“I am the sea and nobody owns me.”
– Pippi Longstocking (1997)
Depression and abuse have given me strange gifts that nobody should ever have to un-wrap. I am largely a self-soother, and generally the only hand I have to hold is my own, but the past few months I woke up with a desire to jump off of a building, or spend all day in bed crying, no matter how much I tried to make myself better. There’s really no pretty way to write about the desire to not exist anymore. Yet, I am still here, and that counts for something. I’ve moved back home on summer break, and I’m determined to build myself up the best that I can. I purchased some pretty summer dresses, and I’m going to wear them, and love the body they clothe. I’d like to continue to work on my writing, and send more things out to try and get them published. I’m going to get a better handle on my depression this summer, there will still be bad days, but I want them to be less frequent than they have been the past few months. These past few months I’ve also been pondering my sexuality a lot, and I have decided I identify as asexual. It’s been a really weird journey getting to that point, but I’m glad I’m here. I also wanted to thank all of you who read my writing and offer me support. This blog started out as a way to vent, but it’s grown and helped me to become a better writer, and a better person.
Women and children have drowned in your eyes
because somebody once stuffed an ocean into them
while writing a sonnet. Your skin is soft like a lost
child’s blanket, and men weep because they’ll
never touch it again. Oh my baby, my pet,
my bear in a cage. We are all paralyzed
by your strange, poisonous love.
I’m not a mermaid and that is literally the number one reason for all of my problems in life.
The gutted volcano of my father’s temper still stains the carpet and my skin. You cannot make a dollhouse out of a broken home, and though
I’ve tried to sew my dresses out of something other than anxiety
the blood from where my father’s angry lion mouth clamped down still makes everything red. “If you weren’t so stupid maybe you could figure it out.” He said to everything that my mind could not grasp and now when
I am left crying over a math test and jar that I cannot seem to open
I wonder if I was a little more whole and little less disappointment if everything that happened would make sense.
Because there are two of me, the one with the swollen, bruised cheeks going to 9th grade, and the one who wears skintight black dresses
and red lipstick and makes people laugh, but I don’t know if they’re the same. On nights when razor blades call to me like sirens I try and force us together, this scared little girl and me, but all Ican hear is,
“You’ve got to grow up pretty, don’t be like that girl.”
And I am afraid I’ve left her behind even though she still needs me.
I need me.
Who needs a lover when I have the sun? Warmth proves that I am still here. Some days are better than others, but in the early morning hours if I am a very quiet I can hide from the need to exist. The monster within me sings so quietly only I can hear it. It sings songs of “Nobody will notice if you disappear” and “They only say they care because they have to.” I am trapped inside this body. I cannot get away. I will shower and try to forget, but my own stomach startles me with its hunger and softness. Run rabbit girl. They can’t find you if you are oh so small.
“It’s tough to get out of bed; I know that myself. You can lie there for an hour and a half without thinking anything, just worrying about what the day holds and knowing that you won’t be able to deal with it.”
– It’s Kind of a Funny Story (Ned Vizzini)
There are birds nesting in my curls most mornings, and no flowers growing on my breath. The girls you write about have an hour to get ready before you arrive. But when you spend the night they’ll slip out of bed to brush their teeth, and try to slide back in like a dream slipping from your mind as you wake up. These girls are not water damaged book spines and coffee stained pages. They have never been your stories to tell.
Reblogging this forever. So so perfect
Sometimes when I feel indulgent I play sad classical music and take walks in the rain. But on most days I make myself peanut butter sandwiches, tell too many stupid jokes, and try not to focus on the feelings of inadequacy that cling to my skin like tar and feathers that will not help me fly. I do not often go out clad in long black trenchcoats wearing eyeliner that causes me to look like a drunken panda. Nor do I go lay and wail in the middle of the street very frequently. Actually, I don’t think I ever have done either of those things. When people tell me I don’t look like I have depression, I can’t help but wonder what a person with depression actually looks like.
Perhaps they are some kind of ethereal being vaguely resembling a black blob that floats around parties wailing and make everyone uncomfortable with its general attitude of sorrow. I must have been gifted with some kind of superior disguise for my depression, because when I go to parties there are no screams of terror as people flee from windows in panic yelling, “Run! It’s her, the woman with depression!” I suppose this event may not be happening because when I have a bad depressive episode I do not go to parties. I do not go anywhere. I have studied my face in the mirror extensively searching for the party trick that hides my depression. I have also studied the faces of others with depression, and after years of scientific research I have concluded that we all appear startlingly human. It may be alarming to some to realize that pigeonholing depression to a particular type of appearance doesn’t actually work.
“But then how are we going to know who the crazy people are if they don’t look a certain way? I don’t want to be around somebody like that.” A boy in one of my high school classes so charmingly said. If you asked me to tell you what someone with depression looks like I’d advise that you look at the person who sits next to you on the train, your best friend, the guy who served your sandwich yesterday, maybe even your grandmother. Depression does not care how much someone has to offer this world. It moves into the mind wearing an ill fitted suit, and pays no rent. It is a destructive tenant who would rather burn the house to the ground than give up living there. It never moves out, but sometimes the landlords of depression are able to put in a pair of earplugs, and ignore the songs of inferiority that are played throughout the night. On those nights I put on something nice, drag myself to a party, and laugh as much as I can. In spite of the destructive occupant at home, we blend in, and we go on.
Spring is using my shower.
Her thighs are tattooed with cherry blossoms,
and there is a garden on her back.
A season has shared my bed.
I do not love her.
The month of April is borrowing my towels
and offering to make me breakfast,
I will never call her back.
There are petals in the drain.
I’m really weirdly nervous about talking to my doctor about medicating for my depression. Talk to me? Help? Stories about medication good and bad?
Good morning you are still alive, and on some days that will have to be good enough. Somebody is going to tell you that you don’t look like you have depression, make the ugliest face you can and say “how about now?” I want you to know that asking for help is not weakness, it’s asking a village to help you fight a dragon. Somebody will also tell you to “get over it” and in this household we believe very firmly in the power of getting over it, but we get over silly things like not getting extra napkins with lunch or spilling chocolate milk on the carpet, not chemical imbalances. Depression is not an attitude problem, and anybody who tells you otherwise doesn’t understand what it’s like deal a part of yourself that wants to stop existing. Be grateful they don’t understand, because nobody should ever have to go through what you do. Yet, this is what you have been given, and I want you to acknowledge it, but please never let it consume you. You are not an alien, even though you feel like one sometimes. Please, little darling, never be afraid to reach out. You are not as alone as some foreign part of your mind whispers that you are. Depression will never tell you the truth.