i feel like
every atom of my body
has been dipped in molasses
and is just trying to do the best it can
in the given circumstances
but that best
is not the best
i’m used to
so i keep pushing
when maybe what i need to do
is rest?
(i sleep all the time.
i don’t do much.
but when was the last time
i rested
without guilt?)
(was it ever???)
if we are to attack with metaphor
with analogy
with any sort of literary
device at our side
what would my depression be?
a shadow?
sounds too cliché
too perfect
but hear me out:
it’s always there
just sometimes i can’t see it
from my particular angle
and different environments
make it a different type
of shadow:
large and looming/
grounded and serene and looking just like me/
a tiny pool of darkness at my feet/
or not at all there
(but change one light
one type
of something
anything
in the room/place
and there it is again
and the question of
‘did it really leave
or was it just laying
in wait?’
and i’m unsure if we’re speaking
within the explanation or reality
within the metaphor or truly
just talking about my relationship
with my ever-constant frenemy
depression)
so if that darkness
is a shadow
what is my constant worry
of anxiety
what new analogy
could i find
for thee?
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?
i miss the person i used to be
i hate the person i used to be
i ache for the life i used to lead
i’m scared of going back to that life i once lead
the flashbacks offer heart-stopping anxiety
the flashbacks offer comfort and consistency
why can’t i ever figure out
what i want
for me?
how do you
become at peace
with the fact
that you will never be doing enough?
i don’t know
but i think
that’s how to approach
anti-racism
anti-white-supremacy
anti-any-hate
in a sustainable way
(because otherwise
the sides of the coin
are performative
or overwhelmed catatonia
and neither
actually provide
results
or action)
~~~
there really is a comfort
to having a canine
use your leg
as a pillow
to prop up
their heavy heavy chin
~~~
when i pet my pets
the studies run through my head
of how this act helps the serotonin levels
in humans’ (and dogs’) brains
but i know my serotonin
or the transmitters that run it along
aren’t working at their full strength
so i often think to myself
“ok, here we go, serotonin, you can do it!!!”
just to help it
a bit
sometimes we need
store-bought chemicals
and sometimes we need
our own cheering squad
and sometimes we need
both
and that shouldn’t be looked down upon
i just
want to do
something
with my hands
embroidery
or sewing
beading
or cross-stitch
i’d try crochet
or knotting up friendship bracelets
at this point i’d give wire jewelry-making a go
but my brain
when i sit down
with supplies
and a project in mind
it gives no explanation
but simply says
no
so my hands fidget
and my body holds in the pressure
of anxiety about to explode
but my depression-ridden brain
becomes its own worst enemy
it laughs in the face of my wants and desires
and it only
ever says
no
no
no
no
no
last night
i had
the worst insomnia
i’ve had
in years.
i mean,
i still have a fair bit of insomnia
that’s something that i think will never
fully
leave,
but i used to be so terrible
at relaxing enough
to fall asleep.
and then, after hours and hours
of trying and failing and trying and trying
and finally, finally dozing off,
i’d still wake up
multiple times in the night
often as awake as when i first laid down
just to start the cycle
all over again.
my insomnia these days
is pretty well relegated
to the waking up during the night—
to pee,
to toss,
to turn,
to overthink,
and then to fall asleep again–
sometimes just once,
sometimes countless times,
but the initial putting myself to bed
no longer that much of an issue
but last night…
oh
last
night
i was awake to the point where i convinced myself it was mania
i was so awake i could not even stay laying horizontal in a bed
i was awake enough to want to run around the house to exhaust myself
to read an entire novel
to start up the late night conversations
with other insomniacs
[not] in my area
i was awake and up and i panicked a little
because, though it’s been nearly a decade,
i’m so familiar with that level
of awakeness
before
bed
but
these days i have a spouse
these days i have settled hormones
these days i have a knowledge and sense of self i never had all those years ago
but really
these days
i have a spouse
who loves me
and who i can rely on
who would stay up with me all night if i needed them to
but who comforts me to the point
of relaxing enough
to fall asleep
(and only wake up once in the night)
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]
a memory
failing me
at every opportunity
or
is it protecting me?
is it saving me from the agony
of solid knowledge
and pain?
because
isn’t that what a trauma response is?
just the brain and/or body
trying their hardest
to save the heart
from hurt?
kipventures 