Creative Writing · Depression · Free Write · Poetry · Pondering · Writing

What am I?

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What am I?

A mass of memories

Firing between cells

Billions of rows of suffering

And multiplying by the wayside


What am I?

A cold person

Walking through the hallway

Down the street

Another face to pass 


What am I?

They called me a woman

Still I took off my shirt

They said the streets are for men

And that I would get hurt


What am I?

A soul wandering

Never satisfied

There is no home for those

That can not find comfort


And I know you will run from me…


What am I?

They asked

A five year plan

Or a family

These are the things you will be remembered by


Not by the quiet firefly

Or by the blades of grass you felt between your toes

Not the wind in your face

On the playground

Or in the field on your own


The sun will be the only one to remember your face

The billions of passerbys

Just stopping to say hello

Creative Writing · Dark · depersonalization · Depression · Free Write · Healing · Hope · Melancholy · Prose · Reflection · Relationships · Self-harm · Survivor · Writing

Moving Day

In march of 2015 I moved what few precious possessions I had decided to keep into this tiny studio apt that I would call home for the next 2 years. I did not have a bed. I threw out my dishes, clothing and books and gave away nearly all my furniture.

My first night in my little apartment was spent full of despair and confusion in my heart and mind. I was more than broken.  At the time I saw myself as hideous and unfixable. Undesirable in every way.  Though I sat troubled in this tiny room with my kitty wondering what possible terrible thing lay waiting for me next, I still had clarity enough to notice the quiet calmness around me. For the first time in several months I felt safe and the ton I had been carrying on my shoulders with chains dragging by my ankles were suddenly gone. I knew it was over and I felt guilty for enjoying that moment because I truly did not want any of it to be real.


I wanted to still be with the man I loved, even though his sickness was literally killing me. I did not want to feel peace without him. I wanted him and I wanted contentment but it was evident that those things could not coexist. Life with him was chaos. Unrelenting emotions at the blink of an eye. Unsuspecting pain and sadness that became a habit. Much like everything else of him, an addiction.


I struggled. I spent hours on that tiny bathroom floor sobbing. Sometimes putting slices in my thigh. Early into this journey it was late on a spring night and it was pouring rain and I just couldn’t be inside anymore. I took off down the street running. Soaking wet and panting. I walked up to the library. Everything was dark and dripping. There was a brick wall with a good ledge for sitting. I climbed up into the bushes and sat behind them. The trees above kept most of the rain off me, still I could not tell the difference between my tears and the earth’s weeping.


I lay there in the dirt for a long time. I do not know how long but my fingers became numb like the rest of me. I should have felt pain but I did not. I did not feel anything.


Around that same time. I had another evening. He called and got my mind all twisted again and I called my mom upset. I felt like I had no one anymore and she was far away and defending the others. I hung up and shut my phone off and climbed up the street and sat on the ledge looking down the cliffside. I could jump I thought. I could hope for a broken neck. Unlikely I considered and I sat looking into the dark tree tops waiting for this to end.


I spent my days working at my neighbor hospital. Watching mostly dead people roam by. It helped take my mind off my own suffering but watching people slowly die takes a lot out of one, one that barely had enough to give.


I never told my best friend that his anger at me pushed me over the edge. I called my boss in the morning and said “I’m not coming into work today. I haven’t slept because I spent the night pondering how best to kill myself.”  It goes without saying really that this did not end well. I panicked everyone and ended up naked on a ER bed with all my personal belongings taken away from me. I laid dead and numb for hours in that bed. I probably should have been admitted but I hated not having clothes and my phone so I played it off and instead got an uppage in my dose of medication and a leave of absence from work.


I never made it back.


My grandfather died a couple months later. I sat on that floor again. I wept until I passed out. I cried for hours, everyday for months. Sometimes the pain of missing him skips a beat of my heart and I find myself literally gasping and grasping at my chest. How does one recover from death? I do not think we ever do. One’s existence changes completely. You wake up a different person.


When you spend hours and days on days alone you learn things about yourself you previously thought incapable of. You forget the sound of your own voice. You have to talk out loud to remind yourself that you still exist. I would punch my skin to insure I was still alive. And indeed, this was all unfortunately not a dream.


Wake up. Go back to sleep. Forget. Remember and do it all over again. Write three papers, two at a time. Remember this is your purpose now. Just survive.


Today I packed up that tiny apartment, that hole I ran to as the world crashed all around me. I remember those days like a story, a novel of some other lifetime. Written and dedicated to me. I will not forget those days anytime soon but I look back as a proud mother. I nurtured myself along the way. I had to because no one else could or would.


Tonight you called me. I noticed a message four hours after. I do not listen. I do not read your words and I know you are waiting. Today I left the place I ran to because of you. Because of you I had to hide and I was begging for your calls.


Today I run only for myself. I despise what you did but I look back with a smile. Today you are begging for my calls. You long for what I used to crave. I go to bed at peace. 

Creative Writing · Dark · Depression · Free Write · I Miss You · Melancholy · Personal · Poetry · Relationships · Sadness · Writing

I am hurting right now. I wish I could fix you. I wish I could mend us.

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You have no fucking clue

No idea of how much this hurts me

How much I want to hear your voice again

And hold your hand

The thought of your broken heart rips me

I am shredded to my core

Because of you

I want to tell you.

“Come to me. I will hold you.

I will take your pain for a moment.

I will lighten your burden.”

But I know, that you can not make that

That you can not have just a little

You are always too much

And I am always wanting it

Even when I know I should not

I wish I could take away your sickness

I wish I could make a new beginning

Or a beautiful ending

One that does not stop with your darkness

I pray to Gods and all that is Holy

For you to be healed

Please know I am waiting

I am believing

But I also know

I can not walk beside you

Creative Writing · Depression · Free Write · Letter · Melancholy · Personal · Pondering · Prose · Reflection · Writing

Lost in the Supermarket

I visit often, mostly just to see you. Sometimes I feel we have a connection. Other times I am unsure if it’s just politeness. I have been hurt a million times and my heart is fragile. Mostly I am okay. I sleep alone. I eat alone. I feel okay on my own. But it’s been two years for me and I miss having a man’s arms around me and feeling enclosed, inside of another. I miss having someone to look forward to. Someone to share life with. Laugh with.

I see you and think, you could be that person. I am not often attracted to others but I feel strangely drawn to you. When we speak, I want to keep talking. To ask you questions about life and death and the universe.  Find out why you love Deftones so much and how I lost my virginity to White Pony. I think if you cared, if you were interested, you would have inquired by now. I have presented ample opportunity for it.


So here I sit writing to no one, or possibly the entire world. I think there is not one for me but that hopeful piece asks, maybe? Still do I wonder at your mysterious aura. I think about you as I walk away to my car again. I like to imagine you looking back or at least wanting to, and maybe even you wonder of me too…


More likely we will continue to pass each other in this market. Red shirt and a basket in my hand. I will smile and you will smile but go on in our own ways.


“I’m all lost in the supermarket
I can no longer shop happily
I came in here for that special offer
A guaranteed personality”

—-name that band

Creative Writing · Dark · Depression · Emotional Abuse · Free Write · Melancholy · Poetry · Psychological Abuse · Reflection · Sadness · Self-harm · Writing

Beauty and the Beast

Tw:suicide, self-harm

It was New Year’s day and I sat curled up in the oversized arm chair thinking, “I deserve so much better than this.”

That’s when I knew it was the end. That it was over and there was no going back.


Reasoning these actions:


That I should not have to be up all night rocking back and forth. Wondering where you are and who you are doing. Fearing the possibilities of what the next horrible thing you will do, without a care  or second thought for me. Driving myself insane trying to decipher truth from your lies….deciding it would be better to die than to live through another day with your sickness.


This is the point I got to. I looked at the hole you punched in the wall. The mess of your clothes on the closet floor. Empty bottles all around our big and lonely apartment. Where did I go wrong?


A million answers and I can not find the only belt I own. I know the guns are no longer at home.


Swollen eyes. Gashes on my legs. I am shaking on the floor again and looking for a way. I watched my world crumbling around me as a natural disaster.  Too incredible and unbelievable to look away.  I could not conceive how you left me in such a state.


You are every broken piece in me.


And I decided a while back that was never going to change. You still rattle about inside of me but I keep you in a cage. You are the moster I run from. The beast I try to hide. 

Anxiety · Creative Writing · Dark · Depression · Free Write · Healing · Personal · Poetry · Reflection · Writing

Rise Again

When you died

A piece of me went with you

I knew that moment

Could never be undone

And that my life until then

Was over and through


There are some things you can never recover from

There are pieces that can not be forced

Or repaired and reassembled

Into a recognizable source


So you take the shambled pieces

And create a new painting

A sculpture

And you bleed into the seams

Watching as the thread passes

In and out you will weave


There is beauty in your imperfection

As we recite our lovers ways

The broken and the shallow

Pass through our later days


The fabric will burn

The color will fade

A pile of ashen color

Upon the earth displayed


You will recall the day you were broken

When you find yourself here again

So begin the ritual building

Your formation is your pain