I go walking in the rain to hide my tears,
Quite the cliche, but still,
Amongst the hot fears and chill,
It’s the only way I stay standing,
Hate the cold, love the thrills, so
I embrace the pills.
Sweet lies as they laugh,
‘Though for a second I feel well,
It’s false promises by half,
Only bringing darker hell.
I crawl into cracks,
Hiding from the doubt,
But I’m so fucking lost,
Am I crawling in or out?
Trembling, I tremble more.
Parts of space not seen before.
Stuck on the event horizon in my heart,
An endless fall into a deep black hole,
Major Tom, I’ve lost control.
I’m a total mess.
I ache more, I cry more. I become less.
I watch the people, and their
Greener sided fences.
I note their masks and their reflex defenses.
I move through life just being myself,
‘though I could be anyone. Anybody else.
I watch the people and their plastic smiles,
Their luxury sports cars driven less than five miles.
Armani suits, suited to suit them,
Or viewed through the right eyes, suiting their disguise.
And I wonder if they’re happy in their artificial lives.
I watch the people. I could mimic their movements,
Act out their gestures, smiles, plastic puppetry.
And I wonder if I’m happier inside self-misery.
‘Cos I could have it all, have everything I see.
And all it would cost is just me.
Sometimes if I’m listening,
Awfully still, no sounds at all,
I can hear the faintest ding,
Of tiny bells behind the wall.
It must be mice’s bicycles,
Of this I’m fairly certain.
The sound it makes is quite distinct,
Down behind the skirting.
It moves around from here to there,
Wherever the mice bikes go,
Perhaps demanding right of way,
Or just saying hello.
They ride around at oddest hours,
To hide the sounds, I s’pose.
They like when folk are having showers,
Or when the lawn-mower goes.
My family and friends think I’m crazy,
They can’t ever hear a thing.
But I know it’s mice, awheeling away,
When I hear that tiny ding-ding!
Didn’t get that far through ‘Joker’,
Before I started to cry.
I wouldn’t make a very good clown,
I couldn’t say why.
Movies I see in myself
Always tend bring me down,
Because people are cruel and unkind
To those with a different mind.
You’d have to look pretty hard to find
One more different than mine
I can’t put a label on it,
Except that I don’t seem to fit
But I still couldn’t tell you why,
A movie of a man who laughs
Is making me cry.
I forgot to notice
When I stopped thinking I was ok.
If indeed, I ever considered such circumstance.
Now I am older,
But still, I find myself lost.
A child in a crowd,
Frightened and alone.
Alone on my own instead,
The crowd is in my head,
Everyone I’ve ever met,
Everything I ever said
Or maybe ever will,
I stopped forgetting
To notice if
I ever thought
That I thought I was ok.
Tend not the roses,
Leave the grapes ‘pon the vine,
The dust to settle as it may.
For things will not ever change,
I will always be myself,
And it’s broken my heart this day.
I’m a hypocrite of great degree,
For I think forums hurt more than they heal.
It’s nice to have some sympathy,
But stay out of the hamster wheel.
I have become a child of the dark,
Which inside me grows wild.
Yet at the same time, meadowlark,
Full of brilliant smiles.
So take a forum post as needed,
Fill it with your woes.
Hoping it is read and heeded,
Sympathised by those.
But be wary of the kindness trap,
For sympathy is to treasure,
But if it always draws you back,
Then I advise, take measure.
I know that in the passing days,
I’ve been a victim and a villain.
But with every so called healing phrase,
It’s ourselves that we are killing.
I find it somewhat ironic that in society today, when someone suffers greatly from a particular mental illness or malady, that they will go to such lengths to ‘heal’ them.
All kinds of medications and treatments have been prescribed to me.
Many that are illegal in any other context.
Amphetamines, benzodiazapines, anti-psychotics.
Iron infusions, supplements, electrocuting your brain.
They do so much to keep you alive and attempt to make you functional.
Even when they shouldn’t.
Even when it would be so much cheaper and easier to let you die, they still refuse.
But they have no objections about removing your rights, forcing you against your will to continue to exist in constant misery and suffering. To remain alive.
Even when you shouldn’t.
Spent three weeks in an unmade bed,
A pounding in my skull,
Repeating thoughts in my head.
Like the lyrics of a song
Singing ‘please let me die before long.’
I’m trying hard to hold on to the act of holding on,
But even now my own mind wants me gone,
So the line I’m holding onto’s not that strong.
The basic problem with this kind of rope, you see,
Is that it’s tethered far too tightly to my sanity.
Maybe if I enjoyed a single moment,
Maybe if I could control or own it,
I’d be happier alive,
Given a reason to survive,
But all I get is non-stop misery.
So fuck me.
No apologies for profanity.
I’m stuck here in my head, wishing I was fuckin’ dead,
Because there’s nothing in this world that I can see,
Nothing for me.
Nothing for me.
Some quotes on depression from two of my favourite authors, and pretty much how I feel right now.
” In every way that counted, I was dead. Inside somewhere maybe I was screaming and weeping and howling like an animal, but that was another person deep inside, another person who had no access to the lips and face and mouth and head, so on the surface I just shrugged and smile and kept moving. If I could have physically passed away, just let it all go, like that, without doing anything, stepped out of life as easily as walking through a door I would have done. But I was going to sleep at night and waking in the morning, disappointed to be there and resigned to existence.”. ― Neil Gaiman
“Depression is the most unpleasant thing I have ever experienced. . . . It is that absence of being able to envisage that you will ever be cheerful again. The absence of hope.
That very deadened feeling, which is so very different from feeling sad.
Sad hurts but it’s a healthy feeling. It is a necessary thing to feel.
Depression is very different.”. ― J.K. Rowling
When your mind is broken
And the world is wreckage
They tell you to say:
That you’re not ok,
No, you’re not OK.
So I said it, I wrote it,
Used my blood to draw,
And what the fuck for?
Nobody listened, nobody cared,
Nobody got what I shared and I shared.
I guess that was lucky,
Because although I had tried
To express how I wish how I really had died,
Express how I hated myself and my life,
How my pain got less with each cut of a knife,
It turns out I was actually, really, OK,
Compared to how fucked I am now anyway.
Apparently my informed honesty is wasted,
Overwhelmed by stolen analogies and unfriend-me messages.
‘Unbalanced Alice’, so susceptible to mind-space deficiencies
And fairy-tale moonlight monoaminergic rushes.
The happiest of unhappy clowns. Careful never to grow up,
Because adults abuse their lungs and veins,
Simply to achieve the same.
I pass through life
Unnoticed in dreary monotone.
Careless watercolour washes
Or perfectly placed impasto.
I wish for more than merely nothing,
Having been a sketch too many times.
This is the path I chose,
And here I am undone.
A clown without her clothes
In front of everyone.
Liar Liar Liar,
For closer to the fire,
What seemed like shining wings
Are melting waxen things.
‘As fake as a wedding cake’,
The Manson lyric goes.
I’ll be the slice left on the plate
That no-one ever chose.
Talks a lot
But says nothing.
Takes a lot
But never brings.
No more, no more,
I said before.
Yet here I write,
Two days up,
Two weeks down.
Mixed episode, Mixed episode, lost count.
Three hours up, two down, two up,
Mixed episode again..
Two hours up, two days down..
Etc, etc, etc.
Rapid cycling is not given to record keeping.
Half a day up, 3 weeks down, 4 days up…
Blur. Blur. Blurrrrrrr.
Insanity, Insanity, Insane.
Smile Alice, we’re just getting started.
Sarah senses subtlties
In the flight of bumblebees,
Passing in the summer breeze
On their way to places she’s
Never seen and never sees,
Beyond the flowering trees.
Going up or down?
Country mouse or town?
Smile or a frown?
Heartbroken or clown?
Make a decision please,
Indecision brings unease.
You think I like to tease.
You will not contemplate
Angles that aren’t always straight,
You say lie, and lie some more,
Act as I did before.
Be an emotion whore.
I try my best to be careful,
Pay attention to the what and the wherefore.
But there always comes a time,
When I colour outside of the line.
I try so hard just to fit in,
Do everything the world is expecting,
But now and then you’ll find,
Not everything written will rhyme.
I put so much effort and vanity,
Into pretending I still have my sanity,
But too often comes the time,
I colour totally outside of my mind.
I smile and pretend like I’m ok,
And everyone I know
Views me that way.
But my masks are made from stone and lead,
And I carry them all
Inside of my head.
I know there’s something wrong with me,
But I don’t know what, and
No one can see
The cuts that run across my skin,
Where my soul seeps out,
And the world creeps in.
I don’t know about this thing called life,
Seems like it’s just a metaphor
For suffering and strife.
I’ve tried to see the beauty others see,
But I’m really not so sure
This world is for me.
I’m not often given to crying,
I bear my grief stillborn inside.
In truth though, I’d be lying,
To lay claim to emotionless pride.
The genesis of these unauthorised tears
Is to look back over my life,
Regretting all of the wasted years
Spent fighting with fictional chemical fears.
Not the existence I once had planned,
Trapped the entire time,
In a fake and broken Wonderland
Within my troubled mind.
The worst part isn’t when people think you have a mental illness.
It’s when they think you haven’t.
This illness becomes a definition
Of what I was. Who I am.
It cuts my vocals chords
One by one.
Leaves me stealing
Your unused whispers.
I have become the doll
Of a vindictive child,
Pulled into pieces.
Lying foetal, shower floor,
Sorrow starts to drown me.
Emotions like the water pour,
Refuse to let me be.
Guilt, a humid scalding steam,
Swirls up, I choke and gasp.
Any hope, without the rope,
Slips from my shaking grasp.
I can’t stand this naked near my friends,
The worthlessness I feel.
Just a problem they can’t see,
Therefore nothing real.
So now broken bits of me
Lie on the bathroom floor.
Try to pick the pieces up,
Cut your fingers finding more.
At times the pieces gather,
And it seems that I’m complete,
But one look of disapproval
And I shatter at your feet..
I run into old friends
Who look shiny and new,
They ask me ‘damn, girl,
What’s the matter with you?’
I say ‘It’s done to me,
It’s not something I do,
“You would cry too,
If it happened to you.”
It’s my brain, and
Though I really don’t want to,
I’ll go high, (I don’t wanna),
I’ll go low, (I don’t wanna).
Synaptic strain has me feeling so blue.
I’ll go high, (I don’t want to),
I’ll go low, (I don’t want to).
“You would cry too,
If it happened to you.”‘
I build my wall
Of words and witticism.
Hiding from it all,
Afraid of the criticism.
Perhaps I prefer solitude
To your potential disdain.
Perhaps I prefer misery
To your complicated ambiguity.
Perhaps I prefer to stay broken
Than risk breaking again.
As children we were taught
That god in heaven thought
We all should drown.
Everyone should drown?
Well listen to that sound:
That’s me drowning now.
Later they would tell
Of heaven and of hell.
How to find The Right Gate.
Well they’re far too late,
Maybe you can’t tell
But I already found hell.
I didn’t need to wait.
As for gods’ only son
Dying for our sinning..
I may not have been sinning,
But baby, this is me beginning.