does anyone else
treat this life like a dress rehearsal,
like a rough draft,
like some sort of practice run
and keep, in their minds,
a running track of all their regrets
so that when it comes time
to actually perform/publish/play
‘for real’
they can do
life
‘right’
?
(or is that just my trauma response?)
even though you’re feeling sad
drink the coffee
do the writing
even though everything feels hopeless
drink the coffee
make the plans
even though you’d rather sleep and sleep and sleep
drink the coffee
do the day
little bursts of serotonin
may or may not add up
into an almost livable amount
of serotonin
for one mind
but at least those little bursts of serotonin
will help
for a second
or two
so
even thought it all seems so pointless
drink the coffee
eat the cookie
write the poem
talk with the spouse
play with the puppy
get out of the house
and fake it till you make it:
life edition.
~~~
yikes.
(the feels that made
that poem)
~~~
wanderlust
wanderhome
wander to me
go right now
i am waiting
arms outstretched
to feel you in them
once again
wanderlust
wanderhome
wander towards
never feeling
so alone.
sensing
something
is off
is it simply
from poems
not written with the sunrise
but instead surrounded by the setting sun?
or is it something far less poetical?
could it simply be
the chemicals in my brain
and my own continuing responses to trauma long since passed
and an inner monologue that rarely has words
but when those words appear
they are insistences that i am the worst
and worth nothing
not even an attempt at self-love?
the problem with my form of depression
is that i so rarely am able to conceptualize
the opposite emotion while drowning in one
so when i’m doing ok
i’m actually, legitimately, doing ok
and it seems bizarrely unthinkable
that i could ever be this sad,
and my actions reflect that;
talking with people,
energy to do the things i want to do
(and i enjoy doing them, too),
telling my therapist about the minor inconveniences to my day
and how i thought through them so well
and how i think i’m finally getting through my depression
intelligently
and healthily
but when the real depression hits
all that happiness seems so cheaply bought
and like i was never really in a body that found
energy
or enjoyed anything
(particularly socialization)
and i can talk myself out of any positive spin
and i can talk myself into any desperation
(but i’m still really good
and appearing fine
for therapists)
and i never really know how to go about
expressing
depression.
i know it’s trailblazing,
world-shifting,
to be honest about it;
i boast ‘mental health matters’
and boost ‘it’s ok to not be ok’
and i want to be the change i wish to see
in the world
but my deepest depression
feels private,
and i honestly don’t know
if i’m ashamed
by a society
that only listens to mental illness
when it’s already passed and gone,
when the recovery looks linear
and one can talk about that overwhelming sadness
as something from the past
(i get it;
it’s far less scary and uncontrollable that way),
or if my depression is actually just
private
feeling
to me
and only me
(or,
a third option
i hadn’t realized
until just now:
if this is what my depression does to me;
it sends me signals that i am the only one
to deal with it
as a way to separate myself
further
from those around me;
my isolation is one of the biggest
baddest
boldest
hardest
symptoms to overcome…
so perhaps it’s not society
or self
(or perhaps it’s not solely those two)
perhaps it’s the depression itself
telling me
to be alone
and lonely
and to perpetuate
the cycle
of never wanting to ask for help
so never asking for help
so furthering on the depression
ad infinitum)
a revelation
a eureka moment
about this desperate sadness
i feel
cyclically
without warning
a drowning…
but maybe this knowledge
is something
that might keep my head above water
one more
day
autumn is a time for falling asleep
spring is the awakening
autumn is preparing for the months of winter depression
spring is shedding those sads
autumn is slowing, pondering, thinking, dying
spring is the adrenaline amping up again
so why do i feel so tired and sad and ponderous
while spring is all around me?
~~~
coffee
music
cat on lap
dog on couch
kip across the table
help me enter the day
my way
~~~
i know my headspace isn’t great
if i obsess over things
or
if i shoot from one subject matter
to the next
to the next
with no real resolution
and no thinking through to the end.
so why are my indications
entirely opposing?
is this my black and white thinking coming to some sort of fruition
or is this the source of my non-grey-mind?
i am
a very stubborn person
a very strongheaded person
an i-put-my-mind-to-a-task-and-i-do-it person
a person who sets a goal and sticks to it
a person who does things
when i was sixteen years old, without a flexible muscle in my body
i decided i wanted to be flexible
so i stretched every morning
and was, after just a few months
able to do all splits
and waterfall into a back-bend
and i did this with very little knowledge
(which would bite me in the ass later,
but that’s not the point of this poem)
i wanted to be something
so i set my mind
and i did it.
i have other examples
of stubbornness
of setting my mind
but that is the one i call upon first
because it is such a clearcut example
of how i can accomplish
anything
i put my mind to
so why can’t i ever set my mind to loving myself
to forgiving myself
to cutting myself a little bit of slack
to giving myself a little bit of a mental break over things that
i probably had very little control over in the first place?
is it because i don’t actually want to love/forgive/let myself off the hook?
i’d say
probably
(but then that brings up a whole new question
which is
why?
why do i think i don’t deserve love?
why do i think i’m reprehensible if i dare to cut myself the tiniest bit of slack?
why does my feeling of worthiness come directly from how worthless i can
make myself feel?
this doesn’t seem healthy or accurate or growth-inducing
so why do i still do it?)
(i don’t have any answers right now)
the pacing
of the pattern
is getting closer…
how did weeks of
inspired writing
followed by
existential creative despair
turn to days
to maybe hours now?
i’m losing concentration
faster than i’m gaining traction
and i just want to be able to stick to a day
and live it all the way through
without naps interrupting
or needing something to drown out my thoughts…
i keep having impulses to do things–
wanting to sew, but on the days i actually have time,
i sit down to a project;
it all feels so overwhelming
and at the same time meaningless.
it’s hard to battle the depression in your head
when it’s both a foreign invader
and your closest, best friend,
[and also, in many many ways,
just yourself.]
this poem is a mess
but so is my head lately
(and in an hour or two,
i bet you anything
i’ll be fine)
the dog hasn’t been eating much
and though it might be
old age/
picky taste/
boredom/
sensitive teeths
it could also mean she’s
depressed
(which,
like,
we can barely keep our own depressions
from swallowing us whole,
how can we care for
another being’s mind-demons???)
but
i digress
if Louka is depressed
i’ve decided to do my best
to make her just a little bit
happier
so yesterday
we went on a long, long walk.
i let her lead the way,
and barring standing in the middle of the road,
she was our guide.
through the meandering side-streets
of the north bronx
we were intrigued by smells off of a sports field,
scared off by loud subway sounds,
befriended by a neighbor-acquaintance
(and Louka received many treats
for her good ‘sits’ and ‘high-fives’),
and after we’d walked with them for a bit
we bid adieu
to explore a new street,
a new space,
we’d never been before–
and suddenly
in the midst of a mostly barren
chain-link fenced-in yard
stood a small, plastic bull
at attention
ready to fight
and Louka was ready as well
she sniffed
and stared
and stood her ground
until
a play bow!
a small, playful growl!
a fully formed play bark!
her tail wagged a staggering pace,
her hops and leaps and bounds
unbounded by her
skinny, old-dog frame
as she desperately tried to coax this
non-dog,
non-living,
little plastic bull
to play with her
(a dog who never plays,
not with toys,
or humans,
or even other dogs
unless forced to,
and even then…)
and i watched,
delighted,
damn near crying
because she’s been so sad
so lonely
so tired
so much less energetic
over the last few weeks/months/years
and i saw there a full puppy
happy dog tail
happy dog bounce
happy dog
play
acting like a puppy
(and on National Puppy Day!!!)
so maybe there is hope
and help
for our dog’s depression
and maybe
just maybe
that means the humans’ depressions in this house
might be lessened
just a bit
too.
drive is not enough,
desire is not enough,
ambition/hunger/passion-
-not enough,
when you have anxiety
breaking you down at every step,
when you have depression making sure
you know
that visualization
is just a foolish trick,
and that hunger is simply greed
in a different trench coat,
when you have your own brain
waging war
on every want you’ve ever wanted
it’s not enough
to want
to set the goals
to be proactive at all…
manifestation
only manifests
if your whole being is on the same wavelength
so how
do i
connect
my
divisions of self?
amidst the attacks
on trans kids’ care
and Ukraine
and the continued unfounded laxations
on policies meant to keep us safe and healthy
and, of course, the never-ending attacks of
those of color in this country
(particularly those Black in this country)
amidst all this tragedy and infuriation and chaos yesterday
i achieved a personal best,
an achievement,
a goal i’d thought unattainable,
and i need to remind myself that i’m allowed to celebrate that.
i can celebrate and mourn,
i can celebrate and call to action,
i can celebrate and take action,
i am not required to fix the world
before i work on my silly little circus moves
in fact
working on my silly little circus moves
is what gives me the strength to do all i need to for the world…
without circus,
without celebration,
without exercise and investigation
of what my body can do,
without art and all i do to self-express,
without that humanity
i am simply left
a giant mass of depression,
and depression/forlornness/existential dread;
that is [part of] what maintains the status quo.
without art/celebration/joy
i am left overwhelmed with all that needs to be done
in the world.
with,
i can balance
all i know is terrible
with my little pieces of what is good,
so i can have the energy to call representatives
and give my little bits of extra income
and write poetry to [maybe] inspire others
as well
we,
those of us who are queer,
those of us with mental states that fill us
with anxiety
and/or
despair,
we are human
and are allowed our humanity,
our joy,
our celebration,
our art,
and, as a lovely side-effect,
that humanity,
when taken,
can help us do our part
to negate some of the external sources
of our stress and panic and dread.
i am allowed to celebrate
just to celebrate
because i am human
(no matter how many conservative lawmakers try to deny that about me and my kin)
i am human
and i am allowed joy in my life
and perhaps my joy can uplift others in their joy as well
so here’s to baby’s first solid, unassisted, one-armed meathook,
to the side-abs i am creating
and the joy i am stoking
in myself
because i am allowed,
i need no external validation
but it helps to hear it out loud all the same,
i am allowed
i am allowed
and i can bring others up as well.
a therapy appointment
a good ‘vamlumtimes’
and a cbd night’s sleep
and i’m feeling ever so slightly better today
than i was yesterday
morning
i’m still a little on
the stuck side
a little on
the slower side
a little on
the i don’t know what to write or if i’ll ever really want to write again
side
but
there is a whole day ahead of me
and instead of seeing it as a negative,
as an entire,
bleeding,
long
ass,
gooddamned
day,
i would like to see it as an opportunity;
not necessarily to get things accomplished
(but that would be nice if that happened)
but to get to do things
i want to do
(don’t know what that might end up being
but i’ll do it
!)
~~~
a therapist once told me
to listen to my body,
to let my desires direct my day
that would be great
if
i knew what my body was trying to say…
~~~
when i tell stories
for the first, second, third times
i am testing out wording,
making sure the way i tell the story
in the future
(the memorized-like-a-monologue version)
is the best one,
the most truthful,
the one that elicits the best response.
but sometimes,
when i tell stories that are more than stories,
explorations of trauma,
a tale of something that impacted me
hugely,
i tell it in such a way that,
in observing myself,
i can tell i’m telling it
in order to understand
how i feel about it.
(because, if nothing else, i sure know how to intellectualize)
kipventures 