i sit here
at my keyboard
wishing to hold the solstice
in higher regard
wanting a celebration
a consistent practice
an honoring of some kind
and i know,
i know,
that i have the ability to do so–
i have the calendar
and adult wherewithal
and resources
to make this happen–
but i feel trapped
by the depression
that anticipates
the worst
of time flowing by
instead of celebrating
our earth still turning
my lungs still breathing
our days still day-ing
until they
no longer
do
the sin of being me
is punishable
through inside and outside means
and my brain can only get so far
in forgiveness
when it’s constantly fighting against itself
and my body seems to cling to living
as it falls apart
and resolves towards innumerable lifetimes
and my soul only ever seems to
chill inside/beside
all this angst going on around and around and around
but the dark part of me
[brain?]
[heart?]
[body?]
[other?]
it keeps reminding me
that i am punishable
i should be punished
through some means
hold my beer
i’ll do it
myself
[‘if you want something done right,’
right?]
when you wake from sleep
and can only dream
in waking hours
of your next nap
you might be depressed
or
you might be in tech week.
when
in the course of
all my human events
will stress
and depression
take a back seat
and happiness come
to the forefront
of my
story?
the same imagination
that skews to
worst-case scenarios
and all the dire ways
we could all be fucked
in this society of ours
is the same one that shows me
there’s more to life than just
consumption
and
competition,
that encourages me to find
better solutions to terrible problems,
that proves to me
there are better
more equitable
more humane
societies
than this…
every coin
has two sides
this sword
has both edges
black must stand out amongst white
and we all know yin
and yang
aren’t balanced
if they’re not
together
[but sometimes i wish
this imagination would just
let me rest]
a big sad
an overwhelming wave
of the depression i know best—-
we should be friends by now;
i see them nearly every day,
but their company is always unwelcome
and puts a stop to any idea i had for my day
the worst part
of my particular depression/sadness/melancholia
is that it makes me feel
like all this writing
(which really does make me feel a little bit better)
isn’t
actually
worth
any
effort
at
all
chugging along
the energy it takes
to simply press a key
with a fingertip
expands
exponentially
and i start feeling
exhausted
the fits and starts and stops and hiccups
the pulsating of a pulse part of me wishes didn’t exist
the tears coming to eyes that somehow still can’t cry
the thousand-yard stare into the nothingness of existence
the loneliness felt even when i know so many feel this
and my best friend is sitting mere feet away from me
the vignette of darkness shading the corners of my vision
of my image for my life now
and this poem is taking too long
and has too many words saying nothing at all
all i want to write
is
depression is hard.
the mood settles
down
down
down
deep into the depths of the frown
my marrow molds me
not the opposite
and i need me to be
a little more flexible
a little more malleable
a little less conditioned to find any stress/any sadness
so permanent
that i find myself affixed to my future of
‘i’ve got the morbs
forever more.’
but can i/will i/could i?
[should i?]
i’ve been pondering
stories
as lives
lives as stories
and i haven’t come to any conclusions
yet
except that
apparently
this is my current way
to dissociate
i often feel as though
something big is out on the horizon
[if only i could find it
or at least take steps to walk towards it]
and when i fall into depression
that big thing is to be feared
fraught over
fought
the ‘impending doom’ flavor of hopelessness
[and with today’s national and international news
who could blame me for
only seeing the
worst]
but recently
i feel i need
recovery
from events and happenings
that have already happened
[and are kind of still happening]
to me
i’m exhausted
and they keep occurring
and the feeling of something coming
is only getting closer
and i don’t know how i can meet it
if i’m still absorbed in dealing with
what just happened…
what would happen if i were
completely and totally honest
about my bouts with depression?
if, when greeted with the cursory
“how are you?”
i answered “contemplating the fall of all existence
and whether that wouldn’t be a humane thing to do
for all the other beings that have to
live in the terrible shadow of
humanity
as it exists today”
instead of the expected
“fine, thanks! and you?”
and what if
during the winter months
instead of apologizing
i expected others to feel
my plight:
when someone contacted me
i wouldn’t say sorry
for taking so long to reply
i’d commend them for getting past their
seasonal
sadness
just to put forth this email to me
and make no excuses
when months passed
before an actual answer
was sent back
i wish i could answer honestly
when people do implore about
how my mental health has been
but
when faced with an actual, human face
i’m reminded of the love i feel for some individuals
and, honestly, humanity as a whole
(though our society has breathed a dire flame
into the heart of the hoard of us)
why else would i care so hard
about masking up in a global pandemic
and fighting for the rights of those
who are both like
and unalike
me;
and i don’t want to cause someone else distress
on the off chance they actually care about my own personhood
the way i care about theirs
(a crazy concept to me, to be sure, but one i can conceptualize
even if i can’t quite understand
from inside my own head)
so i say i’m great
sometimes a noncommittal “okay”
to let them know i’m not actually a constant bright rainbow
and i can understand what it’s like
to have a bad day
(or month or year or life or whatever)
to give them a space
to open up if they need to express
the thoughts they keep inside their own head
and never let out.
and it feels both compulsion
and need now
to be the person i’d need
but i honestly don’t know how i’d react
if someone like me opened up that door—
i think i’d still turn it on its head
and return the favor harder
knowing they probably need it
more
(so why can’t i read this back
and put forth the idea that
i might have written it
in response to my needs?)
(nah, whoever wrote it isn’t me
and needs me
far more than i need someone like me)
kipventures 