Monthly Archives: November 2017

An open letter to a person who feels too much

Hello, you.

I know you thought I couldn’t see you back there hiding, but I see you shining like the sun on a cloudless day.
You are not invisible.  You may wish to be.  You may hope to skate by blending in with that wallflower pattern on the fly.
I see you.
I see you when your emotions flood your brain.
I see the lies those fickle demons tell you.
I see all the good you do and hope no one says anything.

I know you think that you are too much.
You feel too much.
You want too much.
You say too much.
You are not.  You are.
You are here.

You love people with the force of a goddamn waterfall.
You hurt like a baseball bat to the mouth.
And on those special days when you let yourself be free, you are Apollo.
Daring to fly close to the Sun.
Taking that orb in your sweet hands and firing the flame that is your soul.

I wish you freedom from your brain, from people, and from expectation.
I wish you freedom to just be.
I wish you adventure in the face of utter terror.

I wish you hope and dreams that are never afraid to say “I want this.”
I wish you the courage to say “no,” instead of making some cock-eyed notion of self is presented to you. You don’t need to be anyone else, anymore.
I wish you a steady hand to drive your fears back to the farm.
And, I wish you matches and lighter fluid to all those nightmares that made you believe you are too much. All those voices in your mind and surrounding you that ask for more than their worth.

I wish you destruction for rebirth.

Because I see you.
You are here.
You are everything you need to be.
No more and no less.

You.

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Fuck me, I need therapy

Again.

If you are anything like me, I know you’ve had that thought. Your perfectly respectable (also perfectly fucking annoying) mental illness is acting up again and you get to a point, after you’ve cried 12 times in one day, had vicious mood swings, and have the anxiety shits for three days, where you are contemplating handing over $175 for 50 minutes to someone you love but can’t afford.

I’m sitting here with her email address up, wondering if I should take the plunge. Deep down I know what she will say. In fact, I can name them:

1. You’ve gotten married, moved, and basically have no job. That’s a lot of personal stress.

2. Do you have a routine? (In case you are wondering, no I don’t because I’m a fucking child and I’m floundering in some level of personal crisis.

3. Are you taking your meds appropriately? No, because once again clearly I can’t be trusted with my own well being.

4. Are you eating? Yes, I’d like to eat a gallon of ruffles chips right now, but this motherfucker resisted.

5. Are you pregnant? No. Not unless my unborn child is a ninja. (No, really. I checked because I’ve been convinced I’m losing my fragile little mind. Yes, my ass actually took a test out of sheer desperate in a weird parking lot bathroom).

6. This is a lot of transition and change for you to deal with. Do you have a support system? I can’t really bring my anxiety and depression with me to dinner. Unless they were wine bottles named anxiety and depression, then I could do that. I’m trying with people. I generally kind of suck at peopling. I’m trying with people. I generally kind of suck at the social scene. If I’m trashed, I’m wonderful but I don’t think that’s a great way to handle things that make my brain shake.

7. Are you going outside? Yes. I have to walk everywhere. Yayyyyy, physical activity.

8. What’s acting up? Well, I’ve had five anxiety attacks in four weeks (did you know there is a differenxe between an anxiety attack and a panic attack? I did not. I’ve been using the wrong vocab all this time). Then the depression sucks the air out of this windbag and promotes pathetic amounts of slouching.

9. Do you think this has anything to do with returning to a similiar country as the one you were physically attacked in 2012? Probably, but I wish it were more obvious. I try not to let it stop me from doing stuff. Then this guy touched me unnecessarily last week (because stroking my side is a great way to flirt with a random pedestrian) and I just turned around and walked back home. We got stopped by the police and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. So, maybe its acting up more than I’d like to admit to myself. I don’t want it to act up. That’s the thing about someone using a metal pole to hit a home run with your head, it doesn’t really matter if you want it to act up or not. It just does. The other night I was at a function and it was outside so it was pretty dark. The shadows reminded me of people running across the highway in Nigeria and for some reason I couldn’t handle them.

10. How’s this effecting your marriage? It makes me hard to deal with. It’s exhausting. I feel guilty. I’m trying to bury it in the backyard but then the bitch floods.

That’s probably covers a lot of questions she would ask. She’d probably tell me to not be so hard on myself which is generally not my greatest talent.

I guess the thing that makes it worse is feeling like I need to pretend to be ok. Generally, people want to hear that you’re good and life is instagram level fun and move on. I understand that. But, life is messy, people are complex, and joining yourself with another human is an ongoing series of unfortunate events with little peaks of nice-nice.

I guess I don’t have to pretend, but at the same time no one wants to be the debbie downer in a conversation. I mean, I don’t even want to feel like this so no one wants to hear my shit.

Also, I’m pretty sure there is no Wi-Fi on this flight which will severly impact the next ten hours of my life.

Update: I survived.

The Composition

There is often talk of what makes us.
Composition. Composed. Decomposed.
As if our bodies and souls were the same flesh. The same cells.
Isn’t your heart and your mind the same thing?
As if I could tell you that my mind is made of mud and you’d understand.
When you are made of a universe of moments –
the ones before you and the ones make’d, made, construed, destroyed, and mangled during this present.
The quip is “sugar, spice, and everything nice.”
Isn’t it?
Little girls. Women.
Gods.
The woman is not so simply composed.
You are Diana. But, you are also Venus.
Ares exists in their two bellies.  As if Bacchus didn’t make the wine to bind this time.
The stains of pain with Eros shame.
For you are not one thing.
You are an empire made of magic and the ends are always tragic here.
Because there is no end.  You wade through life against the waves of hurt, the moments of serenity, and the bile of expectations to make something that is your own.
You make your soul, because this story isn’t simple.
Life is jumbled and blurry.
It captures you like an ocean – so perfectly silent that it roars.
The rip tide pulls you away.
Away from home. Away from love.  Away from what is safe. Away.
And in that moment, what looks like freedom may only be a mirage.
What is right?
You are not one thing, dear woman.
You walk through this life on jagged rocks and sharp glass.
Your soul bleeds from carrying this weight.
And in the pain, there is clarity.
You are a thousand moments.
A million mistakes.
And yet, you are the world.

 

Wake up

Tw: suicide

If you’ll do me the honor of putting on Wake up by NF while you read this, it’ll set the mood.

I’m sitting at the feet of the Nelson Mandela statue right now listening to this song on repeat.

Someone good committed suicide recently. Someone so kind. Someone too fucking good for this world. And I’m so goddamn torn up about it, that I can’t even form sentences.

She was one of many who were plagued by monsters. The kind that attack your mind and make everything so dark that you can’t find your way out. She fought them to death.

It’s so easy to write off suicide as weak. It’s so easy to say “they should of decided to live.” It’s so easy to shame those who suffer from mental illness. It’s so easy to forget the people who are different than us. It’s so easy to judge another’s suffering by ambiguous standards. It’s so easy to write a shitty blog post about suicide.

I’m so tired of being embarrassed and ashamed that sometimes I can’t keep my depression and anxiety locked away. I’m so tired of running away when the panic sets in. I’m so tired of hearing the excuses about mental illness. I’m so tired of hating myself. I’m tired of fighting.

I want people to wake up. I want communities to stop pretending they don’t play a part in suicide. I want people to not give up on us. I want you to stop excluding someone your friends call weird. I want people to stop walking away when they don’t understand a panic attack. I want you to go after the kid crying at work. I want you to ask how are you and not be afraid of the answer. I want you to reach out to someone you know and ask if they are ok. I WANT YOU TO ASK HOW TO HELP SOMEONE SUFFERING.

All it takes is one action. One moment. To change a person’s life.

I know what you are thinking. Families feel the strain of mental illness. Husbands and wives watch the person they love become a shell and they don’t know what to do. Sisters and brothers get tired of checking on their sibling. Friends are tired of the person turning down their invites. Sometimes they just want this disease to go away.

I get it. We get it. We need to stand up with our pain. We need to scream “here it fucking is. I carry this monster with me and I am not ashamed.” We need to ask for help. We need to get help. We need weapons to keep fighting. We need to get up when a hole in the ground seems like a great idea. We need to stop believing we are worthless because it’s not true. We

I want you to know what ever monsters that you carry with you, they are not bigger than you. You keep on fighting. This world is not better without you. Put down that knife and back away from the fucking ledge because we need you here. We need you.

So many of us have felt that temptation. So many of us planned it. So many of us almost did. So many of us tried.

I’ve been on that bridge, friend. I’ve wanted to watch all my pain fall with me. It takes everything to pull yourself back from the edge. Don’t let those monsters take you. They don’t deserve your life.