Some days are spent looking at my reflection in the mirror trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. When I see my scars, bruises and scabbing wounds, I know that I don’t recognize myself anymore. When I see the unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes, I know that I am no longer me.
And not knowing who I am and where I’m headed to, is the scariest and most frightening thought to me. More than anything else I’ve had to deal with as a result of my depression.
This is a poem I wrote after a particularly rough night.
My hair is in my face, And my heart’s beating fast, My pajamas stick to my skin, And my breath smells of smoke.
I can still feel the Chardonnay, Rushing through my blood, And my mind a fuzzy ball, Of lint, attracting more dust.
My skin’s a bloody battlefield, But you wouldn’t understand, My body isn’t mine, Yet I don’t know whose it is.