now im somewhere far away from where i started with no point of return.

Killing oneself is, anyway, a misnomer. We don’t kill ourselves. We are simply defeated by the long, hard struggle to stay alive. When somebody dies after a long illness, people are apt to say, with a note of approval, “He fought so hard.” And they are inclined to think, about a suicide, that no fight was involved, that somebody simply gave up. This is quite wrong.

— Sally Brampton, Shoot the Damn Dog: A Memoir of Depression.

———————— 

The part I hate most about mornings is the blisters. 

I take a shot glass.

1, 2 3, 4, … 10, 11, 12! 

It’s time to pop.

There is no joy to exclaim. 

Just hope that it helps with the pain.

But it is so hard to swallow

everything one at a time.

It’s beyond a mouthful 

to try and take in everything at once.

The next part I hate about mornings is having to make sure I’m full.

I stuff myself with what I used to love — food.

If I don’t ensure that, 

the ramifications are heavy.

On good days,

I allow myself a good nap

even though I hardly even need one.

On bad days,

I experience mania

even though I try to reassure myself that

everything is normal

and it’s all part of the side effects.

But I never asked for any of this.

I delude myself into thinking

this is all part of karma and

this is all part of some horrid retribution

I deserve.

I absolutely deserve it.

Convincing myself so hard,

I come to believe it.

Did I deserve this?

Maybe 

and/or

maybe not.

On good days, 

I convince myself that I am just thinking too much.

On bad days,

I am certain that I am thinking too much.

This cycle continues

and no amount of 

stress-cleaning of my room

and no amount of

writing on this blank space

can take away the immense fear

that I am to continue

living like this.

My heart rate goes up.

Flashes of the past begin to show up.

Everything is moving too fast for me to keep up.

I’m about to throw up.

Now I’ve got to calm down.

Time, please slow down.

I can’t afford to let anyone else down.

It’s time to climb down.

Over time, I learnt many things.

First, I tend to believe myself too much.

Second, I tend to be too distrustful at the same time.

Third, I tend to find clarity within myself.

Fourth, I tend to doubt myself after everything.

Did I really learn anything at all?

The next part of mornings I hate is how quickly it becomes the afternoon.

It’s time for my next meal.

I have taken my medicine

so I no longer need to eat as much.

Yet, I am so exhausted

from the manic episode I go through each day;

I cope with stress-eating sometimes,

I cope with stress-sleeping some other times,

I cope with misery and making myself feel miserable.

If I could fill up a tub with misery,

I’d probably drown in it

not on purpose

but on purpose.

I wouldn’t even bother to wonder why.

At some point, it is almost time to

get up and get out of bed.

I’ve been sitting down for too long,

my legs are numb;

more numb than usual.

That’s terrible to even think about

knowing how my leg can simply feel nothing

whether I’m walking or lying down.

Again, not out of the ordinary,

I begin to question myself —

if it is even necessary to get out of bed.

It’s as though I just went on a rollercoaster;

no, in fact, I went on every single rollercoaster

in a rollercoaster-only amusement park

that isn’t even amusing to me at all.

What’s new?

Another part I hate about mornings is how it is the opposite of night.

I refuse to believe many things —

how I can let light into my darkness;

how I can start everyday afresh

without thinking about everything I did the night before;

how vision is clearer in the day;

how there are more active hours in daylight.

When it is dark, it is inevitable to still think about the day —

about everything that just happened;

about everything that just flew by

as though it meant almost nothing

but everything.

I wouldn’t turn back time.

I wouldn’t rewind anything

anyway.

My eyes may be tight shut

but I’m not afraid of the dark.

I’m afraid of resting

while my mind is at unrest.

The doors to my thoughts are wide open

lost in a fog inside my mind

but the path to them is clear

and there is usually no point of return

except to escape into slumber.

It is hard

but not impossible.

It is even harder to wake up.

Which is the nightmare;

the one I encounter in my sleep —

where I am dreaming that I'm always running

or

the one I face in reality —

where I am awake and I'm still running?

———————— 

 

 

M.

But I’m turning.
I was on the outside looking in
Now I’m on the inside
trying to stay
out of my head.
I need a peace of mind.