Posted in 2017, After

#008

It’s 3 weeks til the end of the semester. I just need to hold my shit together for 3 weeks. Then I can go through whatever mental episode I’ve been holding off for weeks.

It’s bad tonight. All that static and white noise in my brain, then the burning rage because I can’t get it to stop.

Every instinct in me is telling me to tear apart this room, break everything I can, and then proceed to punch a hole in the wall.

But it’s midnight.

And all I want is to get past the anger and the bitterness.

Why the fuck am I like this? Why do I keep failing?

Honestly, I hate writing like this. Because it feels like shit and I see no beauty in the words. It’s me admitting how messed up I am. I’m not ignoring the ugly parts. It’s all the jagged pieces poking through and I can see all the damage. And I hate it.  I hate looking at myself and saying I need to get it together, because I’ve been saying that for the last 6 years. I’m tired of dealing with the same depression. The same thoughts, the same questions, the same fears. Fuck. You think some progress would’ve been made.

You think writing it out would help. Getting it out would release some of it. But it doesn’t. I’m just as angry. I still can’t think. My brain hasn’t slowed down.

It’s midnight and I’m burning.

 

 

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Posted in 2017, After, Journal Excerpt, Uncategorized

#007

Sometimes all that’s left is sadness.

It’s night. I look over all that I haven’t accomplished and all my failures. It weighs on me. I am weary.  I should’ve been better, stronger.

Now there is nothing left.

I wish I was past this. There are days and weeks I feel like I’ve made improvement, that I’m moving forward. Then a week like this comes along. Without warning, those dark clouds are back, surrounding me and my thoughts. All hope, all positive thinking seem to be  swept away.

I am very tired, and I cannot sleep because tears burn my eyes.

Posted in 2017, Melancholy

#006

I reminisce a lot. I go over where I’ve been, what I’ve done, and how I’ve felt. I try to make sense of my past to try and understand why I’m here. Why I’m like this. Am I better than before? Or worse? Have I made progress?

Sometimes, I do it just to make sure I’m real. Silly notion I suppose. Things can get so convoluted, some days I feel like smoke. I can’t seem to grasp who I am. The past and future don’t even register as blips on the map.

Even that same day will feel unknown. Imagine floating in space, but with out the stars and light. Directionless, aimless, you can’t tell if you’re even moving or not.

Recently reminiscing, I found a poem or free verse I had written my first year at college, about having a panic attack at Chick-fil-A.

Community place
friends, family, co-workers
Every table has that
I sit alone, company of a book
And a voiceless phone
Rabble of voices over shadow me
Hordes of patrons break my thoughts
I make no sound
Barely daring to breath
Hands that make no mess
Fearful of a mistake
Tummy rumbles
Fingers tremble
I wait
For courage
Then eyes fill the room
I can’t

I’m definitely not saying, “Hey read this, I think its good.” I  think its rather sub par.

I think its important, as far as case studies go, to have an understanding of the history of the individual.

 

Posted in 2017, After, Melancholy

#005

I’ve just now, started noticing the sky again.

It was a beautiful day. It could’ve been raining or gloomy but I remember it being beautiful. I was warm, down to my core. A peaceful happiness was spreading through me. We had just finished laughing. After nearly a half hour of nonstop talking we settled into a peaceful silence, taking in each others presence.

As one does in shared silences, I stared off into some unknown distance. Perhaps some shade of green caught my eye. I looked back to you and found a solemn countenance watching me.

In moments like these, between intimates, I believe a mood can shift. Even a conversation can take place in silence.

We looked at each other, the way one truly sees another. Past the surface, beyond the facades, right up to the front door of the soul.

There you whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

I know. Me too.

Then you asked, “Where have you been?” Even though you already knew.

Someplace dark.