Lamina

My skin burns

with the tinge of passion

Green-lit by a system of nerves

But this moment is fleeting

and by the next

It has me by the neck

and I am dragged by the nape

to the ends of an abysmal room

Where I will stand and serve

where I will sit and loom

Should she have forgotten

to wire me capable of joy

and instead

A surplus of marked confusion and

utter dread

If I don’t have a handle on

the emotions I’d been spoon-fed

Then perhaps it’d be best

that I renounce my position

in the blanks of the margins

Where bliss grows like wheat

wilts slow

and weighs heavy as lead

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Marbles

Tell me

Does it embarrass you

That your son fancies lovely things?

He’s not a brick breaker

Like his father

Or his father before him

But he wears the seasons

On his fingers and toes

Occasionally

Should the mood arise

And he knows

That you’re a product of your era

And he cannot blame you

Nor is he inclined to

But the blood’s

A little thinner

Between you now

The heart has to

Pump a little harder

Now

The lashes sting

A little less

Now that they’ve become

The yolk to your egg

The routine

And he has all but

Lost his marbles

In a panic

He tries to collect them

Like little bits

Of a rolling sky

That used to be blue

For him

For me

The Equation

Fucked up.

We are both fucked up.

Idiosyncrasies rushing over

like schools of fish

caught in a current.

Psychoses biting down

on our heads

like piranhas,

drawing blood.

We found common ground

in our mutual self-hatred,

and from it

we built love.

Fucked up,

idiosyncratic,

psychotic

love.

Together, we became

the piranhas,

preying

on the school

of fish.

 

In Jest

I joke;

you laugh

and I am funny

you like me

I try again;

you smirk

I fall short

I’m no good

you hate me

I can’t stay

I go now

Thursday

Moments like these are fleeting

but I can’t see ahead:

the fog is much too dense

and these shackles are a bit crippling

the way they keep me weighted down

Bobbing below the surface

where my vision is skewed, and where

I’m mere inches from clarity

but common sense is like a mass

hugging my vital organs

and I would do anything to feel like

my lungs were mine again,

like I had time again

If I weren’t so consumed in

my own self-pity

I might find solace in screaming

but my throat is raw,

and starving of words once again

A sense of expression that I’ve been without

for months again

Ruminating

Childhood is brilliant. You’re amazed by the simplest of concepts and able to play pretend so vividly that it’s reality for you. You’re not yet at an age where anything matters for more than a few minutes…no worrying about how you look, why (s)he never called back, deadlines. No anxiety surrounding overwhelming debt, or difficult tests, or which direction your life is headed in. Not a care in the world beyond your imagination. I understand it’s a stage, and one that inevitably ends. But are we really meant to pull a complete 180 and grow into these amoebic, money-hungry robots that live by rote and value the personal lives of others above all else? What happened to the beautiful nature of finding amusement in simplicity? Where has it gone, and is it lost forever?

«They Want Me Dead»

They paint the ceilings with the refuse
of the long since passed
until they’re camouflaged in heartache
My mother warned me not to leave
without my shadow cast
Because my shadow is my namesake

They pick the fruit from
the lowest branches
Bite the stem off and spit in my face
Their words like parachutes, gently
falling all around me
And detonate with valor and grace

Breaking the Silence

So that’s what the sun looks like. I’d forgotten. 🙂

I’m back, sooner than I’d anticipated, and I’m feeling so much better. I’ve begun taking Vitamin D after every meal in the morning, and I like to think it’s responsible for my improved moods. Music has regained its meaning in my life, as has writing, reading, and everything that gives me joy and pleasure. I can’t say for sure that I won’t relapse, but the sun is shining promisingly (I meant that as a metaphor, but it’s seriously 73° here today, and it’s nearly November), and I plan to relish in it.

This is merely a transition post to let you know that my hiatus is effectively over. In previous days, I’ve even come up with a few ideas for new entries, as well as missed blogging as a whole. Those of you who’ve supported me have been incredible- thank you, so much. I’d give you all a hug if I could.

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That will have to do for now.

In other news, I’d like to welcome one of my best IRL friends to the world of WordPress: Liann! You can click on her name to head on over to her blog. She works with me at Trader Joe’s and at the urging of a customer and several of her friends, she’s started a blog all about her journey into healthier living. I encourage you to pay her a visit and follow along with her if you feel so inclined. 🙂

That’s it for now. I’ll be posting again today a little bit later with some suggestions for some excellent products to pick up if ever you find yourself a first-time shopper at Trader Joe’s. That post should be up in a few hours. Until then, au revoir. And again, thank you all for your kind words- they were cracks of sunlight in a dense, brick wall.

Shadow Suit

I’ve always known I had a very mild case of depression, but in the past month it’s grown into a sort of perpetual rain cloud hanging overhead. Forgive the hackneyed analogy, but I can’t really find the will to think of something better.

I feel spineless. None of my interests are even remotely interesting to me. Even blogging has become something of a chore, which is why I haven’t done much of it this month. I need to find my way back to my source of passion, and I have no fucking idea where to begin looking, nor do I have the drive to search.

For those that don’t understand how depression works, who may know me personally or not, who think depression requires legitimacy, allow me to list the reasons you’ll say I have no right to feel depressed:

  • I have a wonderful family
  • I have a Grade-A group of friends
  • I have a roof over my head
  • I have clothes in my closet
  • I have a bed to sleep in
  • I have food on the table

All of those things are true. Overall, I’ve been fortunate to have been given a good life. But a common misconception about depression is that it stems from something in particular. Quite the contrary is true, in fact. Depression is, essentially, a separate entity, and sufferers are merely a host. It appears when it wants to, it wreaks havoc; it doesn’t stop when wished to, or prayed for, or decided against. If you suffer from depression, you know as well as I do that you could easily wake up on any given day and feel like nothing. You can barely muster the strength to get out of bed; nothing appeals to you; you don’t want to talk to or see anybody; you can’t perform optimally in areas that require it, such as school or work; you have no appetite; you have no energy; sleep is the only thing you want to do, and you want to do it forever. Above all, there is no legitimate reason for feeling this way, so when uninformed people beg questions like, What do you possibly have to be depressed about?, and follow up said questions with comments like, You have a good life, it’s really fucking irritating and actually kind of offensive. Depression is a psychological mood disorder which those who suffer from it cannot control. More over, those who are lucky enough to not be sufferers tend to be ignorant and blind to the effects of depression. Not always, but sometimes.

Ever heard of Hyperbole and a Half? It is a blog that I absolutely love and its author/illustrator, Allie Brosh, perfectly describes and depicts what having depression is like. It’s a two-part post, part one of which you can read here, and part two of which you can read here. If you’re one of the aforementioned non-sufferers, I highly recommend you read it. If you are a sufferer, still, read it. It’s worth it. I promise.

Having said all of that, I’d like this post to culminate in my announcement that I am placing a moratorium on blogging, through the rest of the month of October. I’ve tried to force myself to post more often, but I’ve tended to begin writing, and wind up drafting these half-written attempts, simply because I have no drive to continue. But these pseudo-posts that are currently wallowing in my saved drafts will be finished and published at some point, I swear it. In the interim, I’m taking time for myself and to hopefully rediscover my passion for life, because without it, everything I do will feel mediocre and fruitless, at best.

Also, disclaimer: I am not posting this purposely to garner sympathy from anybody. I’ve got enough self-pity to hold me over until I come out of this. I hope you’re all having a better time than I am. I’ll see you soon.

Balls of my Feet

In the past hour I’ve become
slow
in my reaction time;
effortless
in my facial expression.

Carelessly dragging
the balls of my feet
as if bound to weights
heavier than a heart
pulsing with
red water.

It is not as though
you do not matter
to me,
but that I cannot
show it
at this moment …

For I am too busy
wallowing
in self-pity;

ask me again
later.