Untitled (2016)

Writing

I hang upon every toxic sentence that is spewed at me. I try to stand strong as a redwood tree in a thriving forest but all the words cut into my flesh and leave me feeling more insecure and unstable. Eventually I forget the wounds, they never heal. They don’t scab over. Time doesn’t magically evaporate their existence. They remain a part of me. I don’t blame the wounds on the ones who held knives for me. I blame myself for whatever pain comes my way. I’ve been damaged enough to think about little mistakes for the rest of my life, maybe I’m immature? Maybe I’ve made the wrong choices and grown the wrong way. No matter how I look at it I’m the only one spitting hateful slurs at myself, I’m the one creating toxicity within my own mind and heart.

Depression isn’t a simple thing to rid yourself of it lingers over your every action. It makes your tongue weigh tons and your brain work at sonic speeds. Your words are jumbled and thoughts are too cluttered to process and you question all of your actions and wonder if anything is worth it.

Bluntly put nothing is worth it, unless we believe it so.

Writing doesn’t create serenity nor does it make it any better.

It puts my depression right in front of  my restless eyes so I can measure just how far I’ve begun to fall this time around; or just how soon I’ll disappear and alienate my friendships and dodge the “are you okay?”S. In hopes that somehow the isolation will cure the things I feel. But depression runs deep. It flows through every thought. It clogs the stream of consciousness and leaves me with empty spaces where what ifs are all I can play out. It’s a torturous marathon of self directed movies filled with my demons and nightmares. I am in seat in the corner of my room with my eyes open and can’t turn away.

Soon it feels like I’m drowning my brain and I get lost. I get comfortable and forget where I really need to go. I forget what I should try.

I forget to live.

 

 

 

I hang upon every toxic sentence that is spewed at me. I try to stand strong as a redwood tree in a thriving forest but all the words cut into my flesh and leave me feeling more insecure and unstable. Eventually I forget the wounds, they never heal. They don’t scab over. Time doesn’t magically evaporate their existence. They remain a part of me. I don’t blame the wounds on the ones who held knives for me. I blame myself for whatever pain comes my way. I’ve been damaged enough to think about little mistakes for the rest of my life, maybe I’m immature? Maybe I’ve made the wrong choices and grown the wrong way. No matter how I look at it I’m the only one spitting hateful slurs at myself, I’m the one creating toxicity within my own mind and heart.

Depression isn’t a simple thing to rid yourself of it lingers over your every action. It makes your tongue weigh tons and your brain work at sonic speeds. Your words are jumbled and thoughts are too cluttered to process and you question all of your actions and wonder if anything is worth it.

Bluntly put nothing is worth it, unless we believe it so.

Writing doesn’t create serenity nor does it make it any better.

It puts my depression right in front of  my restless eyes so I can measure just how far I’ve begun to fall this time around; or just how soon I’ll disappear and alienate my friendships and dodge the “are you okay?”S. In hopes that somehow the isolation will cure the things I feel. But depression runs deep. It flows through every thought. It clogs the stream of consciousness and leaves me with empty spaces where what ifs are all I can play out. It’s a torturous marathon of self directed movies filled with my demons and nightmares. I am in seat in the corner of my room with my eyes open and can’t turn away.

Soon it feels like I’m drowning my brain and I get lost. I get comfortable and forget where I really need to go. I forget what I should try.

I forget to live.

 

 

 

 

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