Closer

Something’s going wrong again.

I can’t write, as everything I’ve written seems like complete crap—I’ve never known what I was doing and there was and never can be a meaning behind it. My art means nothing and I can’t even finish the drawings I’m working on now because I don’t feel as if they’re my ideas anymore. I don’t own anything I’ve ever done.

I just feel disconnected, brainless, blank and unimaginative. And it’s constricting in on me. And whatever I might think of doing to fix this is more of a loss at the end of the day.

This is hell.

Why can’t I appreciate what I have and stop bitching about having to breathe? I have a life. It’s going to end one day. Why isn’t that enough anymore? Why don’t I find enough comfort in that anymore?

The last thing that genuinely made me feel better was listening to my mother tell me about her grandmother, on her father’s side, having a pet praying mantis she’d let roam around part of the house. And my mom telling me how there were never any spider webs where it was and how it used to just sit on the piano sometimes. It makes me want to write poems on all the other strange stories like this that have been told to me about my family.

Stories from the past, from someone else’s life, because you know I don’t live enough to have much at all to say.

Last week I slammed my wrist against a wall in my bedroom as a signal to my brothers to shut up. I was trying to sleep. Diplomacy is out of the question. I have lost a lot of respect for them, and actually don’t mind the thought of hurting their feelings.

This can’t last too much longer. I’m getting closer and closer, not being able to stop myself. Yesterday I was just about to hit the side of my wrist onto the edge of my desk when a tired feeling flooded over me, and I dropped every thought and just shut down.

I need to be taken away so badly.

Words Sent and Received….

 My therapist sent me another letter, replying to my reply. At the beginning of it she basically made me feel ashamed for feeling like I want to kill myself at times. Saying that I’ve not really had much loss in my life–no devastating war or death and whatever else she threw at me. I basically told her in my letter that I was totally unmotivated for life and that I wanted nothing, and would rather not be here at all than to pretend I want what everyone else my age (or otherwise) is supposed to want.

So anyway, when she started telling me how I’ve really not had it bad in life, I started to get angry. But as I read on I could see she was trying to make the case that she thinks I have “biological chronic depression” and that it’s gone a long time without being “properly treated”.

Chronic depression might be what this is, but with the beginning of that letter still fresh in my mind, I was starting to feel once again that my moods are all made up, that I’m causing all of this, allowing myself to stay obsessed and stuck. She went on to suggest that I get a psychiatrist who can give me some medication to help it out.

I’d also mentioned before in my letter to her that I could never say all I needed to say face to face with any therapist I’ve had. I was and still am afraid of the consequences of even hinting to an outsider that I’ve been suicidal–whether right now or in the past. She responded to that in this new letter by saying that only if a plan is included would there be any consequences. Being held for a time and all that.

I’m guessing none of that’s going to work with me, because if I have a plan I’m not going to tell a soul. Especially someone who has the power to tell and have me held up. Since I told her I think my parents insurance is going to drop me because of my age and unemployment, she included a list of mental health centers I could go to for a psychiatrist who wouldn’t cost me an arm and a leg to see.

I don’t think I’m going to follow through with any of it though. I just don’t care anymore. I should be in better spirits right now, because my brother who’s been away in jail for a year comes home sometime tomorrow. But all I seem to be able to do is wallow in how stupid my existence feels, and in shame for feeling bad for even one moment of it.

Distraction. I’ve got lots of stuff to read; I’m writing a lot (unfortunately it’s all about the same thing), and I finally have ink to print my art. None of it means a thing, but at least I have not injured myself. A glimmer of hope came about today when I heard of the job openings at my father’s second job. It’s a job where you call up people for surveys. I’m just going to apply and keep my mind as far away from failure as I can while I do so.

I’m one among too many.

 

 

If I had it in my control, I would erase the world along with the whole universe. My trying has no strength. I’ve been waiting forever just to see that nothing can be done—nothing will move. I could yell all I want and plead for how desperate I am, but to this world and these people, my words are just more to add to the noise of every other number out there, pleading as I am. We’re nobody to each other.

I can’t go through another year of dreading the days I wake up to. I don’t think I was meant to make it on my own in this life. Where’s my motivation, after all? Why am I more afraid of the future years I might have and not so scared to cut them short, or even to try to?

Yesterday while at the store my mother and I went to pick up an air mattress and a pillow and I didn’t think we’d need a cart, but with my mother being the way she is, we went into the checkout line with both of our hands full of needed things. Well, there was this woman there with a cart. She worked there and saw how full my arms had been, struggling to hold a huge box, a giant pillow and how my mother had packs of paper towels and cans stacked around her feet. The worker refused to lend us the cart she had when we asked. Instead she told us “I can’t give up my cart, but there right over there” nodding at the direction. Then she placed one small toy in her cart that another customer decided they didn’t want, and walked off.—I can’t even express how angry I was after witnessing that. I’d just returned from walking the whole food section looking for meat that wasn’t even carried (with the box and pillow still in my arms) and someone who works at the store goes and does something like that to us…She could have given us her cart and walked “right over there” to get another one for herself. I’m just glad another employee saw it happen.   

It was really just more proof for why I’d rather stay away from everyone—because just one prick can make the whole day feel like a disappointment. But what I was most aware of, even before the cart thing happened, was how a dark mood completely fell over me while walking through the store. I pretty much looked through everyone I passed as if they weren’t even there, but the irritation was building. By the time we walked out I was sure I would go home and take the anger out on myself, but it didn’t get that far. Yet right now I’m sitting here wishing it had.

Maybe it’s my body trying to adjust to the 200mg I took the night before, or maybe my not eating enough and trying to calm my hunger with drinking water the entire day; the entire week actually. I might just be trying to trade in one kind of emptiness for another. I’d rather feel hungry physically than feel empty or numb emotionally and have no control over when it goes away.        

….I’ve talked too long here haven’t I….

The painting above is supposed to be an angel with torn, bloody wings. Well, maybe it’s not an angel, but that was the idea. It had to be dark and I tried my best to make it look a little creepy as well. There’s another version of this on my art page (it’s the first image).

Enough

Too much has been going on at once in my life right now. Or maybe it just feels that way. I’m constantly trying to distract myself from feeling this sort of loss inside. I’m waiting on other people now before my volunteering can begin at the hospital.

Why the hell does society have to make everything so difficult? I’m basically being harassed by debt collectors about my student loan. They’ll get their money when I get a damn job. It makes me want to lose it. Life costs too much and it isn’t worth it to me. Never was…is never going to be…

I received a letter from my therapist. An apology letter actually. She’d like me to come back, but I feel at an end with letting others try to pull thoughts from my head. I live in my secrets and they are going to be what kill me. End of story. My mind has already gone back to what it’s comfortable with. Why break it up when there’s nothing of value to me in doing so?

I have moments now where I feel guilt trying to well up, over my still being alive. Over how long I’ve let myself go without punishing myself. Despite the changes I’ve gotten used to, there’s still something about making it through another day that I just hate. I don’t want to have to hold on.

I don’t have faith I’ll get a job. Everything comes too late for me. I feel like any real opportunity will come only after I’m too dead and gone to take it up.

Either fast forward or
Drop and shatter dead
Time, in the rest of life
I’d rather not spend

I feel the edge of sudden end
Cold against my temple
Hanging my stick arms by rope
It wields its knife against my throat

“I’m well” will never mean I’m healed
It drags me away by the strings of vein
From my wrists, pulled through their bone
The blood ways wrestled from my soul

My voice lends a base
I understand that I should die
In gray of graves, a funeral haze
My blade peak high

Stolen (poem title likely to change…lol)

The past lives I used to dream…
Moon bitten, lost in lunacy

I don’t hear it telling you
That you’re the worst God’s given breath
There’s nothing alive left in me
My essence is dried up flesh

Buy me tears; buy me a beating
All the more sweet for distracting me
They hover low; I watch the angels thieve my wings
And off they go, dragging their feet

Now I am as bitter and old
As the death curl of a blackened rose
Ever there, as the gripping rope
Of a suffocating smoke

The ghost of a stolen soul
Away, in cold kisses blown, I go

 

This is one of the new ones I’ve written. Maybe I’m getting worse or maybe I’m just not getting any better, either way I sort of like this one. It sounds different to me and that’s what I’m trying to go for. The title is confusing me now so that’s hopefully the only thing I’ll end up changing.  

After

My right ear
Against the floor of my cell
I’d know of it, if I could see
But my eyes aren’t open, and
It’s too late for me to breathe

The night’s resulting splay-
Vile liquid pooling from my lips
Cold crust sealing my eyes shut
Mind pouring in the end

I’ve gone, but the fan above continues
Its swaying motion of brokenness,
The world still throws itself dizzy, round and round
And the eyes of heaven’s darkness still burst and bleed

And somewhere a rain is falling. The heroes
Put away their faces and graze in dark solitude
In shame for the lives they can not admit
Could never have been saved

——

One of the newer ones but it’s from March, before I started class. It’s just finished today that’s all…I don’t know why, but I’m a little nervous about posting any of the more recent stuff I’ve written.  I guess I need to settle with the idea that I’m going to be writing about the same things, until something really changes in my life. I’m far too comfortable with writing about certain things. Even when I do attempt to write on a completely different topic, it always comes back to what’s familiar to me, if I make any sense with that. I’m working on it though.

“Sing so soft, as if she’ll break….”

 

The title is a line from Regina Spektor’ s song “Lady”. I love the mood of that song. I know I probably seem a little stuck on her music, but she has a lot of variety, and I’m amazed at how she arranges some of her songs.

Anyway, I don’t have anything new to say except I’m working on two new songs. The lyrics suck, but the music I guess is slowly coming along…lol. I’m embarrassed that I even try, but it’s something to do for now as I wait to be contacted for volunteering at the hospital (I’ll have to do at least 100 hours in a year, which will be no problem since I have nothing else going on..).

Below are some older poems I wasn’t too excited about, but didn’t want to trash either. More bits and pieces of thoughts I threw together one day to ease a bad mood. The new things I’ve written are almost done being edited.

For Sanity

Quiet disposition-
Looks to dreams of the unreachable
In melancholic melodies, played beneath my fingers
In discontent, as written in a hidden script of
Characters; strangers who hurt themselves
But, I never quite figured them out.

To draw somber eyes-
Soft glistening breaks over the souls iris doors
Imagination was not enough
Once numbness dyed every new life experience
When time clearly asked me to waste away
To die, or decide on which risks I’d take.

On the edge thinking deeply-
On a sunset I prayed for the will to meet
For my fallen blade to mirror a perfect resolution
As in the stories, characters and how they would fold
As in the sad drawn eyes, of their streaming tears
That ask why the passing days forget their purpose.

In the way the keys sang a most painful song-
Each note gave its understanding without pause
Why desperation creases my brow…If God
Could only tell me how, to live and what to say
Why he can not force belief
For all things to be okay.

A Way

Cut,
Dragged,
Swallowed down
I’ll fix a sure way out

Crippling, well placed mistakes
Tonight shall have their way
Finished tears will seep and choke
Sorrows of unseen years

Risen ailments’ wave, at crest
Soon comes my flood of
Darkness

Elusive Blue

 

 

  This butterfly was the hardest to get a  photo of. I took a chance and shot at random caught it with it’s wings open. It happened in the shade so this image is edited for the color to show up better. Below are more poems. I swear I’m working on better material. I just wanted to post something today.

Bloodstain

I, the beat-less piece of shade
Of life; I wish I could escape
But once again, they accept
My excuse as truth, so

These nails dig into the wrist
Over and again. Until this burning
Is a bite. Until the biting is a breath,
When the seconds slow to rest

And bloodstain my contemplation
Telling me I am what’s wrong
It shoves me to the brink and
Scolds me for my holding on

———————————————

Emend

I am darkened enough
A sore in this dimension

The spare can never ask.
Not when, where or for what.

But I am not for shame and
Do not scream or look away

As in this moment, pain will own
And I will not deflect

 

Feels Like Doom

  I went to urgent care today to see about an odd rash I’ve had on my arms for more than two weeks now. I first thought it was just stress, but it still hasn’t gone away. It’s one of those itchy rashes too, but I don’t think it’s from a bug bite. It started at the end of class one day when I was really anxious, which is when I noticed I was scratching my arms terribly, with the skin starting to break. So I went and got a percription to hopefully help.

Clinicals start on friday for me and four others from my class. I know what nursing unit I’ll be on and the name of the woman training me, but the rest feels so up in the air. I’m terrified. I told my therapist last week that this coming friday feels like doom to me; like I am at the top of a cliff, and once friday comes around I’m going to just be pushed off, expected to fly without wings.  I’ve been losing sleep, and no doubt Thursday night my eyes will stay wide open all night from this anxiety.

I haven’t been doing much of anything as far as my art projects go. There’s a drawing waiting for paint but I haven’t been feeling committed enough to get that done. I just want the month of May to be over with–to fly by like April seemed to. Because then, it’ll be after I’ve gotten my certificate and I won’t be as stressed out as I have been about it. Ten days of clinicals to suffer through and I’m done. And hey, I’m open to the possibility that I may even like what I’ll be doing, but that’s not my main goal. I don’t honestly care if I like it anymore, I have to get through this. When you begin to taste the end of something, the thought becomes all consuming.

At the end of friday I’ll have a lot more to talk about.

Stressing out, so well

    I am waiting until the rain stops to take a photo of a finished drawing I have ready. I’ve been stressed with having to remember so much in class and drawing is really all I have the energy to do when I get home. Writing is almost imposible…there’s still internal conflict there about whether I should stay and finish up this course, but I already know I am going to–so why is it still something I’m thinking? Having this certificate to put on my resume is the only goal, along with possibly getting a job, but the amount of pressure I feel sitting there in class is at times just breath taking. I’ve tried to balance out the feelings running through me with looking for other possible options if this training doesn’t work out for me. We got back our personality scores today and as usual I came out as the IN( or S)TJ type with extreme introversion. No surprise–I’ve taken the Myers-Briggs test a few times already over the years, and I’ve come to see the results as screaming that I am nothing but a cold loner, which is fine to me personally but hell when other people look at it and respond the way they do. Screw it though, nothing’s going to change and I don’t really want it to. I’ve had to bend and mask my real nature for everyone else’s comfort for too damn long.

I have recorded my other song, but I’ve come to hate the arrangement and lyrics, so when I get some time or maybe in between waiting for class to start in the morning, I’ll sit down and work on the words. Our clinicals begin May 1st so I’ll try to get more things finished before then, when I’ll really be stressing out….lol.

This poem below has been left alone for at least two months while I’ve thought through whether it was finished. But I’m as satisfied as I’m going to be with it, with everything except the title. It all sounds a little weird, but a scene I was watching on TV kind of triggered a mood in me that inspired it a little. The basic idea at the end is about knowing the little bit of control we do have can be all that’s needed to push us along for another day.

A Chosen Consequence

 

It is happening again

My stolid restraints break

Betrayal heatedly circulates

I bow, punished and sick

 

A dense hum sounds low

My heart beat begins to slow

As if it knows which

Thoughts have taken hold

 

Willful shades of fear

Now stir, of honesty

And something sure, says

This blade I reach for, it’s

 

Unfolded, despair is deepening

And spreads a restless need, for

The better pain, a desperate risk

I close my eyes and I breathe in

 

A given whisper- cry, my veins

This rising high I must sustain

For, if nothing else, to hush up life

To entertain this urge to die

 

Sips of blood taint’s savored glow

The moment sunsets, and I grin

Into the shadows, satisfied- how

 I could end at any time…