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Unwarranted

Relentless Pursuit of the Times

Sensational

It tugs and sears away at my mind. Thoughts lighting up one by one, filled with fire. I’m choking and gasping, but nothing’s coming up. Crawling across the floor, desperately clawing at the limp carpet flopped over the wood as if somehow that’ll give me the ability to clear my own airway. I’m sorry I have had so much to say as I try to swallow deeply and nothing happens. Constricted.

A small descript of the perpetual state of my being. Lost, scared, drowning, just waiting for that last minute to pass before it’s all over. As I slowly take on mouthfuls of this black, murky depressive ocean that threatens to rise to the top of the sky and throw me into space, I wonder if there is anything at all I can do.

Isolation creeps in at night and steals all my comforts. Everything, everyone feels so incredibly far away. No matter how I reach, I reach only empty air.

Where’s the logout? How do I disconnect from this torture?

Feeling so twisted up and torn, I honestly can’t find up. I reach for my finely tuned formulas that ease grief and anguish, but they output nil. My delicately balanced algorithms don’t seem to have any effect as the waves rush against me, topple me over, fill my lungs, then press me until I’m flat.

Fake smiles usually lead into sunlight, but I can’t seem to find the right path. Hold a paint brush, focus close, still I hear the black waters crashing endlessly against my sanity. Fill my mind with soft, swaying music, but a shadow of chaos and discord linger in every note.

Where does one go, to escape themselves?

Gem

She reaches across the space between us, and instantly a chasm is filled with her presence. Her hand partially cups my cheek, she brushes her thumb back and forth across my skin. My heart stops as her touch is gone far too soon, I gauge her with my eyes. How I long for her to grace me with her affectionate fingers once more, and more, and more.

Flawed

Anger doesn’t really subside for me. Years after the fact I’ll feel the same powerful, moving, crushing rage as if a memory is fresh. I believe it is because I am unskilled at forgiving myself.

After a recent breakdown, I thought about what my closest friends said to me. That I’m hard on myself, critical of myself, and that no one expects as much from me as I do from myself. At first I dismissed these statements as inaccurate, because I don’t make it a habit to share myself particularly deeply with many. However it has come to my attention that I do hold myself to impossible standards. 

This eternal rage is because I refuse to accept my mistakes and forgive myself. I cling to the emotion because I associated it with behavior I’m working to change, and I fear forgiving myself dooms me to not only repetition but to eternal repetition. As if to acknowledge that it was okay to make that mistake, that I am somehow promising to do it again.

Though I can see that forgiving myself is the only way to grow and move forward, I still fear that forgiveness will force the lesson, like the wound, to fade. That with time instead of growing, I’ll shrink back into a lesser being. At the moment I’m not entirely sure how to utilize this information. Fear drives me, shapes my behavior and decisions. Knowing what I need to do doesn’t necessarily enable me to act on it. 

I am weak, and at times I am volatile. However, I have an open mind and an open heart, and the desire to be better. Giving it my all means being receptive to criticisms of my character, to be willing to acknowledge my flaws, and actively working to correct those flaws.

Even if it hurts a bunch.

Wish Wash

“I don’t know how to cope with being this weak,” my body shrinks even smaller. Her arms cross what feels like a vast distance between us and wrap around my shoulders. My soul quietly shudders at the sudden warmth. It’s hard to breathe, I’m not used to being this raw, rough… broken.

The voices yammer and hammer in my head, and I have no defense. A firm believer in not giving the depression validation, somehow I can’t summon the strength to defy it. I AM worthless. I DON’T have any value. I don’t see any substantial proof around me to show me those are wrong perceptions… I see that I am a burden. I see that I am weak. I see that I bring very little to the table. Who am I to disagree with these facts? These feelings are obviously more informed than I am.

It’s never been so hard to turn it around. It’s getting harder and worse; but is it? I think I’m just adjusting to the changes that I am making in my life and body. I’m not smoking, I’m not drinking; or at least not nearly as much. I am face to face, nose to nose, with every single negative thought. They scream and I cannot get away, I cannot block it out or plug my ears.

The chemistry of my brain locked inside it’s bone prison is undergoing just as much change as the rest of me. At first it was not a choice, why would I stop smoking? Honestly though, it has been a plague against me for a long time. There was a period where I could enjoy it without feeling any addiction. The financial situation has only given me further cause to make better choices. I choose to turn away from addiction, I don’t do it out of obligation. It’s been easier knowing this, but my brain… my body chemistry. The PH of my mental health is changing so fundamentally… I need new tools

This isn’t really what I meant when I expressed a desire for adventure and new experiences.

Knowledge is Power

Then I must be the least knowledgeable person on the face of this little blueberry.

Salt Lick

Soft feathery lashes lay low over down peering eyes, glowing screen reflects in small dazzling patterns across their shimmering surfaces. Careful aiming such sharp gazes at the walls, we can’t hang pictures on holes. 

Origins

Maybe it was being home schooled, maybe it was the isolation from a young age, maybe it was the way my parents treated me, maybe it is just the way I am. As long as I can remember I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression, with emotions so tumultuous and powerful I could never stand up to them. Memories like 3 year old me crying, feeling like the world was crumbling around me, and no one could understand why.

Maybe it was the way that as I grew older and was told over and over that my excuses wouldn’t fly with those all-knowing savvy adults who could see right through me. Maybe it was how it made me feel about myself, to be told every word I said was an excuse to try to get out of hard work and dedication.

They say mental illness cannot be attributed to just one factor, it is not just your brain chemistry or the way you were raised; it’s all of the above. I can’t imagine how much worse it must be for those who develop mental illness later on in life. I’m experienced; from the moment I could assess my self to now, every minute has beenĀ a battle between my emotions and my logic.

What a devastating blow to take, in your 20’s or 30’s, to be told you are suffering depression. Seeing new depths to the darkness that threatens to completely suck you in, with no experience to fall back on.

How terrifying.

Stroke

It is not about the image. Slow and gentle I press my brush into the edges of the remaining white canvas that are still exposed. Even the simplest of shapes would do, the therapy is in the act, the image is merely a side effect. I could rework the same canvas a hundred times and it would not change the way it makes me feel.

Dip the brush, fill it with paint, load the bristles. Pull it across the course texture of the canvas, watch how the fibers take on the creamy pigment, soak it up.

I want to be like that.

Broken Toy

“You are so destructive!” my mother would often remind me as a child, it became a part of my identity after only hearing it a few times. Her exasperated tone expressed further distress at the way that I was, the way that I still am.

It defines me as a person. Sometimes I wonder if my subconscious is careless and casually violent on purpose. I identify as broken, and I want everything around me to reflect that somehow. To feel less broken I find others like myself, who also seem convinced that they are damaged. If I cannot find enough damage around me, I make some.

So, when accidents happen, regret and guilt swim my blood like they have always lived there. Cannot help but ask myself, was it *really* an accident? Why would I be so careless? What’s wrong with me?

What’s wrong with you? A question my mother asked me often during my developing years. She would be downright suspicious of me, even though I never gave her a reason to be. Perhaps the villain I see in myself are just echoes from the past.

It is still hard to ignore.

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