Writing myself Alive
In this ink,
through these words,
A tenuous hope
Our words reach out
to find refuge
from our loneliness.
To find a way to stop sabotaging
And start saving
Shock Life back into us,
that we are electric.
Draining the Fog in Ink to Paper
I could start
With enhanced psychological definitions
“Depression is a state of mind
Caused by or causing low levels of serotonin
In the brain.
Comes in many forms
Only characterized by how intense it is
And how long it lasts…”
But I’m not going to start that way
I’m going to start with a testimony
Once upon a time
A girl woke up screaming
Not in fright but in pain
Not physical pain
But intense anxiety
She was dying
Or coming close
Or giving up
Who knew the difference?
No one looking
And she was too much in turmoil
“What’s wrong darling?”
Leave me alone!
“Please tell me!”
“I can’t leave you like this!”
That woke her older sister
She calmly slipped from bed
Grabbed her second journal
And her favorite pen
With easy-flowing ink
She said nothing
When she came and joined her sister
She sat down beside her
Rubbing her still-heaving shoulders
They trembled and slowly fell still
Mother stood watching from the corner
She handed her her journal
And favorite pen
“Write it all away”
She opened it
Her sister slowly grabbed the pen
Touched it to paper
Her sobs had ceased
The lines flowed easily
Scratching words into the beautiful lined paper
Though it was dark
The pen scratched faster and faster
Unseen by all but one mind
Who knew exactly what it was doing
And where it was going
Her shoulders heaved once more
Her breathing deepened and hastened
Her sister hugged her tight
And kissed her tear-streaked face
The pen stopped
As if the mind behind it was brought
Slamming back to reality
She returned the hug from her sister
She smiled as she fell
Back into her bed
“Thank you” she whispered
And was asleep within moments
Her sister rose
Taking the journal and pen
Led Mother out of the room
And silently shut the door
They both read what their sister wrote
Beautiful but terrible words
And their eyes filled with tears
Writing is a portal to the soul
Delivering the images in our mind
And impressing them on paper
The mind cannot bear
Must be thrust out
Before they destroy
They build a fog in our brain
A deep, dense fog
So no one may see and understand
It blocks us from us
It destroys us from within
Writing it out in solidarity
An outlet for the fog
Drains it and channels it
To the paper
And like all fog
When it contacts cool dry air
Fierce, happiness, positivity—thoughts of who I was & how I always use to be.
Within my head, searching like a pirate seeking the X that marks the spot, so desperately.
Hoping to find a treasure chest, but needing it to be filled with different things.
Instead of gold, I long for strength to overcome dysthymia’s obstacle onslaught of anxiety.
The problem is, I’m not a pirate & there’s no cure-all treasure chest In reality.
Oh, this vessel just isn’t as strong as you might think & see—
due to this storm that hit & won’t leave.
One of us have to go, dysthymia or me due to this depression & it’s gang that bullies me, mentally.
I have no choice but to carefully clear out my head by planning an escape to flea.
Quickly I grab what I need, paper, a pen & a quiet place to sit down & think.
Putting pen to paper, helps me free my soul & my mind by expressing myself, to me.
Bipolar & anxiety, never agree with each other nor do they agree with me, depression or ADHD.
Each diagnosis has different views, feelings, emotions & personalities.
You can’t put multiple people all different in their own views, in a room & expect anyone to agree.
Too many points, opinions, shouting, fighting & lack of understanding.
So it’s me against them, one on one with the pen or the pencil, whoever’s on duty & the paper, mediating.
Adhd likes to explain itself through drawings and paintings, since colors explain her issues better than words for she.
Bipolar likes to use her words, verbally but gets ahead of herself, so the pen is key.
Anxiety likes to calm down through scenarios & some poetry.
Depression will do whatever she can, in order to ignore dysthymia’s
way of making my life look darker than the black sea.
Unlike my mind, a pen or pencil can only express one word at a time—
making sense of what myself needs in order to keep safe from me.
I was having a discussion with my psychiatrist
who with a med intern in the room
was having a teaching moment,
"When I think of all the great art science philosophical breakthoughs in the history
so many greats Michelangelo Handel Van Gogh Newton Emerson Florence Nightingale
Theodore Roosevelt Hamilton Churchill Lincoln Byron Keats Poe Dickens Twain
Fitzgerald Faulkner Hemingway Vonnegut Dylan Thomas Sylvia Plath Virginia Woolf
and even in modern times Rosemary Clooney Vivien Leigh Connie Francis Dick Cavett Art Buchwald Abbie Hoffman Buzz Aldrin Ted Turner Jonathon Winters Robert Young Burgess Meredith Phil Spector Patty Duke Brian Wilson Jim Carey Jane Pauley
Richard Dryfess Carrie Fisher Ben Stiller Robin Williams all treated more or less...
I have to wonder if we do the right thing
in agressively treating those diagnosed as ill
considering that by doing so
we'll never know what
could have brought to humanity."
Here I insert my thoughts,
"Here's the problem
there is a devilish balance that needs to be achieved
bipolar physically heightens perception and sensitivity
studies have found that people predisposed for bipolar
are born with 30% more neurotransmitters for signaling
Picture if you can, a person with 30% more fingers, 30% more hearing,
or 30% more eyelashes. These features could be huge advantages...
but those same features can overwhelm and get in the way of normal life."
"Ah" they both say at once.
"That's exactly why
treatment is vital
bipolar - out of control - can and will burn down your home
with your loved ones and everything in it.
in control - bipolar can provide you and those you love with amazing warmth and light harnessing and leveling bipolar energy is everything
finding the balance
providing coping skills and correcting brain chemistry
is the answer you professionals must provide for humanity
so those thus gifted
can blend into the ordinary world
while preserving their extraordinary stable sensibilities."
Together again they both said,"Ah"
*This is technically a repost of an old & buried piece, so if that doesn't qualify for this challenge no worries
The world drags you down
with tightly packed cubes
made of sugar or offices
but either way, you lose
Long ago it was easy
to run under the sky
hunting, foraging, moving
just trying to get by
You feel that it’s wrong
but can’t move with the weight
they’ve spoonfed your brain
and stacked up your plate
Madness some call it
Madness some say
When you can’t fight the future
You only live for today
Then depression sets in
and surrounds you in waves
your friends are all sinking
you can’t roll any saves
One by one they give in
to the pills or the dark
but within you it burns
that small, little spark
Never it whispers
Not you it roars
If you can’t feel happy
Then I’ll make you soar
Madness some call it
Madness some say
When your mind’s had enough
And it goes its own way
Soon all your thoughts race
through the once empty halls
they tug at your strings
and smash at your walls
You’re drunk on your ego
a wolf among sheep
you can do all you want
except go to sleep
The ride feels so good
when you’re nearing the top
but much like a train
all this crazy must stop
Madness some call it
Madness some say
When you realize you’ve lost
More than just your own way
You clean up your act
you lift and you jog
you start eating veggies
you find a new job
You balance your diet
along with your mood
healthy mind, healthy body
but you’re just being shrewd
For inside you it sleeps
the beast is alive
if you fall in despair
it will make you survive
Madness some call it
Madness some say
But for you it’s a safeguard
Of your ancient DNA
most days, getting out of bed
is a war
clinging to the comfort of the sheets,
shying away from the cold of reality.
but once i'm out of bed
i have to move,
by an invisible whip
that cracks against my spine
until i stand a little straighter.
the pressure that comes with
letting yourself come
takes too much work.
get out of bed
for something to keep away
of who i used to be.
glues together the cracks
that form in my psyche,
daily repose that i'm granted
in spare minutes of free time,
when i can gather my thoughts
and spin them outward,
tossed like frisbees,
knit like yarn,
until i can no longer recognize them
as my own.
taking my depression
and replacing it
words upon words that i carry on my back
until they drive me into the ground.
i convert my depression
in darkness scrawled out on white pages.
i am a missionary in the mountains,
preaching to my depression's closed door
until it finally gives in,
settling back in my head,
making room for something more
until it rears up
and spreads again.
thus the cycle
conversion and relapse.
depression is eternal.
and i am confined by mortality.
it will outlive me.
but maybe i can create something
that will live
than my disease.
How does such bleakness of thought
Produce such vibrance of expression?
So autumn, when she sighs,
Paints her leaves bright colors as she dies.
Times When I Write
it's easier to express myself in writing.
On the days when someone asks,
"how are you?"
and I burst into tears,
I can still move the pencil to write,
"I am hurting so bad
and I thought no one noticed"
tears making the ink run as I add,
"Everything feels so heavy
and I don't know if I can carry it alone."
In my highs
words burst forth like butterflies from cocoons--
steadily, sometimes slowly, not yet knowing their place
but beautiful, soaring,
wings full of sunlight.
depression sinks me down,
down into the dirt
and I lay with sadness on my chest
while words squiggle like worms around me
just out of reach
and I can't help but notice
the richness of the soil where they've been.
I dig my fingers in
and words wriggle around me
writhing with delight in my hands.
Sometimes, in the in-betweens,
words come out of me angry, like vomit.
I scream and retch and scream and retch
words, wretched, smelly, sticking to the paper
I have to hold my nose to re-read them
but I'm glad they are out
and the ugly parts can be flushed away.
And other times
when I feel, but not so deeply,
remnants of me in the written word
mark my growth with notches in the kitchen doorway
of my own apartment.
My skin and bones
Fallen on the floor
Stepped on by my enemies
Because they’ve never seen me as anything more
Than a rug to dust everything under
Because who else was there to blame
For the mess I had became
Cobwebs invading the corners of my soul
My bad habits have gotten
The cleaning service forgetting to sweep them out
Losing my hair
To the vacuum that is my starvation
The suction scares me but its a numbing feeling
And my enemies love my pain
A rapid decay
Of the people who will listen to what I have to say
Distance myself to my journals
Words of my skin
Plugging out of my bones
Emotions so intense
The trashman leaves them on the curb
No one will accept depression
As a cancer that lives within you
Unless you’ve already been cured.
The ink of my pen
Is the therapist my parents refused to send me to.
The Void Must Be Even Keeled
Void Must be Even Keeled
All are welcome here
the gross bilious resistance
that draws the masthead
beneath the dangling seaweed
will be made--
The journal shall document
that our Tuesday next
was well spent...
How could I neglect?
the mental flogging
that dusted out every speck
in the mangled red carpet,
from the Attic of Aspirations
not yet met?
I mark it on the calendar
for you, you will not forget.
Bipolars Gather Here Challenge @Finder