I've dreamt of you

In every variation,

In worlds we met,

Didn't meet,

Met sooner,

Met later.

Worlds where we collided,

Left bruises and scars and

'Sorry, I'm so sorry's,

Worlds where we passed silently,

Lived easy, quiet, apart.

Worlds where we met too soon and became runaways,

Ran away from ourselves, our problems,

Eachother.

I've dreamt of shared classes,

Crowded streets,

Dim corners at friends' parties.

I've even dreamt of castles and superpowers.

I've dreamt it all,

But I think I like this reality the best.

Changing mood.

Changing thought.

Changing satisfaction.

Nothing happened.

Nothing's wrong.

Nothing do I feel.

Don't ask.

Don't speak.

Don't worry.

Give me space.

Give me time.

Give me peace.

Fine it is.

Fine I am.

Fine we will be.

there is so much I wish to say

but the words are caught in my throat

choking me

stopping me

trying to kill me. although

i'm not sure why...

for they are simple letters

simple sounds

that are choked out between sobs,

yet never reach you.

and even if they did,

would you care to listen?

for these words

these letters

these sounds

are desperately trying to break free.

hitting the bars that surround

my heart

like it has become

some sort of prison.

but maybe it has.

because those words

that have been trapped

inside the cold metal bars

surrounding my heart

(i'm not too sure when the ruthless metal barricades got there,

maybe when I realized that

love doesn't exist for the 2 of us inside

the walls of an all girls catholic high school)

have already done too much damage.

so maybe we would all just be safer

if they stayed locked up.

I wish I mattered to you,

As much as you do to me.

I wish you could see 

Something special in me.

I wish you could hear,

The breaking of my heart,

Each time you overlook me.

I never mattered,

Forty-two years, it took me to see.

I was the invisible one,

The others just needed you more.

When I needed you, air I grasped,

When they needed you, you they grasped.

I wish I had mattered, I wish you could have seen,

Everything I've ever done, 

Everything I've achieved,

Was all a futile attempt,

For my mother to see me.

I wish I mattered to you,

But I know I never will.

Funny, you still matter to me,

Even now, the tears flow,

Because what I wish, 

Well, that's not how it is.

Why am I so easy to leave behind

Why do I care so much

Why does it hurt so much when you're gone

Why does everything you say seem so falsified

Why

Why do I ask why

I've got 24 hours left until the moment

One last kiss, you'll walk out that door

Catch a plane, you'll fly to your new life

Leaving me, crying alone on the floor

It's taking every bit of strength I have buried

Not to beg you, at your feet, to stay

It'll take more faith than I've ever imagined

To believe we'll be together again one day

I'm trying to keep my face smiling

I'm trying to be happy for your fresh start

I'm trying to believe our goals are the same

I'm trying to trust what I feel in my heart

When you're gone, I'll be all by myself

Do you know I have never once lived alone?

I went from parents, to roommates, boyfriends and kids

It's scary my only company will be the phone

You tell me I'm stronger than I realize

I whisper it's because you're my rock

You tell me that you believe in me

I keep my eyes averted, away from the clock

You say it won't be long, we can visit

FaceTime and Skype, we'll have dates

We'll send snapchats just like we used to

Over screens is the way we now relate

You're lucky to be headed to the future

New job, new adventures, all new places

I'll have the memories keeping me company

I'll have judgement from the same smug faces

24 hours left where you're mine alone

24 hours until my world stops spinning

24 hours until this place isn't your home

Final stretch, bottom of the 9th inning

So gather me up in your arms so tightly

Kiss me hard with all the passion you've got

Rip my clothes from my body roughly

Use your lips to drive away my sad thoughts

I will grip your shoulders with fervor

We mustn't let this be how we say goodbye

Let's make this a "Until I see you again"

It's not over, right, so why do I cry?

24 hours the countdown is on

When you're gone, I will focus on my goal

To ditch this poison town and toxic reminders

A fresh start is what we need to become whole

Good Morning, Prosers,

This blog piece is a little different from the usual, I (@sammielee46) am not writing this in my usual Prosey voice, with Prose at the forefront of my mind, I am writing it as me, the woman who just so happens to work at Prose.

I am tackling a sensitive subject and I hope that those of you who read it find me writing about personal experience somewhat comforting and perhaps slightly hopeful if any of you are going through a period of darkness. That being said, I touch upon the subject of suicide and mental illness and felt it appropriate to disclose that fact before you start reading.

The whole team have discussed what we can do to help those of Prose who are in crisis; above and beyond providing a safe place to share your words. It is from this conversation that we would like to announce a new profile for any Proser to contact if they are in crisis. It is a profile run by the team. We as individuals believe everyone deserves to be heard, and we are here to listen. @shadowcounselor is the profile handle and is there for you to talk to someone should you find yourself in difficulty.

Since the birth of social media, writers have begun to find the strength and courage to share their words with others, unsurprisingly, some of those posts have been posts coming from a place of deep emotional pain. As writers, we purge those feelings across the page, the ugliness of our inner-demons leaving trails of pixelated pain with every word we type.

It’s no secret that there have been numerous medical papers written to prove the psychological benefits writing has upon those of us who have suffered with mental health problems.

I am writing this piece from a place of understanding. Mental health difficulties have been prevalent throughout my childhood, and my adult years, touching family members, friends, and even myself.

I recall the first time I brushed up against the cruelty of depression was with my mother at the age of around 11. She suffered a nervous breakdown whilst she was at work and I will always remember the look of emptiness that rested on her expression for months afterward. She was put on the strongest medication possible, and at that point, I’d lost my mum as I had previously known her. I became a mother to my mother, I was no longer a child. I had to step up and it was the first time I knew true fear. What I didn’t understand then, was how much strength and courage she had.

Mental illness is no joke, it can change your life forever. It’s debilitating and still often a taboo subject, a subject that heartless people often question, even now, in this day and age. For someone who has just had a nervous breakdown, or a panic attack, just getting out of bed takes an inner strength that would never have been used before. I saw this within my mum. She may have been a walking zombie because of her meds, but she was still fighting.

I remember questioning my granddad's way of dealing with my mother; “Think yourself a pair of curtains and pull yourself together.” This was not the way to speak to someone whose mind and soul wanted to sleep for an eternity. This wasn’t the way to help my mum. In fact, I’m sure she’d tell you right now that it made her worse. She was already placing enough pressure upon herself to “get better” and those kinds of phrases, only exacerbated her self-berating when she wasn’t feeling any better.

Her moods were interchangeable and I felt so hopeless. She became suicidal and sat alone one night while I was in bed, with a plethora of tablets ready to take her own life. Why didn’t she? Because she saw a picture of her children, of my brother and me, and chose to stay for us.

Years pass and she still has the dark days, the days where the black clouds descend and you can’t see through the thick fog of depression, but she also has good ones now, the type where the sky is blue, and the sea is clear; where you can see the horizon and the breaking of dawn in the distance. I wish she had Prose way back when, and I wish she’d utilise Prose now, but she doubts herself too much to even put pixel to page.

My own personal journey with depression and anxiety, comes directly from the fear I felt in my childhood, the grief I felt after losing my grandmother to cancer, the trauma from giving birth to a seriously unwell child and feeling like I was to blame, like I grew her wrong, the feelings of being a constant disappointment to everyone around me, the sheer disgust I felt with myself that I would never amount to anything because I was too dumb, or just not good enough.

My first panic attack came from nowhere, it crippled me, I cannot even tell you what triggered it. I was lost in a haze of smoke filled panic, that filled my lungs and suffocated me at the throat. Of course, I panicked even more, resulting in cold sweats, tingly fingers, a racing heart, and a thought train that could be heard across the globe from its supersonic boom from surpassing the speed barrier.

I have always been a friendly character, one who is quite sociable to those whom I “let in,” but this event left me shutting myself away. Panic attack number one was the first of many during that evening, and the days following. When I look back upon it now, I can see the subsequent attacks were me overthinking what had just happened and bringing on more panic because of that.

For the two weeks that followed that evening, I slept my panic away. It was the only time I didn’t feel anxious. At this point in time, I was freelancing within the world of marketing so I took that time away and literally hibernated in my bed, scared that I would never be the same again.

Writing has always been something I love, I started writing stories at the age of four, and I turned my back on it. I was truly crippled by the fear of feeling the way that I did before. Until I picked up my pen and paper and started writing about the darkness that was consuming me.

I wrote and I wrote. It was painful, scary too, but when I had finished and put the period at the end of the last sentence I wrote, I felt proud that I had manage to externalise all of the pain and fear that I was trying to compartmentalise inside. I was scared that if I wrote it out, it would become more true; I certainly wouldn’t have spoken about my problems out loud, just thinking about them made me anxious.

I learned something from writing those feelings there.

It took strength. A strength I never knew I had. Not only that but it made me feel slightly better. The more I wrote, the more I started to feel the mist ascend, and I was lucky to have the power of words to aid me through my torment. That is for sure.

I think back to the time that our closest family friend ended up with severe depression and anxiety; she was the happiest woman I knew, so bubbly and exuberant, full of laughter and smiles. We had no idea the sheer black she harboured within her soul. That was until her daughter called us and told us that her mother had hung herself from her roof rafters. She had taken her own life because death, the unknown, was the easiest solution, rather than sticking with what she knew, pain and distress. I sometimes wonder, if she wrote out her thoughts and feelings, in a poem or journal, whether she would still be here.

I’ve lost a friend through suicide, I have had friends attempt suicide, and family members who have used self-harm to try and purge their pain. I wish they would pick up a pen, or use Prose to expel what I know causes them deep emotional pain. But they don’t and I will forever recommend that they do because of my personal experience with words.

The whole point of me sharing an insight into my own personal relationship with mental health problems is to illustrate one thing; words may not heal, but they help. Every one of us here feels. Every one of us will have a point in our lives where the thoughts that overcome us are not pretty ones. It’s what we do with those thoughts and how we release those pains that counts.

Prose has such a wonderful community. One full of supportive, understanding, and caring individuals. It’s a place where there isn’t judgement upon the words you write or the thoughts you project. It truly is a safe haven for all of us to eject the unwanted pieces of our minds, without fear of rebuttal, without worry that we are wrong for feeling the way we do. This is what makes Prose, Prose. A unique place, our home for many reasons.

I want to extend my ear to anyone who feels as though they cannot pick up their digital pen and scribble those thoughts down, for whatever reason. Why? Because we have a voice, and we all deserve the right to be heard.

If any of you ever find yourselves in crisis, that is what the @shadowcounselor profile is there for. To be heard, less of judgement. I am no professional therapist, but one thing I can promise is that I will listen without judgement or prejudice, and I know my fellow teammates will join me within my endeavour.

Until next time, Prosers,

Sammie.

Dear Myself,

No matter what happens,

just remember this:

Keep going even if you feel like giving up.

And when even that won't work,

(there will be unbelievable realities until you live through them),

know this:

You will become the person you dreamed of being!

SO ENJOY EVERYTHING!

Love,

Yourself

I want you to hold me

I want you to love me

I want to fall asleep in your arms

I want to be happy

I want you to be happy.

Why won't anyone grant me these small requests?