Fading 

I haven’t posted in a while. I’ve been feeling sad. Empty like sugar. Pale as plastic and tepid as old tea you forgot many moods ago. You can’t keep going like this, can you?

I’m alone. I make echoes like dark stone corridors leading endlessly away. All my roses are dead and the sparkling scattered garbage moans in breathy dissonance a song meant for dancing. 

It’s all a whirlwind of sand.

I wish I could cry. I think I wish that. It’s supposed to be good for you. My tears are rancid inside me. 

I’m not here.

Where have I gone? Already a ghost in a puppet.

Misplaced. You look for yourself so long and then you realize: wait, what do I look like? The pictures are fading.

All this time looking for relief. All this time wasted. I feel like a monster, or like I might need to be. I’m not well. Probably won’t ever be.

From a glad room

Listening to music. Some of my very favorites.

Shostakovich.

James Horner.

Loney Dear.

Lisbeth Scott.

Gustav Holst.

I’m not quite here – not like I used to be. I feel alone, hollow, and as though I’m floating over an unwelcoming atmosphere. When my phone screen shuts off, I suddenly feel cut off and forgotten. I turn it back on.

The music is reminding me that I used to surf on it, swim and fly in it. Now, it’s as though I’m at a window, outside, hand on the glass and knowing I won’t find a hand pressing the other side.

I used to be on both sides of the window. 

It’s very hard to keep listening, but I’m looking for me. I want to keep looking even though the sounds of it hurt. I’m walking in a sob. I’m shifted – just out of sync with the verdant world of my grand internal safety. I vibrate inaudibly. 

The word soliloquy sounds so, so sad. But maybe a different, less lonely part of me is talking, too, from a glad room out into the dark street full of dark windows and a fell moan on the breeze. I might find the voice if I keep looking. If not, I’ll hide in some alley and try to believe the stars stare back at me.

Up early

I’m still up. 1:45AM. It’s a classic sleepless night before an early morning. My thought patterns are awful and I just want to sleep. Everything is loud in my head. I need to stop thinking. 

The noisy ac unit.

The tireless helicopter looking for more poor people to fine and imprison.

The bones of a ceiling crouching over me.

The pain in my arm.

And all the failures past, present and future on a carousel coming around again. No music. Just the faces of everyone I love looking sad when they think of me.

Have you found your victims, helicopter? Are you rounding up the poor to make our city look pretty? Are you a sad old paintbrush on a propeller pasting smiles on your broken souls? You’ll always have the poor with you, but you’ll paint the smile where the poorest slept.

My mind, the helicopter, and the city all on carousels with no music. That’s the problem: no music. If the city heard the music in the poor, and if I heard the music of my mood, could we leave our dumpy carnivals?

It’s 2:35 now, nearly a circle.

Number one 

My first therapy session went well, in a way. The therapist was well-intentioned and polite. She wished the best for me and tried to give me some hope for the future.

It didn’t go well in other ways. Even though she recognized my illness, she consistently spoke about beating it and doing what amounted to ignoring it. I spent a lot of time listening and little time describing what my illness is like for me. She wasn’t thinking about long term therapy or developing a relationship with me.

So I need to keep looking. Keep trying new meds and keep looking. It’s tough. It’s relief neither for anxiety nor depression, but at least it’s help I’m searching for and not a load of stressful projects that only make my symptoms worse without promise of some healing.

It’s warm today. I miss the north and its springtime weather. I’ve been in the south for more than half my life, but New Jersey had some beautiful places that still feel like home in my memory. I remember the feel of maple tree bark under my back while I lay in the three branches that curled slightly and perfectly around my teenage shoulders. I remember the sap on my hands with its piercingly sweet scent after climbing to the swaying tops of our pine trees, peering over leafy miles to the city of Philadelphia.

I’ve never felt at home in the palm trees and endless summer. I understand the mythic past nostalgia provides, but this environment has just never felt like home. I don’t prefer it.

I see that some of you are doing well and others are struggling. I understand both. Please take good care of yourselves. Your blogs are very helpful to me. I hope mine is the same now and then.

First

The house cat, when the initial tingle of thirst occurs to its feline palate, begins a sober introspection which cannot end too soon. Only after this quiet foray into the inner mind can this fuzzy philosopher rise, stretch, look round with a disinterest a near … Continue reading First

Wish 

It’s 1:55 in the morning. Since I can’t sleep, I thought I’d wonder: who’ll be in my yard tonight and what will they take this time?

Want to steal my depression? 

Every time I hear a noise I check the windows. First they stole a green dolly. Then a shovel. Then our bikes.

Would you like to ride my mental illness? Maybe I’ll leave it in a shiny box outside. You’ll open it and wish someone would steal it.