R: “It’s gonna be ok.”

I don’t usually click the “create new post” button on here and write what’s on my mind, I have done so occasionally, but it is much more common for me to flip thru the pages of one of my journals and pick a poem or other short written piece that I know I haven’t published yet and throw it up on here. But once in a while I need the feeling of my thumb flying across the screen of my smart phone, trying to tell as much as I can of whatever story literally just happened to me. Tonight there is one of those stories, but the words are getting stuck somewhere, maybe in my biceps, and aren’t making it to my thumbs. In the past 3 hours I’ve cried 4 times. I felt like a burden on the people who were being so generous and giving me a ride, I felt like a nuisance as I stated my opinion and my experience while surrounded by a group of women who are more mature than me both in physical years and in faith, I had an outburst when the topic of discussion hit close to home, I wanted to tell a story but there wasn’t time, and by defending my crazy I only made myself appear more crazy. I’m sure whatever I said tonight was incoherent and I can’t explain it away. And yesterday in an effort to just enjoy a conversation with a friend, I gave her all sorts of details that it seems she is collecting in order to pass judgement on my life choices and recommend all sorts of ways to fix my life. Well, the truth is lady, i just wanted to have another adult to talk to, I didn’t need for you to tell me that I need to be on meds for my mental illness and for you to claim youve seen my behavioral extremes, when really you’ve only ever seen me depressed, some days I just don’t let the depression crush my whole day and I am able to laugh and I don’t lock myself inside my house for weeks at a time, just because I put on clean clothes and earrings does not mean my depression is gone and just because I talk about something I am excited about does not mean I am having a manic episode. But this post is just more incoherent crazy person babble, reinforcing that I am in fact having some sort of episode related to my mental illness. Eff it, Im too tired to fix me right now, tomorrow has a chance and so do i.

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struggling faith

lost and distant

please find me, Jesus

i’m searching

for You

 

where are you?

i know

this won’t last

“joy in the morning”

and all that

but still,

 

i’m reaching

just a lost sheep

little black sheep

with mud

on her face

 

i’ve been

here before

and found

my way again

following Your light

 

i know

You never give up

on those You call

Yours,

like me

 

look for me

until

i remember:

i am

Yours

Stepping Stones, part 1

i am fourteen years old. the year is two thousand and four. my mom is away visiting my grandpa. he has cancer. he will not live much longer. i am feeling so alone. i miss my mom. i have already decided not to return to public school this year. it is August. i am sitting alone on the porch. there are no walls; it has not become my bedroom yet. i see a small piece of broken plastic in the dirt. it is sharp. i am sharp; if anyone gets close to me my anger and sadness will cut them. i pick the plastic up. i press it into my flesh, near my knee. i drag it against my skin again and again. i am bleeding. i lie when asked what happened. scraped myself on something. it was an accident.

 

i am seventeen years old. the year is two thousand and seven. my parents drove me to Burbank. we carried my things up to my third floor dormitory. at some point my dad cries. he does not want me to leave home. he has held on too tightly and i’ve been afraid to leave because i don’t want to break his heart. but at the same time i am angry at him because i want to be allowed to spread my wings and fly. i want to stop being his emotional crutch.

 

i am eighteen years old. the year is two thousand and eight. i meet a boy. he is really sweet. i tell myself i do not want a boyfriend. i want to be just friends with this boy. in a week’s time he will be my boyfriend.

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I’d ask about the Death Mark,
then every other tattoo
you’ve gotten since the last time
I saw you naked.
And I’d want to hear all the stories
even the ones from before.
I’d tell you about
the tattoos I want to get
and about the birthday mark
on my left leg that I didn’t know
I had because I have never been
as tan as I got this summer
and I’d remind you of a scar
on the same leg, perhaps you’ve forgotten.
We could talk about
the scars I haven’t gotten
and any of yours
that are new.
Finally, I’d stop undressing
you with my eyes and
begin undressing you
with my hands.
We’d stop just short
of going all the way
because that’s how I want
it to be.