Can it be done quietly?
We’re all going to be okay I swear to god
Because in a thousand other places we don’t exist
And in two thousand more we are okay already
So the odds say that we’re likely to be okay here
Because we’re already okay somewhere
I swear to god
But in the long run it probably doesn't matter anyway because there is no long run
Because I’m not real
I’m not real and I can’t see oh god there’s so much dust
All I can hear is the marching
I’m not real
I’m a thought in a bubble in a cloud in the dirt
I can’t be real because they told me reality wasn’t like this
But then when I hear you speak
Why do I hear humanity’s voice
When I read those words
Your words
Why can I feel the idea creeping politely
quietly
Into my mind that I might be a real person
Because this isn’t supposed to happen
Oh god, not to just a thought
Not to a mere figment
My feet are itchy
This isn’t supposed to happen
Not to a lie
Not to a lie like me

It's a bright new day,
There's dew on the grass,
The sun is shining,
A slight breeze rustles the leaves,
It's not too cold,
And not too warm,
One might say it is a perfect morning.

Yet why don't I feel it,
The joy and peace of nature,
Why do I,
Who has trained his soul,
Who knows his soul,
Who is one with his soul,
Only feel the darkness,
The sorrow and the loneliness,
The depression.

One might say there's something wrong with me,
Indeed, maybe there is, but would I know?
I would not,
Because all I see this day,
Or éveryday for that matter,
Is that you are not with me,
That you do not want to be,
And most painfully so,
Not for you, but for me.

You said,
     "If I leave him now,
      He will lose nothing."
But this could not be further from right.
Shall you leave me now,
I will lose you.
Which is to say,
I lose everything.

Please, come back.
You can make it,
This I know,
For I shall be your strength,
You needn't move one step.
I shall go to you,
Just hold on a couple more nights.
You needn't worry,
I will relieve you of
Ev'ry trouble.

We will be together,
We shan't say goodbye yet,
We will have our time,
And we will be happy.
For you have said you love me,
And I, even more, love you.

part 1 (this)
**** this
i say to myself
hoping the harsh words will strike me down
for i want to feel the cold pavement jar my bones
just
**** this
i say out loud
hoping the sound of it will hook into the back of my sweater
and reel my mind up to join my body
i say it and turn round
to see if anyone has noticed my efforts
and yet
i still feel the same
shock me
please change me
please bring me back
find the strings that connect my soul to my body
and tug
pull
bring me down from the cold blue sky
because
****
i want to know
if i'm happy or not

part 2 (search)**
and so i searched space
space bar
enter
an easier world
and i looked for myself amid the definitions
and questions
and stars
and i tested myself
without thinking
answers automatic
yes i know what's happening
and this is how i feel
but almost
not quite
and now i have a diagnosis
i have ten
one for each time i tried to define it
letting someone else do the job
and yet
i can't seem to label myself
and the screen lights my face
but not my heart
no
i have not yet been found
so i tap out the pattern
of how i think i would feel
if i felt
on the keys and i press enter
enter space
space bar
search
where am i

Hyperventilation
Depleting frustration
Suffocation
A painful sensation
Desperation
Without moderation
Devastation
Eternal damnation
Deprivation
Emotional mutilation
Derealization
Fear escalation
Depersonalization
Self extermination

There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.

I am a humming bird with a broken wing forming a geometric fall.
I am a conjoined twin with a foot in heaven and one in hell.
I am a geyser spewing out echoes from a stonewall well.
I am an open road stretched for miles paved with a murderous smile.
I am a man with a firm handshake who stands still on top of an earthquake.
I am a visionary man who slipped on fate and fell in love.
I am a preliminary hearing fallen on deaf ears.
I am the contribution to your retribution.
I am a person of depersonalization.
I am a one man army minus one man.
I am the desired taste of orange juice and toothpaste.
I am concentrated concentration.
I am the formation of your imagination.
I am the comma for your introductory clause.
I am the cause for your sudden pause.
I am the spatula that stirs up your anxiety.
I am the reaper who never leaves a clue.
I am the lace that always chokes the shoe.
I am the light that finds its way thru helping the little shrew.
I am the suburban white boy who sings the blues.
I am consistent inconsistency.
I am your assigned tour guide for your expiration exploration.

Gravity is not my friend.
It forgets from time to time
To do its job and keep my two feet
Planted firmly on the ground.
I can’t seem to get around
Invisible stumbling blocks,
Tripping over my own two feet,
Knocking into things just by
Walking in a straight line.

Gravity is lazy,
Wanting only to do the bare minimum.
It makes my chest feel heavy when
I lay down but if I close my eyes
I feel my own untethered soul
Float up into the ceiling
And hide amongst the water pipes.

Sometimes, I think gravity gets scared
When I wish myself into something
Scattered brain and disconnected
Disassociation, depersonalization,
Derealization—these side effects on the bottle
They’re all taunting gravity
And gravity runs to hide,
Knocking me off balance and
Up the stairs and skinning my knees
And sometimes I don’t even know I’m bleeding

But sometimes gravity fights back
And my feet are stuck to the ground
My limbs can’t seem to move, my
Head feels like a hundred pounds
My body aches until I lay down
And sink into the carpet.

Sometimes I wonder if you feel it too
If gravity and you are on the odds as well
With all your liquid confidence
And substances to keep you happy
And your tales of falling down stairs—
You fall down, I fall up.
We bob together in a sea of regret
And change and past and
Present and future and lust
And hate but most of all love
Nursing our wounds through
Self medication until a very fed up gravity
Pushes us down, down down down.

Sometimes I think if gravity
Were a little more benevolent
We’d never have hit
These bumps in the road.
I could stay grounded,
Feet planted firmly.
You could stay buoyant
Far above the surface.

But no,
Gravity is a very fickle beast.
And as you’re leading me
Back to my room
For one last goodnight kiss
I trip

And float away.

people always say to me
that my eyes are as blank as can be

do you know the constant screaming in my head
or the bones underneath my bed

i wake up and i'm not here
i go to sleep and i'm not here

do you know the drunken feeling
or how my body is always bleeding

or is it? i can't tell what is real anymore
i've lost hope for the girl i was before

i'm numb and lost in my own mind
i don't think i can be saved in time

don't leave me alone like i did to you
all i wanted was to protect you

Strange face in mirror
Depersonalization
Succumb to numbness

A girl is shaking, seemingly
endlessly, most definitely
not faking. Soft, puffy cheeks, red eyes,
pink nails, her impression fails

to shake off and loosen my
interest. Impressed by how strong,
no one knows exactly for how long
she may have been feeling like this.

I feel the need to hug her tight,
care for her when she's alone at night,
grab her waist from behind,
whisper words and kiss her kindly.

But I refrain, will never express
how I feel about this nameless mess.

In the August of 2013, my therapist taught me how to feel pain.

She sat me down on her couch, put her hands around her knees,
And said that I was ready to learn about the juxtaposition of love and self-degeneration.
She recited to me as I was perfectly amended, and wrote down a scripture on the walls
As I watched from her susceptible whole-draining couch.

I began to litter my mind with an effervescence as she talked,
I pleaded and broke my solar plexus to let it shine within me as she spoke fluently about where I will be in times of darker days.
I listened, and let cognizant dissonance transform into regular dissonance,
As we feuded over some emotions that she claimed to know better than I did.
When the dissension was destroyed with my evenly wild dismantled separation from depersonalization and reality,
She stopped scribbling in her book and looked me straight in the eye.

She asked me how I felt and I told her that I did not.
I told her that I am a vessel for the supremacy of a mind that looks at prominent self-worth
the same way it looks at the particles underneath a shoe or the water at the bottom of an under-gated puddle. I told her that I have never opened my eyes since my father figure transformed into the door I used to hide away the tears of the woman who raised me up. I told her that I am a conundrum with a voice that is shadowed by the memories I witness and replay over and over again but have never actually ...really...experienced.
She looked at me like she expected to hear every word that came out of my mouth.
She was more a carnivore in my eyes, and by the time I realized how much an allure surrounded my depositing of impressions into this woman's central nervous system,
I was already telling myself that I have never really needed sanity.

She professed that the boundaries of my life were created by an inner turmoil,
And I would notice its symptoms and prognosis if I would just open my eyes to its horrifying truth.
By the time the room was filled with lies, I had already told enough truths to let her believe that assistance and recovery were the things I came into the room for.
She told me that I was a functional disorder, and I told her that that was patronization.
At the end of the session, we both seemed to feel equal over the fate of a sequel to a previous encounter with our regular conversational dissonance...
She gave me a piece of paper.
And it became a burden.
With a despondency I created out of her bickering and my dejected submission,
She ended the session and let the emotion run free from the tone of voice she used to impractically aid me.
I picked up the paper and picked up my serenity and created more demons out of the gracefulness inside of me,
"Open your eyes, Mzwandile."
I casted hope upon my pocket, crumpled it up until it meant as much as it usually did,
and exited the room with a prescription for a new life.

I'm not sure what reality is
The world has become vague, like a dream
I'm detached from my body, just observing
Someone save me from this nightmare
before I float away

Decomposing inside my coffin
my bones, particles, organic matter
begin to separate
in a futile attempt
to save the only aspect of life
worth dying for

Robots, depersonalization
Since when was it my
Responsibility to clean up
your ****** remains?
This is your war and
I am (unfortunately)
just here.

There are a set of standard rules
We must obey
And why preach individuality
When you won’t let me be myself,
When I can not break your
******* chains,
You have bounded me to
Twisted staples- lined us all up
To shoot us in the ******* head
And those precious buildings
Concrete jungles
Slabs and poles and rusted metal
Our savored gems and beauties
are the modern day concentration camps
which we built ourselves
prisoners to a schizophrenic institution
but we are too sick
too far gone
to realize
we are
not only the prisoners
but the guards too.

And how can I escape when
Everyplace on Earth is fighting
Down this path of self
Destructive legal freedom
You do not own me
Don’t tell me I am free
And expect me to bow at your
Feet in praise
Just by you deeming me free
Means it is your decision to choose
I am free merely because
I am human
Alive
Spit in the face of those who
Tell you
You can not
Sculpt your life,
They are not you.

And why should I feel obligated
To obey your laws
Your commands
Social constructs to keep
The caged animals inside
Calm
Unwilling
I am not your ******* animal
Your sheep to herd
Everyone believes we have
Modernized our world
Nothing can hold us back!
Rejoice!
Keeping society in order
With cops and a loaded
Pistols, it’s the same
Thing as priests
And wooden crosses.
We have gone nowhere
In the past hundreds of years
Just changed the scenery
Changed the game pieces
We cannot trust the management
Of our lives to anyone but
Ourselves
Yet, why would you even want to?

The state is our new religion
Money is our Yaweh
Sacrifice our own lives
To please the Gods
And I guess if we are talking
In terms of materialistic faith
Then I am a ******* atheist
Do not jam your religion down my
Throat.
No choice.
No voice.
No dignity-
Is all you have ever given me.
Not freedom,
Not a life worth living.

Please do not westernize,
Can’t you see it is not working?
Painting shadows on rocks,
The hazy glow from the stars,
Moon, and heavens
Above,
And I think the most brilliant
But humbling fact
Is that the world will continue
On without us.
Quite frankly, better
Without us.

I am decomposing in my coffin.
Dissolving on my own terms.
The only thing worth living for,
Is the freedom of your
Own body,
Mind,
And soul.
Fighting for liberation
From these death camps,
Hollow graves we call humans.
everything has hardened-
And the brush strokes of concrete
Metal animals screeching,
The glow of synthetic light,
Will never compare to the real thing.

To be in the same room,
To be within inches of someone else
To only feel a universe away.

My poetically
heartwrenching problem--
Entire disassociation.

It used to frighten me,
The crippling weight of
Weightlessness

Inessence and non-stimulation,
Bearing down on my soul in what I felt
To be a repentance of past-life sins--
For what did I do to deserve
Non-feeling?

The burden of nothingness
Is
By far
More burdensome
than the accumulation
Of feeling
Everything
All
At
Once.

They cut up her face
  to spite who knows

She cut off some weight
      despite her bones

She’s starved for grace
    like a hungry ghost

Is it passion?
Is it addiction?

The way she suffers
so stranger than fiction

She’s waning away
    just like the moon

It’s just the way
    the darkness consumes

As they edit away
    her absolute heart of the poem

Cut, copy paste
they stretched the truth
across her face

Now the disenchanted runway
calls her name

“Depersonalization"

Baby girl,
you were born
with it

Now you’ve
just been
manipulated!

The transformation
was a success
but you’re still sentient!

Screaming
"Being like everybody
is like being nobody
and this body
is no body
it’s a plastic prison"

built on a template
of all your false expectations

We need to
    cut off the face
    of the status quo

There’s nothing divine
    left to her ratio

Knock the Goddess
    from the pedestal

they call it depersonalization
dee-person-nile-zaytion
and it means i did the impossible:
found the switch to turn
everything off
so i can do what feels good
and stay away from what feels bad
and never have any real feelings
about any of it

at all.

Hyperventilation
Depleting Frustration
Suffocation
A Painful Sensation
Desperation
Without Moderation
Devastation
Eternal Damnation
Deprivation
Emotional Mutilation
Derealization
Fear Escalation
Depersonalization
Self Extermination

Sitting on this wooden floor,
Suffering from depersonalization.
Glaring at the forbidden door,
Struggling with the mind’s creation.

It’s harder than you think,
Tuning out silent clamor.
Resting beside me it winks,
That ruthless, steel sledge-hammer.

He begs for me to make a move,
I’m pasted to the ground.
As long as I sit, he won’t approve,
And I will take the cowards crown.

I think for a long time
About my situation
Life is leaving me behind
I must move on, despite my frustration

A change in the air shifts understanding,
As clammy hands wrap around the handle.
Like boiling pasta calmly expanding,
Legs extend, and reunite with sandals.

I walk to the door with newfound sass,
With the hammer, no longer perplexed.
As I look upon it, it’s made of glass,
Guess what I did next.

I am 16 years old, and I don’t even know if I’m real. Even as I type this, I am wondering how these thoughts in my head are turning into words on the screen. Who came up with the concept of time? Are we even really living in the moment if a moment is gone before we even get there? Does Elle Richard question her existence on a daily basis? Am I the only one dealing with these seemingly unanswerable questions?

For about a year now, I have struggled with the concept of the human condition — why we are the way we are and what our divine purpose here on this planet is. Thus far, I’ve concluded that our existence must account for something more than creating reality television and drive-thru restaurants. I was told that having these questions about life and reality is normal in college, especially during my sophomore year, where I will hit the “sophomore slump” and start questioning what I am doing with my life. I was thrilled to know that other people would be experiencing this strange sense of disorientation as well. I wouldn’t be alone.

Sophomore year has come, and it is about to go. The number of times I have been crippled by the weight of an existential crisis outweighs the number of times I’ve been able to clean my kitchen countertops without questioning the point of it all. During my biweekly crises, my friends would reassure me, offering a helping hand and confirming that this plague of questioning everything hit them, too. The only problem was that they were pondering the purpose of being in college and what the point of school was, whereas I was trying to figure out if a heartbeat really meant someone was alive.

The discussion about human existence outside of philosophy classes is sparse and can result in feelings of isolation and anxiety. Constant questioning is stressful and panic-inducing. In some cases, it can lead to depersonalization, also known as derealization, which is a symptom of a panic attack. It is basically an out-of-body experience of sorts. You may feel detached, removed, or like you are watching the situation you’re in from an outsider’s perspective. It can cause you to question your reality and whether you will ever gain control again. While this may sound alarming and scary, according to an article on AnxietyCoach.com, this symptom is harmless.

“Depersonalization seems to occur when you have become less involved with what’s going on around you, especially the people around you, and become preoccupied with your own thoughts,” said Dr. David Carbonell in the article. “These are typically not thoughts about your immediate surroundings, but thoughts of other people, times, and places. The less energy and attention you bring to your immediate circumstances, the more your thoughts wander toward ideas that can only happen in your imagination.”

As we enter into our final week of the semester, these feelings are likely to arise due to the panic-induced environment we will be in. Know that your peers may very well be experiencing the same type of pressure and anxiety that you are – you are not alone. Resources like counseling through the CSU Health Network are made available to help you work through these thoughts.

The thing is, we will never know why we are here. Having our beliefs and faith helps some of us – many of us need something to put our hope into. But who knows, maybe we are just in a huge game of Sims.

If you have not questioned your existence at least once amid the constant state of panic that is college, you probably are not real.

Money cannot buy happiness

My mother
Has a collection of jewelry
Diamonds are her favorite
Hers are pure and glimmering
She wears them on her hands
And over her heart
She has a collection
Of shiny things
They all sit pretty on her body
Glowing against her tan skin
But their worth is still not enough
To cure her instability
Or ease the anxiety that never leaves
She has all of these beautiful things
But still relies on antidepressants and nicotine
To make it through the day
And even after that
She is still not content
Money does not buy happiness

My father
Has a love for cars
He has spent his earnings
On greatly crafted vehicles
They are kept well and clean
They glisten
Shining almost as bright
As my mother's diamonds
They are fast
And smooth
Like his collection of fine liquor
All of the bottles lined up neatly
15 year, 18 year, 20
All of them rich in age
He has a lot of nice things
But at the end of the day
Still requires multiple glasses of whiskey
To wash out the bitterness of life
And the memories
Of how close he came to losing it
He has all of these cars
That take him from place to place
But it is still he
Who has to drag himself out of bed
Each morning to face the world
And even then
He is still not at ease
Money cannot buy happiness

Celebrities
Have lives that most would envy
But even they can be consumed by darkness
And fall victim to their own sadness
Money cannot buy happiness

The man who lives next door
Has a beautiful house
And a lot of things
To fill it
His home is never empty
But I can tell that he is
His eyes give it away
Money cannot buy happiness

I have
So much to be thankful for
I am provided
With more than one could ever need
And my level of privilege is beyond doubt
But most days
I struggle to make it through this one
And on to the next
It is always a never ending battle
Between me and myself
Between my mind and my sanity
Most nights
I fall asleep to a mix of ambien and panic
Having to **** my thoughts
With substance
I am overwhelmed
By constant fear
By frequent depersonalization and depression
Often feeling sad and then guilty

Because I have everything
I could ever ask for
But I am still not happy
These material things
Are not enough
To fill the gaping hole expanding within me
And there is a lot
That money can buy
But happiness
Is not one of them.

I experience crippling anxiety
The people who feel high
Think it's easy to be high
Because they are high
And say to the low
To be high
But once I'm entangled
By the breathless thoughts
I am unable
To function

Depersonalization
Is crippling
And temporarily devolves me