Tag Archives: mental-health

Mental Illness Kills Resumes

I don’t talk to people when I’m angry.

I stay in my half of the bedroom, looking obviously angry, and I leave everyone alone. And it is quite apparent I want to be left alone. Not everyone seems to understand that intense anger, hiding in the only space I can call my own, and an angry countenance means I want to be left alone, but they eventually figure it out.

I don’t talk at all when I’m angry.

Because I want to be left alone.

 

Either that, or I just pretend I’m not angry. And I get really, really depressed. And pretend I’m not depressed.

I don’t feel my feelings. I ignore them.

So today, when I got angry and the anger stayed with me, I decided to actually take part in my own freaking anger challenge (because apparently, I thought my pet ghost was going to take care of that for me….??? because I sure as sugar wasn’t going to do it).

 

That was a really long way of saying, “hey, watch this youtube video of me telling you what I’m angry about”.

 

 

You don’t have to have mental illness to understand. You don’t have to be angry, suffer, or in any other way have experiences like mine, to understand. Humans feel empathy. Not understanding is a choice.

Does anyone else see the irony in me making a 30-day anger challenge, when all I do is stuff my anger?

Does anyone understand this?

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Something Whispers

When I am empty

That is it.

But I always seem

To fill up

Once again

 

Just so you can

Poke holes in me

Poisonous words

Lashing into the

Soul you always

…what word goes here?

 

Shaped into something

Beyond

Recognition

 

Soft thumps

Abrade the inside

Of my rib cage

And something odd

Flitters through

My chest

 

It isn’t life

Its tubing

Left there from

When I hated myself

A little less

 

Electronic beeping

Reminding me

To pretend

I am human

Breathing

Alive

 

I am not

Not today

Not inside this skin

Which itches

And weakens

 

Not inside

This mind

That falls down

So easily

 

Sometimes it seems

So silly

That I ever thought

I could be real

 

To live with grace

To walk without oiled joints

Or charged lights

Behind my eyes

From which everything

Was stolen

 

(by me)

(something whispers)

 

I forgot

I was the one

Behind the mask

Wearing the gloves

Leaving no trace

 

Can anyone see me?

 

I forgot

I was the one

Who let this happen

Who roused from slumber

And did nothing

Who watched from behind

Serpent eyes

And let you die

 

Losing no sleep

Losing no hope

Because I never

Gave myself any

 

Not now

 

Can anyone hear me?

 

I don’t want to remember

The disjointed story

Of who I was

When I bled

 

…when was that?

Was it real?

 

I wonder

If it would hurt less

If I was never human at all

 

Simply a stain on the porcelain

Shadow

Slipping down the time

The sand

Shivering down the hourglass

 

Unnoticed

But watching

Examining

Remembering

The very definition of all

And yet so utterly devoid

 

Knowing all

Understanding none of it

But remembering

Remembering

 

I forgot

How to tell the truth

Or which it was

 

Can you feel me?

 

Not now…

 

I forgot

How to speak

Without a tongue

How to see

Without a spine

 

Can I walk

Knowing the many times

My very breath crawled

 

Is it possible

That I never really forgot

 

Why?

Why do we torture ourselves?

How many of us are there

In here?

This one little body

 

Pieces hiding

Shuffling about

Slipping behind curtains

Fixing smeared mascara

Redressing so no one notices

 

Their stories

Are shuttered up

Dust chokes the sunrises

Moonlight can’t hide

The shadows

 

Our stories

Not to be remembered

Not now…

 

I forgot

How the tip of a fingernail

Could hold so many

Dead skin cells

 

They aren’t all mine

 

(yes they are)

(something whispers)

 

And I deny everything

Black lipstick that doesn’t

Smudge

Or leave

Photos behind

 

Because I can’t remember

How to tell myself

The truth

Of it all

 

When I do

I wonder

Would it be better

To never have lived inside

This damaged structure

So stone like

Easily breakable

 

And no, I wasn’t

Made by accident

Why does everyone ask?

We all clamber around

Waiting for a story to be

Unfolded

It wasn’t an accident

We remember

I shake my head

We know

Our skin

My skin

We feel

 

It’s like they can see

I’m made from

Different coincidences

Kissing beneath the

Atom bomb

 

Waiting for something

To change

Or someone

To notice

The shadows

Etched into my bones.

 

(can anyone see me?)

(no, I don’t think I can)

(something whispers)

 

By Daphne Shadows

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Filed under Not that Kind of Poetry

good luck putting a title on this one

do you ever get to the point where you’re ready for a nap – from life?

just curl up and sleep for days

or maybe pause time every day for four hours and sleep

then do something for fun

something you enjoy

do something ONLY for the purpose of enjoyment and fun

and then start life up again

go back to the responsibilities, the challenges

 

I feel like i’m there again

how?

because I wore myself out

again

I can’t even be bothered to capitalize the beginnings of my sentences. check that out! that’s a tired writer. and I didn’t even put periods on any of those ones up there.

 

life is a lot more than tiring, exhausting, responsibilities, and challenges

but we don’t get to see that if all we do is wear ourselves out

and then wonder

why we’re so dead outside and in

 

how do I get here?

again and again and again and again

it’s like i’m a record that NEVER got old enough to skip. just keeps turning and turning, playing the same songs on repeat

 

I know how I get here

I DON’T do anything for fun. just for the enjoyment.

those things aren’t really JUST for enjoyment. they are absolutely purposeful. they’re what keep us alive. really alive. not just faking it with our zombie walk and plastic, forced smiles.

enjoyment. fun. these things are the purpose of life

and I keep missing them

in the hustle, the bustle, and the bloody rat race to make enough money to survive

in the false belief that if I don’t __________ then i’m not a “real adult”

ha!

how ridiculous

we make these rules up and then beat ourselves with them

and we mock people who self-flagellate! we’re doing the same thing – only in a myriad of different ways and for a thousand bucketfuls of different reasons excuses

 

today what would I like to do?

right now?

this very moment?

i’d love to go for a run with some music and no one to see

read a book

get lost in mythology

walk my dog

i’d love to work on my novel – which I have not given much commitment since it isn’t seen as a “real job” because it doesn’t make me money right this second and I’m not making myself or my calling a priority

funny

that’s come up a few times in the past few weeks

i’m working with this woman who seems to be the feather tipping my scales of self-realization

you know how you need like a gazillion people and situations telling you the same thing until you finally allow it to not only sink in, but to accept it as truth?

sometimes I think God is probably rubbing His temples, wondering how I ever got so fully brainwashed and stuck there even though He’s sent countless people and occurrences my way to get my head straightened out

 

writing isn’t just something I like doing

I am good at writing (it’s hard for me to type that)

writing is my calling in life. it’s my purpose. i was made to be a writer. i am a writer.  God crafted me to write stories.

and i’m suffocating

myself

by not writing

seriously, if I didn’t blog here, on my new blog, or write in a journal, or save pins on Pinterest of fantastical creatures and myths… i’d probably be in a mental institution for real

i’m cutting myself off from myself

 

i’m in a constant state of moving, doing. i’m in a frenzy

basically dying

 

could it maybe be

that if i’d take time

make it a priority

make a commitment

to myself

to  use my time

every week

toward me

and research

write

run

lift weights

brush, walk, and love my dog

get lost in a story

research fun stuff and blog on it

…that i’d not get to this point

of utter exhaustion

sure, i’d still probably

have issues

 

but perhaps

they wouldn’t hurt

so badly

 

If i sought out

creativity

within me

if i tried

something new

that i’d remember how to breathe?

 

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How a Doctor Explained Bipolar vs. Normal People To Me

 

You know what I would love?

If, as a society – as HUMAN BEINGS – we stopped putting “versus” in between different kinds of people.

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Filed under The Odd Bit

Before Therapy

I’m about to go to my therapy appointment.

Feeling a bit… shall we say… internal, today.

Self-analyzing, philosophical. Quiet.

I’m also truly there again.

Not completely, it’s only a minor slope. But it’s a definite downward lull.

 

Dead.

Void.

Don’t care.

But then again, I do.

Why else would I feel on edge?

 

Depression and anxiety feed off of one another, trapping me between a rock and a hard place. An immovable object against an unstoppable force.

 

I’m find joy in multiple things today.

I do.

I feel joy in the lesson I’m about to prepare.

Joy in the donut I’m going to eat after I get back from therapy.

Joy in the book I have to read.

The dog staring up at me with big brown, curious, loving eyes.

My family.

Joy itself.

Life itself.

The options, choices to be made.

The possibility that I could work on my writing today.

 

Even though I probably won’t.

I don’t have any energy. It’s not just physical. Emotional energy. I’m out of it. I’m not certain if its depression, anxiety, or ME/CFS. Perhaps all of them at once. But I’m drained of the ability to move, motivation, energy in general. The strength to lift my limbs. The world is a murky pool of molasses, my body a thick, awkward figure of solid iron and cotton balls.

Not of desire. I’m not robbed of that. I want to create. To work on my writing. To piece together my lesson. I feel inspired.

 

What’s the point of all this blogging stuff going on here?

Is this post relevant?

Is it pointless?

Am I complaining, yammering, going on and on about myself?

Or am I connecting?

I’m not entirely certain.

 

I have these moments.

Where I’m outside of myself.

Wondering, what am I doing?

 

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Life is Weird…and Contradictory

So are people.

I know I am.

 

I don’t really understand how I can be really low, totally depressed or suffering AND really optimistic and hopeful, feeling kinda pretty good.

But I can. Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Humans are a lot more complicated than I think we give ourselves credit for.

If we feel more than one thing – we *must* be crazy, with multiple personality disorder or something. Did you know they changed the name of that disorder quite a while ago, to “dissociative identity disorder” or DID? I wonder why they change the names of things so freaking often and no one seems to know.

Anywho, we can feel a huge range of emotions at once. We can be more than one thing at a time. I don’t know about anyone else, but that’s been a foreign ideal to me before now.

 

I get so tired of people telling me that if I were emotionally unstable, I wouldn’t be able to hide it.

Don’t tell me that.

I am a walking act.

All my painful secrets stay inside.

I haven’t known how I could be anything but ‘happy’ and still feel what I feel, hiding it all the while.

I’m optimistic, I’m hopeful.

But that is not all that I am.

Don’t tell me that if I’m bubbly, smiling, or kind, that I can’t possibly be in pain, physically and emotionally. Don’t tell me, when I open up to you, that this isn’t possible.

Why are people so willing to take everyone at face value and so unwilling to believe that there’s ANYTHING, something, beneath the surface???

I thought I was working on all of this stuff but I found I haven’t even made a dent. I guess getting really sick is good. Health failing obviously equals that something is wrong. It just takes a lot of pain to wake me up.

Then again, I am human. I guess human beings have to realize something over and over again until something pings in just the right way that we’ll believe, too.

 

The holidays ran me over and have been dragging me down lollipop infested roads. So perhaps I’ll have something more to say next month. 😉

On that note, HAPPY HOLIDAYS! Try not to eat yourself to death. Or children. Don’t eat children either.

 

giant-rubber-bear-1089612_1920

 

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To Disappear

To disappear

It’s quite simple, really.

Stop breathing.

I don’t mean to die.

I mean stop living.

Forget.

Deny.

Close your eyes and pretend.

 

And then there’s nothing.

Urgency to breathe only comes now and again.

Subsides when your soul flutters to a standstill.

Though your heart still pumps blood.

Your eyes still see.

Simply not the truth.

You’re breathing fine anyway, physically.

 

But you know.

You know it’s not all.

You know you’re not breathing.

It’s in your bones.

Starts to hurt.

Inch by inch.

Step by step.

Lie by lie.

Begins somewhere deep.

You don’t even understand.

Words don’t fit it.

 

This is your choice.

The one you have to make.

And deciding not to make it, is a choice as well.

But it is yours.

You own it.

 

Can you feel it?

Burning, twisting, twining.

Screaming.

Begging.

Can you hear it?

Clawing into your gut.

Beating at the wisps of deception.

Bleeding into your soul.

Ripping at the bindings you’ve solidified around it.

 

Or do I close my eyes again.

Let it fall to the side.

Keep walking.

Ignore the tears.

The shrieking fears battering inside my skull.

Trying so hard to free me.

 

This will pass.

But not if I let the truth die.

Speak the automated lines.

Define the silence with everything but my own sorrow.

Anything but the sorrow, the anger.

The sadness.

Anything.

 

Anything?

Do I chose to disappear over anything.

Even the possibility of living.

The possibility of joy.

Love.

 

Anything?

 

Aren’t things supposed to make more sense.

As time passes.

Isn’t it a rule somewhere that I’ll know.

Wake up and know.

 

I guess not.

It just gets harder.

Messier.

Deeper.

More vague.

Black and white is long gone.

 

I guess the problem is,

I don’t know.

How to breathe.

How to choose.

How to see.

 

To disappear

Is quite simple, really.

But is it worth it?

Emptiness has brought me here.

 

I guess I couldn’t see it.

I only saw through the eyes of others.

While right for each soul who spoke from their own mouths,

Their eyes, their hearts, can’t see what my own need to see.

 

I am terrified.

I do not fit in the perfect.

Smiles and light-hearted glossy words and dreams, every moment.

I do not fit in the image.

I cannot.

And it breaks me as I try.

I let it.

Beat me, break me, try me, convince me I am not enough.

Convince me that to feel is the end. Done.

Dead.

Failure.

 

Smile.

Perk up.

Put on that beautiful mask.

The world says.

 

I guess the truth is, the last hit is hovering.

Alone and suffocating,

I’m the only one who can save me.

And I’m choking the life out of my own lungs.

One heart beat to the next.

 

I guess the truth is,

I thought I had to see what was wrong,

Pick up the pieces,

Fix it,

And be perfect.

Or I was once again, still, forever; something unspeakable.

 

The truth is,

I have no idea what the truth is.

I cannot fix this tonight.

 

I am lost.

Teeter tottering back and forth.

I suppose I’m not dealing with it.

I’m pushing it away.

 

To disappear

Is quite simple, really.

But at what cost?

 

by Daphne Shadows

 

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