Last Night

Last night, you dragged me home from the pub -drunk- after a drink too many of Chardonnay. And this morning, as I nursed my hangover, you  shared with me how scared you were last night. And yet, I have no recollection of the night’s events.

You are not the only one to tell me that you’re scared. My therapist says that my nihilist attitude scares her. My friends and family keep checking in on me, because they are afraid I might act on my suicidal thoughts. Strangers keep a distance and think twice before befriending me, because I scare them away.  And I know you have my well being in mind, I know you want the best for me, and you mean well when you check in on me. But, still, it hurts to know that I scare people.

Let me tell you how I feel. I’m scared too. I scare myself every night. And when I wake up in the morning, the fear is still there. I am scared by my suicidal thoughts and even more so that I can’t stop them. I am afraid that I might not be strong enough today and engage in self harm. I am scared by my bitter attitude, knowing that it pushes people away and leaves me on my own to fend for myself in this scary world. I’m scared of my urges to drink and smoke, because I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to not act on those urges. I’m scared to look at my bottle of medication, because it triggers more fears. I wake up afraid, and go to sleep afraid; I can be my biggest enemy.

Last night, when you dragged me home and told me how scared you are, I wanted to hold on to you, keep you close, and tell you how scared I am. I don’t want to scare people away, because I know how it feels to be scared of myself. Last night you experienced what I experience every night. (and sometimes every day)

So please, when you feel afraid, know that I am just a frightened little girl and I need all the support I can get. I know it’s hard, but together we are stronger and together we can conquer our fears.

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My Linear Equation

I smell the white chalk dust, which I hear
Against the board, and the sound of pencils moving fast
Against paper.
I hear her voice in the distance, still
My body is confined to a blue plastic chair; my cell
And a wooden desk.
My mind is at the vanity mirror this morning.
I think she talks of grids, and while my peers
Chart it out on graph paper
In their notebooks
I remember the razor blades and dried up blood
And the charted graph I have on my arm
As proof.
I’m wearing a navy blue, cotton shirt; its sleeves covering the gauze
And it hides my well-kept secret.

Quiet.
Why has she stopped talking? Does she know?
She wants to confirm I’m following.
Yes, ma’am
I understand every word, term, and concept
I’ve got parallel lines and perpendicular too
I know how to graph and how to read charts.
Only yours is in pencil,
And mine is blood.

 

 

Self Destruction

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.