counselors (one of whom fell asleep as I was talking) Um.#YESway
doctors, shrinks, medication (I couldn’t tell you what all of them were, off-hand)
quick starts-and-ends of relationships
friendships in limbo
…packing in and out of dorms, apartments, houses, Fairfax Hospital in-patient, a house on fire, stranger’s beds.
In that time, I cut my wrist with a Cutco knife while fighting with an ex.
My words didn’t feel like they were able to carry what I was feeling.
I was a #fRacturedGirl. living with a dizzying head on still shoulders.
I clawed through most days; barely surviving,
to open my eyes.
to get up.
to go outside.
to be normal.
to do work.
to smile at people. awkwardly
to act unafraid.
It took me 8-or-so years to finish undergrad.
I was in-and-out of university numerous times.
I’m trying to figure out where to hang my framed diploma from Antioch University Seattle for a master’s degree in Psychology. I couldn’t be more proud of me.
If you’re struggling and the future seems hopeless.
If you feel like there is no end to the excruciating battle.
I beg of you, please. DO NOT GIVE UP.
Reach out. You’re worth it. People love you. People care. I care!
All of those things that the trickster voice in your head tries to get you to believe – they’re lies.
You, my friend, are a fucking warrior.
This freewrite was inspired by a post that popped up in my Instagram feed:
Note: Links to mental health resources are within text, i.e. “depression” hyperlinks to the 24-Hours Crisis Clinic site.
I fucked up. I made mistakes. I regret them. I am learning from them. I am losing from them. I am dying inside from them. Inside and inside out.
I thought I had figured out more about myself than I have. I thought I had figured out more about you than I have. All of you. But mostly you.
I look for the silver lining without getting carried away. There are shiny things to reach for and hold onto. Forgivenesses wrapped in all the things you don’t want done to you, all the things you don’t want to do to others.
I wade in the sludge of the black inside the silver lines. Before any changes can be made.
10, 11. They’re OK. What’s your name again? Your plastic limbs don’t fit in here. You’re cold and calculating. 9+3 = twelve. Twelve times I said I was done. with you. You and your 20 fingers. You and your 15 ‘little white lies’ to put me aside, and 13 ways to pretend you don’t love me. You said your favorite color was red. I should’ve known then. I should’ve known that our heads wouldn’t mend. Together.
You say blue, I say gray. You see the sun, I see turbulence, vitriol, and mangled decay. You always wanted to live then. French Revolution. In your sodded petticoat and shaved matted hair, swept down cobblestone streets in this week’s ferment. Will you regret that you pushed me out the window? or do you just like the sound of “defenestration”, the way it rolls off your forked tongue? You use to scrub your eyeballs clean.