where did these sads come from?
why do they appear
in the midst of what should be
a happy time?
how are they somehow
related
to that happy time?
like i can’t let myself
get swept up in the moment —
i need to remind myself
in every moment
of joy
that despair
and tragedy
exists.
like if i let go
of the depression
that runs everything,
the glue that holds my whole being
together
will loosen
and split
and i’ll fall
apart;
and i just want
to be
myself
[someday]
[someday]
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.
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)
i wish i understood
my own moods:
where the deep depth of despair
comes from/
what makes it open its great maw
and swallow me whole
just to spit me out
a day or two [or a few] later
is it hormonal?
is it simply having a new experience on the agenda?
how am i happier when i’m about to do a novel activity
but also my anxiety
flies in the face of everything?
why can’t my brain/body/heart connection
calm down enough
to understand
to comprehend
to compassion and savor and
everything in-between?
i can feel myself begin to understand
that not understanding may be an important part
of connecting with my truest self.
but i’m an analytical little kip,
and understanding is how i start
to accept and love parts of myself,
so this seemingly completely randomized set of emotions
and emotional turmoil
just makes me want to comprehend it more/
hold it tighter/
because letting it go
and be
seems
the surest way for it to take over…
(but in what way doesn’t it take over
every
single
time?)
i’m hesitant
i’m breathing
i’m waiting
to understand
or to understand that i don’t need to understand
and i’m trying to prepare myself
for not understanding
but it’s so
damn
scary
-on a precipice-
i don’t really know
what i’m writing this morning
i just know
i wish i had
some
dopamine/serotonin/anything
to keep me company
through this season
~~~
is my
not having
an up-to-date phone
just a reminiscence of being
four versions out of date
in my aol/internet service
and therefore
a form of
comfort?
~~~
writing poems
and hearing the rhymes
that didn’t make it in
but somehow
making the poem
fuller
is a weird sort of poet magic
i feel unfit for human consumption
like my entire being radiates harmful isotopes
like the population would probably be better off
hiding inside
rather than being exposed
to me
but why
do i identify
as a pariah?
i’ve never really been an overt outcast
even as an awkward teen, i had my people.
the worst things that have ever been said to me
have been directly from me
but maybe that’s what makes
a profoundly isolated child/teen/adult
one where even one’s own solitude
is marred by toxicity
and one can never
truly escape
the bully
i know of others
who have survived egregious bullying
by escaping into their own minds
and imaginations
what happens when the mind
is the worst minefield of all?
the mood:
negative
the mood:
dour
the mood:
almost happy
for a little while
the mood:
existential
the mood:
hopeless
the mood:
hopeful
for once
hold on to it
it’s gone
the mood:
emptiness
is there a mood at all?
the mood:
cyclical
i should be used to it by now
the mood:
ever-changing
ever-growing
ever-morphing
into a new mood
a new emotion
a new thing to think and remember and grow
the mood:
i’m not worried
about my mood
(is
this
happiness?)
the mood:
how did i even get here?
to this place?
to this age?
to this mood?
to this hair?
to this me?
the mood:
the mood:
the mood:
[did i discover anything of substance?]
existentialism
is hitting me hard
today
and i can never get away
(do i ever even
try
to get away?)
oh no
the anxiety
it’s coming
it’s here
it’s pulsing
fluttering
buzzing
it’s blossoming
like a spiky rose
a giant sunflower
blooming unbelievably
over my head
(though i should believe—
i know
i’m small)
the beauty of anxiety
is not to be confused
with how it feels inside—
fluttering heartbeats
expectations of failures
the writing
and re-writing
and re-re-wriiting
of this poem
countless times
(and none of them will ever be enough)
no
the beauty of anxiety
comes from the knowledge
the observance
the wisdom
that the cycle is never-ending
and what you thought was healing
was really just a bending
of psychological mishaps
into a faint shadow of mental health
that you thought was a calm against the storm—
but the running against the clock
of the battery conking out
(and the files saved in an un-safe way
and the computer trying hard on its last legs
and everything feeling like its falling apart
even thought you know you could [have] do[ne] something to stop)—
that’s anxiety
and that’s the beauty and the ugliness
the ‘you could have changed computers months ago’
‘you should have charged your laptop last night’
‘you really need to clear out space
in every device
you live
your life
inside’
but you didn’t
you don’t
you never do
because somehow
the experience of anxiety
relies heavily
on knowing what you could/should do
and never having done it
because somehow
you feel you
deserve
this
dread.
the upset-est belly
the cutest puppy
i’m hitting the existential crises
of why bother with poetry
(how was i so invigorated
just yesterday?)
~~~
the depression
hits
out of the blue
where yesterday
was a pretty good day
and i felt neutral
(if not actually happy maybe)
today, every little inconvenience
is a sign from the universe
telling me to give up/
every moment of waking
is one where i’m wishing i’m sleeping/
and the feeling i can label appearing on my face
can only be described as “dourness”
how am i so susceptible to little fits of depression
all while distancing/dissociating myself so well
from all my [other] emotions?
~~~
explore
the emotion
of depression
[i don’t want to—
it’s not a clean feeling—
it’s messy and
it gets everywhere,
sticky in places you didn’t even see it spill to,
but when you aren’t looking
aren’t expecting it
there it is again
and you can’t even reach that place
to fully get it
out]
kipventures 