Anger

I’ve been angry and I cannot help it. I’m angry at every little thing lately and I feel like I cannot control it. Irritability is my least favorite attribute to this lovely disease of mine and it makes me feel sick. I hate feeling sick, as I’m sure most people do. I want to control it but I have no control so now I have anxiety and oh, how well do they mix together. I hope whoever reads this is in better spirits and I wish you well.

SS

Explosion

I have so many words waiting to come out and even though I wish to pour them out I can’t.

I’m stopped

words trapped, all jumbled and messy in my head,

make,

it,

stop.

the words are halted and I can’t think of a single word in a world so filled with words and it should be a grand

explosion

but it’s not and I can’t seem to find a way to pull myself up and string a few sentences together because no words can seem to fit the way I’m feeling;

and what I’m feeling is

halted.

I did a beautiful thing

I learned to let go.

I have been holding on to so much doubt and instability.

I finally said no to it, I won’t allow it to hurt me anymore.

I let it go.

In doing so, I feel less pressure, I feel lighter.

I feel better.

And that’s what I’m here to do.

To whoever reads this; it takes small steps, but be proud of them, they’re progress.

SS

Recently

I have found myself to be completely infuriated at my lack of motivation to do anything. I know I’ve hit the depressive side of things in my bipolar disorder when I feel sluggish. The only good thing that I can say is coming out of it is my ability to complete my “tasks” throughout the day. I am still doing what needs to be done but I just feel so blah and empty about all of it and that makes me more depressed. It’s a vicious cycle and I’m trying to climb out of it. I hope whoever is reading this is coming out on top of things that they are struggling with and I wish you luck.

SS

Suicide

There was once this little word blob from a tumblr.com post that someone had made about how they had tried to commit suicide when they were younger but now they can hear their husband reading their four-year-old a bedtime story in funny voices in the other room and that it does, and will get better; let yourself be around to see it.

This has always stuck with me and for some reason really resonated deep. Maybe it is because I have been there and now my life is better or maybe because someone else found their peace with their own life and I can relate to that.

Now I sit around the kitchen table with my own family and think about all the times I felt so low I tried or contemplated suicide. It really can get better but unless you’re there to see it, you will never know just how good it can be.

If you are struggling out there and you need guidance, ask for it. You deserve it and all the good things that can come your way. Please don’t feel alone, there are people out there for you who can help. Never give up.

National Suicide Hotline:  1-800-273-8255

Slumber

Floating in a sea of blue,

grey days have come to pass.

Sunshine feels unreal, exquisite on the skin.

Feels like I’ve missed too many days,

slumbering in my depression.

Like a choke hold, only smothered and pressed.

No release until it passed,

now I’m floating in a sea of blue.

High

Hazy and dazed,

helpless and hopeless.

Down and out,

counted out.

Means of self destruction,

think think think.

Starry and glazed,

dew drops on the blades.

It’s easier to wallow in one’s self doubt.

It is so hard to write

When I feel like I have nothing to write and everything to write at the same time. So many ideas but only half-ideas because my brains already off and onto the next one.

So many half finished ideas, all stuck together like glue waiting to be brilliantly unfolded and revealed. But I cannot do it. There’s nothing left in me to finish what I started and I feel like I need to but I cannot.

Even when I do write I hate it, I feel as if everything I write is juvenile and repulsive, the more I look at it the more I hate it. It is so hard to write when my brain won’t let me write because it tells me I do not know how to write and I’m terrible at it anyway.

But I write, and will continue to write, because it stills me if only for a minute; my brain is focused and no longer on edge. It calms me, if only for a moment,

so,

I will continue to write.

Anxiety

Washing over me like a spark at an electric fence, no words come out; gasping and begging for air I am gripped tightly.

No release, no comfort, only tendrils of doubt; smothering.

Dropping,

dripping,

dropped.

I am wading a pool of uneasiness and overthinking. Shivers in my bones tell me its all wrong, all of it.

But what is it?

They won’t tell me, they just coil like vipers ready to snap. Ready to swaddle my being with a hundred ton rocks, crippling and crushing; weighing me down

and down

and down.

I am gasping and reaching, but the parachute is always too far.

Always too far.

Whispering

Days meld together like ice cream on a hot sidewalk. Feelings are heavy, too heavy and they drown.

They drown me, they drown him, they drown you.

There is no lighthouse, no buoy. Only pressure, only suffocation, only struggling to the surface. But that’s the tricky part, there is no surface. Breaking free like action glass in a movie in unattainable.

Stuck.

Stuck in cement, your whole body immobile. Stuck in the depression, cuddled with the monsters under the bed.

I am the monster under the bed.

It’s cozy here, the demons know the best secrets. They whisper their tales until they’re louder, and louder.

They’re screaming and it won’t spill out, but there’s a back-up and it’s building.

My head is filled to the brim with whispering and the screaming and why won’t someone just yell

STOP.

No one’s there. No one heard.

I am alone,

and sunk,

and stuck.