#proseandspilledink

[proseandspilledink]

anxiety had always come for me in small strokes and vibrations under the skin. an itch i could never scratch. a reeling mind that needed some distraction before it forgot all about the fear and drifted to sleep, drifted onto the next.

then, over the last year, it grew in crescendos. it swept over me so intensely that my nails broke from grasping for air and i never knew what way was up.

now, over the last few months, it has tempered. with the orange pill bottles and the white pill boxes and the telephone calls from private numbers asking me my darkest fears.

but tempered doesn't mean better. it means i finally feel like i've taken a step back from the cliffs edge. it means i have two feet on the ground again. it means that when the triggers hit me bone deep and i lose my vision and i lose my hearing and i fall to my knees pleading with my own mind to relax... i do. or i can. or i will inevitably come back into myself again.

you see, time has been fickle. for me anyway. every passing minute feels like the next moment fear will find me. there is nothing around me but bated breaths in tune with each tick of the clock. i hope beyond reason that i will stay present, stay grounded, stay here.

but that's it, anxiety is fickle too. and right now, i am at her every whim.

[proseandspilledink]

you place your palm on my shoulder, on my back. gradual touches and soft kisses at the back of my neck. we're standing in the kitchen and i know, i know the person i was five years ago would have crumbled. she would have crumbled because you were the sun. but the person i am now, well, she's hollow sometimes. she doesn't know how to be most times.

and to be honest, i'm a little afraid when i'm like that. when i'm in that headspace for too long. when i'm her and i don't know how to live. the headspace that would be okay with anything. would be okay with being left, with being hurt, with letting herself fall deeper.

i never know how long i'll be there or be her. and i wish you didn't have to cope with the neglect that comes from loving me. i wish you didn't have to give more because it is simply impossible for me to do it.

[proseandspilledink]

restless

Sometimes you get bad again for no particular reason other than you do. You can smell the soft spring breeze through the window and you recognize the footsteps of your sister in the kitchen but thats all it is- footsteps and air and moments filtering by. 

Your mind is telling you come back, to jump in. Telling you life is here and you’ll never have these seconds or minutes or days again. But you can’t– for no particular reason other than you can’t.

This is depression.

There are periods of time, not of grace but of restlessness when being awake is a little bit more than too much. Where the nothingness swarms over you somewhat more intense than anything else. It’s all your mind can focus on lately. It’s just floating over your skin like an itch that cannot be scratched or a smile that never shows teeth.

It’s not crying or sobbing or ripping yourself apart. Not all the time anyway.

Mostly its apathy and smiling less brightly and needing to be surrounded by blankets instead of laughter. Mostly its knowing that joy and curiosity and creativity are shifting around you on a wind that slips through your fingers. Mostly its waiting patiently until you’re more you again. Mostly its hoping you come back up for air instead of spiralling further down.

[proseandspilledink]

floating, not sinking

The last two days are the sum of the loop I've been in for most of the last few years.

First. Rough morning. Wrapped up in pillows and comforters. Glued to my skin the way they are when the thought of getting up makes me ache. Slipping before my desk, heavy eyes, heavy heart, waiting for the phone to ring.

Therapy is gentle, other times it is vicious and severe. Speaking through choked sobs for the latter part of an hour and a half happens. Thoughts that have consumed you for the better part of your childhood carving their way up your throat. We talk about value, about worth. About what I have tied them too and how I must learn to untie them.

It's a mask, she tells me, you have to take off the mask.

Next. A quiet morning. Waking up with the sun. Soft around the edges. Easy to pour coffee, to make toast, to drink water. Easy to sit and type and smile and think. Cliché music blasting through my space with an open window and a spring breeze. Laughter and off key singing and dancing. Enjoying the way time eases onward.

Everything feels much more alive on these day. Sound isn't grating my eardrums, blood isn't pounding against my skull. Stomach is full and happy and settled. Chest is filled with air rather than caving in. The mask is off.

For how long who knows.

But this is the loop.

And it'll be okay.

[proseandspilledink]

human.

i am not one of those people who thinks yoga and deep breathing and smoothies are the cure all. i don't think that stretching every morning will stop the debilitating way my brain makes it near impossible to move some days.

but sometimes, sometimes, i can see how they make me a little more myself again.

because when that fog finally lifts, when my body is able to stretch towards the rays of sun, when i find joy again in those things– well then they become what i need.

suddenly there will come a morning where i'm placing all the fruits and veggies my body has been aching for in a blender. where i'm letting water and soap and my favourite exfoliator absorb into my cracked skin. where i'm lighting candles and embracing the minty freshness in my mouth and i'm actually grateful.

it is in slowly shedding the grime that always becomes a second skin that i am able to feel alive again. like i am a human being again. like i can do this, at least for a little while longer.

[proseandspilledink]

i don't know how to be here anymore. or to be myself anymore. or what that even means.

and i don't know how to do the things everyone else seems to do. to have hobbies the way other people have hobbies. they go on hikes and have brunch and visit that museum and paint. they buy those concert tickets, they ride the subway late, they take chances on interesting people with interesting stories.

and i see them. i see this. and i don't know how to do it without my mind reeling. without fear and doubt creeping up my spine. with exhaustion wrapping its wilted body around me, confining me.

i can feel the pull to stay home. to stay inside where i know its safe. to stay in bed where it's warm and without judgement. there are no obligations here. no demands or time constraints or conversations to be had. there's just me.

[proseandspilledink]

magnanimously.

i thought about it. messaging you. several times throughout the day i thought about it. as the sun dwindled, as the stars speckled the sky. as i ate dinner, as i laid in the backyard, as i boiled water for the tea i drink before bed. i thought about it. what i would even say i don’t really know now.

“hey you”

it feels overwhelming. like suddenly there is all too much nothing inside me when i think about how effortlessly i used to send a message like that. to you. 

and i wonder ... i wonder if you’re thinking about me messaging you. about whether or not i will. about whether or not i’m thinking about it. i wonder if you’re thinking about us messaging you. your friends. the people who used to be your friends. the ones who would have celebrated this day with you; who would have asked you about the night, about the gift, about the love i used to think you deserved to be showered in.

and now i question if i want that for you. which is a horrible, deep, empty thought. a part of my soul that revels in the darkest parts of the human experience. a part of me that hates so magnanimously what you did and wishes, so heartlessly, to stab you back with the knife you used to slice me open. to slice us all open. 

but it’s not the truth. not entirely anyway.

because i want light for you. i do. i have always wanted light for you. i have wanted joy and kindness and sweet nothings for you. i have wanted you to be filled with the feeling you get when you’re sun-soaked and warm. the one that spreads from the top of your head to your toes. 

everyone deserves that. even you.

even if, at one time, in one flash of a moment, in one poor decision, you didn’t think i did.

[proseandspilledink]

it is hard to be left.

friendship is a fickle thing. sometimes it is so blinding. like that night we drove out to the middle of nowhere and parked at that dead end where you couldn’t see houses for miles. we played khalid and you rolled a joint and we just were. and sometimes it is so blind-siding. like that moment you decided i wasn’t worth a text message or a phone call anymore. like that moment you decide i wasn’t worth anything anymore.

platonic love is a fickle thing. some people treat it like its holy. with careful hands and scratched knees from kneeling at its altar, platonic love is something sacred. something to be valued because it is of value. but others, others treat platonic love like it is something that passes through your life until another takes its place. like you were the placemat at the closed door waiting to be thrown away when the right set of shoes stepped onto you. stepped over you. 

it is hard to lose people. it is hard to grieve when you are angry at being dismissed, when you have been silenced by their choice to cut you out without a word. but truthfully, it is harder to be left.

[proseandspilledink]

everything is all too much.

the world keeps spinning and spinning and spinning. while all you need is for it to stop. just for a second, a minute, an hour. while all you need is to breathe deeply without the constant buzzing and moving and fumbling and shifting. they’re onto the next, always onto the next. there are deadlines and clocks ticking and expectations piling and to-do lists elongating. before you know it its the next birthday and the next graduation and the next proposal. you’re perpetually whipping your head back and forth trying to be joyous, feel cheerful, celebrate. but its overwhelming. everything is all too much in this cramped space. how do you breathe, how do you dare breathe when you’re drowning. and not drowning like settling to the bottom of a still pond, but drowning like tumultuous waves flipping your weightless body and endless tides dragging you uncontrollably into the depths. a loss of direction. a loss of sunlight. nothing but a contagious fear. nothing but heart palpitations ands blurred vision. the world, she just won’t stop spinning. please, please, just for a second. stop. please. 

[proseandspilledink]

apathy.

i hate this fucking apathy that sits in my throat like a gaping hole swallowing everything that dare slide its way through the rest of my body and make me ache. i hate this fucking apathy that lays like a blanket across my mind and keeps my skin from tingling, my eyes from watering, my cheeks from curving. 

i find myself searching for things to ignite. like matches my fingers swipe across keyboards and flip through pages. i am longing for the moments where I was filled to the brim with white hot rage or wilted from sorrow. i think of that moment in the front sear of the car when I found out he had passed. i think of the moment when i was driving away from you and crying. when you wanted to spit vile words to hurt me. i think about deep secrets from her that were whispered into my skin. still nothing. still nothing. 

i watch scenes from movies that used to make my heart shatter; i listen to songs that should have me spinning around the room; i think of the first time you said you loved me. nothing. there is nothing that stains my cheeks with salt, that pushes me off my feet. nothing that makes me want to feel more. 

i know they say the answer lies in the textbooks, in the experts and the doctors who speak of my brain as a mass. not as a series of memories. it lights up like a holiday market on their screens telling them exactly what is wrong, exactly what i'm missing. 

but i find it doesn't tell them anything at all. 

where is the a deep-seated love that makes my toes curl and sparks crawl up my back. where is the unbearable, unfathomable, unmeasurable urge to live life. to travel. to eat. to not let myself be swallowed whole. i have not found it in the prescription bottles on shelves, i have not found it in an old song or a movie scene or the lacing of your fingers with mine. 

it lays beneath layers inside me. unreachable, unworkable, hopeless. gone.

[proseandspilledink]

havoc.

i want to die. and i don’t.

it’s hard to write that- to express that- to think that. 

because while i am this person, this woman with the dark thoughts, i am also the person who will tell you- with a steady hand and a blazing look- to hold on. to never give in. to fight until your fingers are bloody from gripping and grabbing and pulling yourself up on the stones of the mountain you’ve been climbing.

but who are we if we are not honest? what are we if we cannot face the truth?

so. i digress.

i’ve been thinking about it for the better part of three thousand six hundred and fifty days. give or take. i’m not sure if i’ll ever do it. i really, truly, honestly don’t think i will. but anxiety creeps in differently than depression does and i wonder. what if. what if she comes back when i’m least expecting her? on a day when i have more energy than days she usually visits? what if i’m able to do more than lay down? what will she have me do then? 

it’s been easier. to conjure her up like an evil villain wreaking havoc over my body and my mind. but she’s me. and i’m her. and together, we’re putting ourselves at risk. for pain, for ache... for loss.

and i wish i could rely on joy or love or family or peace in the moments when she offers me her hand and we wander down a path i can’t turn back from. but that’s the tricky thing. apathy and her and me. we’re soulmates. so how do you feel enough to stop when you feel nothing at all?

[proseandspilledink]

we’re fucked up aren’t we?

you asked me that. on the phone. 

and i was listening, listening to you laugh and sob at the same time. my dad was standing a few feet away in the garden- the sun was shining, the wind was blowing, summer was so bright. but you asked me that and i laughed because yes, yes we are.

so that’s what i told you.

i said, people don’t think about dying nearly as often as we do. i said, they don’t overthink and overstep and question every fucking move they make over and over and over like we do. this is what i told you because its something i tell myself. to remind myself of when the irrationality in what feels rational to me bubbles over the brim of my sanity.

we’re fucked up.

but that’s okay.

because i’ve got you and you’ve got me and isn’t that just it.

[proseandspilledink]

its funny almost.

you’re doing good. you’re doing so, so good. and it surprises you how easily thoughts like that could swipe through your body like a twenty-four hour flu. you’re sitting on the couch laughing because your sister is laughing and she’s got one of those ridiculous, deep laughs. and you think about a blade. you think about the way the colour red looks against the porcelain white of a bathroom sink. but then you shift back because your dad made another joke and your sister’s laugh got deeper so now you’re laughing. you’ve barely blinked and you’re laughing and the girl you are at three in the morning on the bathroom floor in the ninth grade she’s gone. like the wind.

you find yourself wondering- in moments like that where your whole family is sitting around the blue tablecloth on your kitchen table picking a part fucking cinnamon buns like you’re some cliche movie, you wonder how long you’re going to have it. have this. or- well- you wonder how long they’re going to have you. just over a month ago they were tip-toeing and leaving glasses of water and texting you that dinner was ready. two months ago they were closing your bedroom door when their voices got too loud because you were sleeping. still. even though it was four o’clock in the afternoon and you hadn’t left your room for about thirty hours now. your sister kept track. she let that slip once when she told you how long it had been since she saw you eat.

its funny almost. in the moments of what feel like clarity you realize just how quickly you move through the darkest pits of yourself into that heightened glow. they notice- they don’t say much about it but they do. they don’t know the words for it because its not like you’ve told them. or seen a doctor about it. but they know and you know and they hope, as much as you hope, that you’ll always come back.

right now, you think you always will.

[proseandspilledink]

inside out

you’re not supposed to say the things that run through your head because they’re awful and painful and so fucking triggering. but they’re yours aren’t they?

i’ve thought it a thousand times but never said it a loud, never to another. and i have thought of telling them that slitting my wrists up like ribbons runs through my head more times than i will ever admit. and i won’t. i can barely even write it without making it sound prettier than it should. because it’s bad, it’s wrong, it’s sick. but fuck- i am sick. aren’t i?

i’m sitting here picturing nightmares.

and thriving.

[proseandspilledink]

dating me

dating my mental illness means anger. i will not be able to control the way the irritation rolls over my skin at the sound of you tapping your foot to the floor. i am sorry if i snap. i am sorry. i just need the sound to stop, the sound is all too much in my head and it is grating against my eardrums. i can hear my own blood, i can feel my own heartbeat. my skin is prickly. please do not touch me, please.

dating my mental illness means sleep. there will be days where i am unable to rise. where my bed brings more comfort than your arms. i will lay there, restless and defeated, sliding between conscious and unconscious. then i will wake and my body will ache and my mind will ache. and then i will be awake. for days it seems, for weeks it feels. i will be unable to rest. i will be unable to face the night or the day or the in between. the insomnia will drive me to the brink. often. but i will come back.

dating my mental illness means apathy. i will yearn to feel as you feel, touch as sweetly as you touch, speak as kindly as you speak. but i cannot. my tongue is a heavy metal weight in my mouth and i’m choking on the nothing that lies in my throat. there is no pain here. there is also no joy or sadness or worry or wonder. i will be nothing. it is not your fault, you cannot make me laugh though you wish to hear it, though you wish to see me smile. it is not your fault.

dating my mental illness means loneliness. you will miss the days when my body curved against you own. you will miss the days your fingers danced across my skin and i arched into you, craving you, chasing you. but there are days where my side of the bed means mine alone. there are days when i will turn from your soft caresses. i am sorry. i am sorry. but please, not today.

dating my mental illness means ache. i cannot explain to you all the days this hurts. deep down inside my bones it hurts to want to want. and to see you want. i cannot do anything about it. i simply ache. whether it be with sadness or longing, i ache. and all i must do is ebb and flow within myself until i rise to the surface and break free. until i dust off the ash. until i smile again. 

dating my mental illness means anxiety. it will be unbridled. it will be rolling off my skin in droves. sometimes i will question you. more times than not i will question myself. i am unsure of both the way my year will turn and the way all of life will turn. you do not have the answers but at that thought alone i crumble. it will not be easy. but rather than glue me back to pieces please just carry them with you, close to you heart until i need them again.

[proseandspilledink]

let me rot.

i want to be alone. i want to to rot. let me wallow in the way i haven’t brushed my teeth today; in the way i haven’t washed my hair this week; in the way my skin feels cracked and dry and dirty. please just let me sink into the sheets i haven’t washed this month. let me wrap myself in it.

she’s an old friend. she rises from time to time. this year she has visited me more than i care to have her. i want to be alone, but she doesn’t listen. she never has. she speaks over me, speaks louder than me. like a faint white noise i can always hear her. 

she tells me i am like a star at the end of its life. almost completely entirely burnt out. a dim glow a thousand miles away from here. almost gone. she drags her palms down my cheeks every morning and i think she’s trying to sink into the pores of my skin. i want to be alone. no. she tells me. not today, not today.