What The Walls Wrote

And suddenly, the room went silent. 

She could still hear the gentle closing of a French door, the tumbling footsteps & uplifted voices from above, streams of long dark hair and eyelashes, blonde curls & eager, grasping eyes, that would fade in a matter of hours. 

Business would continue as usual. The festivities of glitter and bows, pictures, videos and thank you letters the only reminder of what seemed like an open door to a world filled with warmth, weight, children's breath and beating hearts. 

She would go back to the basement, the humidifier's purr blurring out the words "I love you and we'll see you soon." She knows how far away soon truly is, that sometimes it's the drop of a penny in a wishing well, the wait by the train track, the silence of the telephone, an unopened letter. 

She knows how "soon" is not a measurement of time, and with time, there are no guarantees. 

She will stop, listen to the stillness of a spoon clanking in a coffee mug, her own heartbeat, the hands of a clock, close her heavy lids, curl into her own chest, smile to God and realize....

She is just alone, not lonely. 

And suddenly, the walls erupt with applause. 

 

Yours Truly,

MourningGlory ❤️️
 
 
 
 

Life In The Not-So Tragic Kingdom

First off, I think we should acknowledge my reference to Gwen Stefani in the title.

Sure, she's totally hot now, but I miss the old days-belly shirts, bangs, face piercings, overly-plucked brows, and 90s AWESOMENESS. 

Case in point:

But the point of this post is, that although I post a lot about depression and struggling with certain feelings after my disability, my situation is, in fact, not tragic. At all.

Frustrating? Tedious? Time-consuming? Embarrassing? Physically and emotionally draining?

Oh, yes. Ohhhh, yes. 

But when I really think about it, it's kind of ridiculous how spoiled I am. I mean, I literally have servants come to my house that prepare my food for me, help bathe me, blow dry my hair if I want them to, dress me, put my shoes on, etc. Did you know that back in the day, the royal family in China made people FEED them?!

So yeah, I'm pretty much royalty. I don't even have to walk for myself; I have a $50,000 machine does it for me.

I started coming to this conclusion when I was telling a new friend of mine about what happened. She asked me and I told her the story in complete detail. For some reason, people assume that I would have a hard time talking about it. Which makes sense, actually. But considering the fact that I don't remember any of it, the actual accident part, it's not traumatizing at all. Plus, it seems like a lifetime ago. Like it wasn't me at all.

After I had told her the story, she said, "Seriously?!? That's ALL you've got?! I'll tell you about tragedy. And if I were you, I would embellish that sh*t. Add in some flying monkeys or something."

And not only was it hilarious, it's true.

There are people in this world who are sold into sex trafficking and used over and over again until they die, orphans who die without food or medical care all over the world, children who watch their entire families be murdered in front of them, people who will starve to death, people who will never have a home, food, or shelter. Not to mention the people that get paralyzed in other countries and don't have the resources that I have.

And yeah, it still sucks. But overall, it's a first-world problem. I often get sucked into the "Facebook comparison game," which I thought was silly.

Until I watched this....

Every night before I go to bed, I always look around at all the things I have in my room, that are so silly and excessive, the fact that I am sleeping in a warm bed with a full stomach, and can't help but feel almost guilty.

I laugh a lot, and although I don't get to see people very much, I definitely have people and family that love, encourage, and constantly support me.

I also have the free time to do ridiculous things like the following. 

This is my costume for one video we did. My mother came home and found me sitting in the basement like this and asked me if I was having a Bette Davis meltdown. She was legitimately concerned. I don't blame her. 

Signed,

MourningGlory xoxo

But I'm a rebel.

PS. I still need help fixing my blog layout!!!

A (lone) liness

I haven't been writing here recently (obviously) because I have been so depressed and lonely that I just.....can't. 

So to help, I decided to try the whole "turning your pathos into something creative & brilliant" thing by continually starting and re-starting a post about just that-loneliness. 

But Noooooope. 

And to be honest, I'm much more interested in writing a fun, light-hearted post for once! But, I do think this is is an important topic & if I don't get it out now, I never will. 

When I first had any interest in blogging, I emailed a former colleague of mine from Harding University, Lauren Bryan Knight, the amazing-featured in National Geographic-on British TV shows & Garnier BB Cream boxes in England-writer of AspiringKennedy and here are a few of her main tips

•Consistency (blog often) *whoops*

•Intrigue (don't reveal everything about yourself at once. Make people want to unfold who you are, your story) *whoops again*

•Balancing fun without the crazy (people have enough drama in their lives. Regardless of how you might feel at times, don't vent on your blog- it feels good at the time, gets big reactions, but is damaging to the blog in the long-term) *WOWZA WHOOPS*

But if there's one thing you should know about me by now, it's that I'm a girl who doesn't just bend the rules, I smash them on the pavement and puke all over them. 

Wow. That was a lovely visual. I wonder why people always say I have a way with words.

Plus, I am definitely NOT Lauren. Case in point. And that's okay.....well, actually, it's totally not. She is basically the American version of Kate Middleton. Like, it's absurd. BUT, she does inspire me and is totally lovely and charming and gracious and funny and adorable, and WOW this is getting creepy.

I can't help it; I'm totally fan-girling it.

I have never had the gift of turning my pain into a work of value, spare a very few published poems that I just spewed out. But typically, whenever I am truly, truly lonely, I cannot focus on anything but the feeling. I will call and text everyone I know, in the hopes just one person will answer. I will play the comparison game on Facebook (you know what I'm talking about!), listen to sad music like this classic, or really any Ryan Adams song. I mean, c'mon now. He is probably the most depressed (and awesome!) musician for times like these. I am also the master of being completely indulgent in feeling sorry for myself. 

But while we're on the subject, and because I haven't posted in forever, not only did Ryan Adams favorite (it's now called a "like" for all you non-Twitter folk) and retweet me (like sharing your Facebook status-the ultimate coolest), Mary Steenburgen replied back to me after I reminded her of us meeting in Nashville. That's another super cool story for another day. And oh yeah, I got a favorite from Damien Echols, too! So, yeah, at least I'm famous on the tweet box.

The beginning...

The progression....

The grand finale. 

He even put a cherry on top! He's so nice, y'all. 

Ms. Mary!!

And the uber cool, amazing & strong Mr. Damien Echols. 

But back to the topic of this blog (get it together, Beth!)--It usually takes me a while to step back, focus and analyze my feelings before I can write clearly about it.  What can I say? I'm an INFP. Don't know your type? Take it here. Trust me; the results are so accurate, it will blow your mind.

So here we go. 

lone·li·ness

ˈlōnlēnəs/

noun

1. 
sadness because one has no friends or companionship "feelings of depression and loneliness"


The fact of being without companions; solitariness

"The loneliness of a sailor's life"



2. 
(of a place) the quality of being unfrequented and remote; isolation.

"the loneliness  of the farm."




Well, yeah. I think we all get the definition.
But why does it ache so much?
You know the feeling--that emptiness in your chest,
the way it hurts to breathe,
the hollow auditorium of your bedroom as the music echoes
off of empty walls,
the air sharp,
burning
acrid
slow aches deep in your sides
like cuts
reminding you you are
drowning in an empty lake where even the trees
stay silent as you are screaming for help
listening to their chatter back-and-forth
the rustle, the soft whispers
of the leaves and birds
singing a love song to each other
mocking you as you struggle
for a lone branch,
a calloused rock
for salvation.

It is when the moment you realize everyone has abandoned you.

Even yourself.

I believe it is one of the most awful feelings we, as human beings, can experience, because I believe that pain is one of the most intrinsic of teachers. 

I remember a time when I craved alone time, and being an introvert, I DO notice that after a night where I'm surrounded by people, I cannot wait to go home, read, get lost in the "YouTube hole," watch my shows, and just....think.

I need time to internally process every event that happened--every look, word, topic, person, reaction, because to me, absolutely everything has meaning.

I so wish somebody could crawl inside my brain for a few days....just to give me some respite. Living your life alone has a way of turning you inside out, like washing, folding and unfolding the same pair of socks until they're just bits and pieces of their original fabric. 

As a disabled woman, I have noticed a major change in the amount of social invitations that I am invited to. The biggest and worst thing that happens is when I meet people (I do it literally everywhere), we strike up an awesome conversation, exchange numbers, talk about hanging out & then they'll text me. 

Text me. 

For a few days. 

And I'll ask them if they want to do something. The response is always the same. Nothing. No text back. And then, maybe a few hours later, maybe the next day, they will reply, talking about how they were sick or busy or some other lame excuse that lets me know they were never really interested in hanging out with me in the first place. Because the truth is, most people don't want to come pick me up. Most people don't really want to make the effort. And I don't know what to make of that.

I even joined a church Bible study group. I didn't join it to make friends, but I expected them to come along with the territory, especially because so many of the women there spend time together outside of church. So naturally, I talked to several of the ladies about going out to do something. Same thing happens. They will say yes then ignore my texts and come up with the same excuses. I especially love it when they pretend they didn't see the text until the next day. I mean, come on. Everyone has their phone glued to their hip these days. I mean that literally. My phone is permanently glued to my hip. Superglue. Works like a charm!

I talked to a new friend of mine, who is also disabled, and he told me that the same thing happens with him. He said that he was in the hospital, so he put it on the message board of his church's website to let people know. He just needed someone to be there for him because his family lives far away. He said there are over 300 people at that church and not a single one responded. When he went back to church, he said that people would walk up to him and say things like, "I didn't know you were in the hospital! I would have brought you food!"

First of all, yes-they knew. But more importantly, he wasn't asking for anything other than someone to just be there. 

I cannot drive yet and I definitely think that has a lot to do with it, especially because I live with my parents in an area that is a little bit remote. But he, like many other disabled friends, is always the one who has to go to the event-no one ever comes to him. I know that it doesn't sound like a big deal, but it is.

You wonder if anyone actually likes you for you, if all the things they said about you being fun and smart and witty and intelligent are true. Because basically, what you're hearing is, "I enjoy being around you. When I have to. But not enough to make a thirty minute drive."

But, after months of really and truly thinking about my loneliness, it's always been a man with me, not a big group of girl friends, or friends in general. I am meant for a true one-on-one, personal, intimate, close connection with a man.

Nothing soothes me more than a broad shoulder,
solid hands encircling mine,
intertwining of limbs on a couch,
pressing of a mouth against mine,
the warm intake of his lungs
lips gentle, pliable, supplying
the presence of masculinity,
the opposing force to all my softness
of skin and narrow ribcage,
hands like hold me,
like communion
like I am going to pour myself out
and fill myself with you
until you are a part of me.

While I value the relational value-emotional security, support, a best friend, I crave the actual in-person physical contact with a man. No group of girl friends can ever able to supply that. And I don't know what it is about me that needs that comfort so desperately.

The worst type of loneliness, I think, is the kind you feel when surrounded by other people. 

When I am with my family at on Holidays, I realize how alone I really am. How everyone else will curl up with their person, tuck their sweet children in bed, kiss each other goodnight and have that contentness that only a life like that can offer. I try to engage, to be filled by simply enjoying my family. But as much as I try and as much enjoyment as I do experience by interacting, overall I just feel an arrow shooting into the pulse on my wrist, slowing my blood flow, reminding me I will be alone at the end of the night....and every night. 

I know, I know-poor me. I understand that I could have it a lot worse and try to remind myself that at least I do have some sort of family and friends that will come see me on occasion.

I try to remind myself of good times like these:

Plus, I think I was always lonely. Even when I was surrounded by tons of people and deeply loved. Here are some excerpts from an old journal of mine I found. Maybe I'm just prone to loneliness, maybe I'm just a part of the broken club. 

Warning: Graphic language (for those of you who don't know me.) :)

2005

2010

So yeah, it's totally just me.

And at least I have a father like this.

And loved, I am. 

Yours truly,

MourningGlory

Poetry

I eat words and spit them back out. 

I have always been told I was a good writer. I used to keep journals in elementary school and crankiing out those three-point essays in high school was no big deal to me. But I joined a creative writing class in 11th grade as a blow-off class. and quickly learned that I loved to write poetry. 

I was not good. I was not experienced. I am still not. I simply tell my stories. I continue to do that to this day. Here are a few of my poems-some are edited and published, while others are completely unedited, raw and need real work. But I write. I write for me. I write for others, in the hopes that they can understand what I feel like. I write because I have something to say. I write because I love to write, even though it is one of the hardest things I ever do.  It is a craft that I continually work on. I have to write-it is something in my blood, something deep down in the marrow of my bones.

Ernest Hemingway once said all he wanted was to write one true sentence. That sounds very simple, but when you think about it as a writer yourself, it is incredibly difficult. Because while I might interpret a situation in one way, another may interpret it another way. I also do not even know what is completely true to me. Who can? But I write from the guise of my own experience. It's all I can do.

The following are poems that are actually published and ones that are not yet-that are still unedited, rough and extremely raw. Please be patient with me.

I wrote this in about five minutes after it had happened to me, which I describe in the poem. It is very stream of consciousness. I did not edit it at all before it got published.

She does not know what it's like

to smell the animals dying. 

My mother knows only calendars,

clocks,  

kitchen timers, 

common

sense. 

hating my sullen stillness 

the silence of my hands,  

she forces me out of bed again today

ripping off covers

tearing open blinds

with clenched-dishwasher fists

letting in the lethargic light

ruining all hopes of swimming 

in the dark waters of dreaming 

I do not blame her,

though. 

She has never seen the tired Sun pack up at eight in the morning,

with a gaunt shuffle, saying

So long, let's try again tomorrow,

tipping his hat

when everything is so slow

sluggish, thick

that breathing is tiresome 

inhaling humid Arkansas summersodden air 

through a wet blindfold. 

my cicada sins are 

crawling up my legs 

and all over my arms

gnawing at the skin in-between my fingers

nipping at my heels

shadows that follow even when there is no sun. 

Now there's my sister

with her Pinterest perfect house,

law degree, 

sensible shoes

home cooked supper

beer, pretties they bought from the antique store,

the television blaring,

uproarious laughter,

"who are these people,"

I ask. 

All I want to do is be alone 

in my room

in my head

to try to make some sense out of myself. 

I wanted to try to write a positive poem, as it is so much easier to write about painful experiences. This poem is about the first ride I took with my ex-boyfriend. It came out in literally three minutes and has no edits. It is one of my favorites. I also wanted it to be a short and succinct as possible (thus the references to Pound & Hemingway-both known for their brief sparse style), because brevity is not my strong suit.

If I Were Hemingway

Or maybepound 

I would tell you how

The suncircles on the 

afternoon trees that smiled

Unfurled the poisonedpetals 

of my foreignforged fingertips. 

Twitching to the rhythm 

of a thousand dead men

dancing in the street. 

When you held my hand. 

Another published work about my sister:

For my sister: Sarah

My sister cried in the hallway

while a kind black lady with soft skin

and a gentle voice prayed with her

holding her shoulders-slight

as the nurse bathed me

teeth clenching on pink sponges

my cracked lips begging for water,

for mercy. 

Limplagous legs

spread open like

the Japanese fans

we played with as children 

my heart beating to the rhythm of the vent

in and out, in and out

let's play the dying game

I'll take the lead.

Later, when I was in a space

somewhere between the end

of the beginning 

I asked her, "Does my hair look like Natalie Portman's?"

You know, like in V for Vendetta 

she knew I was still there

spread out stiff, 

swaddled in hospital gowns

my father's prayers

She came to me every day

bringing me pretties

little lotions,

bright tank tops

everything so colorful, garish

against the prison grey light. 

painting the space

in-between my body

and my head

with its right ear

dangling down

I hadn't yet seen myself 

faces warned me

it was better

not to ask. 

When we got home,

we went shopping for wigs

my old hair in a plastic bag

somewhere in the closet

she covered the scars of my crucifixion  

so Michael wouldn't notice

the first time he saw me

after the carnage

a Hungarian wasteland 

dead birds on the windowsill 

"I think he should see them so he'll know how bad it was."

"Was?" 

I wanted to ask. 

Twice in the night,

she would come to turn

my frailbonesbitter

turning on music

to drown out the sound

of my nighttime nightingale tears

The prayers to a god I hated 

stroking softly,

with lily-petaled fingertips

my face

my neck

 

I never saw her cry 

it was just the story I heard

as hard to believe 

as a rhinestone-dragon tale 

I was told nobody, 

not even the rain

has such small hands. 

But e.e. never met my sister. 

That last line was based on the first poem I ever loved, by my favorite poet, e.e cummings. 

Here it is:

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands. 
Beautiful, write? Catch my clever pun? :)
And here is an example of how messy poems are-at least mine are-before I work on them:
You plead not guilty to all charges against you. You forget that four months can seem like a lifetime to me.  You forget that I can still taste your kiss in the mornings when I wake up alone again. 

You forget the words you fed me.
 
Kiss me. Beautiful. Again. Now. Please. Stay. 

Lips pomegranates, fingers peeling petal by petal the magnolias of our mouths. The way my name was soft inside your throat. The sky a carousel of buttercream and azaleas pouring down our cheeks, covering the red veins down your back, my broken teeth. You forget the tangerine rinds of my thighs and what it is over parted flesh becoming. Belly kisses, your bare hands calloused, tracing the tears down my cheek.

I fuck for the speechless. You fuck for the screams. 

You forget that hospitals and home smell the same to me now. Like blood. Like metal. Like alone. You forget that the do not resuscitate sign still hangs above my bed--a warning for anyone trying to save me. 

Your mouth is the burial ground and the battle field.
 Most war zones avoid being loved 
but these lips remember your bloody kind of sacred. I love you for the home you made of freckled shoulders, open mouths, piano fingers, safety. And I hate you for the way you tore it down, pieces of our ghosts still there in the spaces between us. You didn't even have the decency to let it burn. 

You forget when I scan my body, I still see yours. You forget to stay out of my poems, out of my head. You forget that everything isn't about you. 

You forget that I can't. 

I hate writing. And I love it. It is so difficult to explain the dichotomy. But for now, I rest. I realize that I will never be the best and I will never be the worst. I can only tell my story and that is good enough for me.

Love,

MourningGlory

PS. Ernest Heminway also said, "the first draft of anything is shit," which gives me great comfort. 

What is your favorite poem of mine out of these?

Once again thank you so much for reading!

What was supposed to be a cohesive "tips to feel better" post that failed miserably. .

1. Always. Be. Yourself. 

                  Unless....

You can be Brad & Angelina. And I mean both. Like, at the same time. Combined. 

Or.....

Rainbow Brite. 

Or.....

Thor. 

Then totally be them. 

2. Quit worrying about what other people think of you, because GUESS WHAT-they aren't. 

 

             Once again, unless...

You look SO good eating a hamburger, you have to remind people you are not a sex object. [this is a daily struggle for me, as you can see.]

3. Robbie Sherrard for an instant pick-me-up. Here are two of my favorites:

"What Guys' Shoes Say About Them."

http://youtu.be/ukzuKUD_7_Q

Sorry, fellows.... But this is an absolute & unchanging truth. I'm pretty sure Mary had to pick out Jesus's sandals for him. 

"Why Men Hate Being in Pictures."

http://youtu.be/ZQSVa9ZDUDk

I think that pure joy on a man's face, captured in a photograph, is probably the most embarrassing thing that can happen to a man. 

4. Watch the following movies and/or clips. 

The Sister Act movies. 

I make it a point to watch both at least once a month. C'mon, it's got Whoopie in her prime, a young Lauryn Hill & Jennifer Love Hewitt, nuns, awesome rap battles & a soundtrack that I'm horrified it hasn't earned a Grammy for. 

"If you wanna be somebody, if you wanna go somewhere, then you better wake up and pay attention."

I think we can collectively agree that Afro needs a major comeback. 

And don't you DARE tell me one is better than the other!! THEY ARE BOTH EQUALLY AMAZING!! 

One of my favorite clips-the grand finale in Sister Act 2:

http://youtu.be/OaEH1e_DLm0

My eyes water up at the beauty of Lauryn Hill's voice & the high-waisted pants, overalls & 90s dance moves have made it one of the most epic scenes in the history of cinema. 

My second favorite clip. If you didn't get emotional watching this, you have no soul. 

http://youtu.be/dv2HrpWiSKM

The Sound of Music. 

Rolph was ugly, but I so wanted to dance around in the rain in a flowy dress like Liesel. 

Annnnnnd, be at that party!

My cousins & I religiously watched this movie every single time we went to my grandma's as a kid. I loved it then, but now I get all weepy whenever I watch it, which is also at least once a month. The music is so beautiful, and I never realized how romantic the love story between Maria & The Captain is until I got older. Or how incredibly hot Christopher Plummer was.....

Here's one of the most subtle romantic scenes ever, in my option. 

http://youtu.be/qUfWRBGQkz0

While I can't find the best scene-where the Captain walks in on the children singing for the Baroness and asks Maria to stay, this one is also a tearjerker for me. 

http://youtu.be/sYSw02uwzJ4

Interesting but totally disappointing facts about the movie for those who love it as much as I do: First of all, Christopher Plummer found the entire movie to be "dull and tiresome." Secondly, the movie has almost zero truth to it. The real Maria desperately did NOT want to be with  The Captain and begged the head nun (the boss?) to let her stay in the convent. But she loved the children and later said she grew to love the Captain more than she had ever loved anyone. 

Okay, that part is a little romantic....

• 
  
• And now, for the greatest scene in cinematic history, it’s this scene, played by Samuel L Jackson, in the masterpiece, Jurassic Park

Enjoy! 

http://youtu.be/-W6as8oVcuM

"HOLD ON TO YOUR BUTTS!"

I may or may not have drank a few too many at my sister's wedding and gracefully yelled it out after the sappy speeches. Who knows, really. 

Well, I failed at staying on topic, per usual. But it's Friday night and I have super exciting stuff to do. 

My sister is coming over to eat my lettuce wrapped fat-free hamburger patties with my daily allotment of 20 almonds with me. 

We might even go crazy and watch a movie on Netflix!

What are some of your favorite movie scenes?

I forgot the kissing scene in Romeo & Juliet and the "Come What May" and "Roxanne" scene in Moulin Rouge!!

Ahhhhhhh!!!!

Love,

MourningGlory

depression: my oldest friend.

"In addition to my other numerous acquaintances, I have one more intimate confidant… My depression is the most faithful mistress I have known — no wonder, then, that I return the love."

Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life

Depression. It can occur at any time and hit any person, regardless of age, sex, wealth, nationality or circumstance. 

Take me, for example: The first time I heard her knock on my door, I was ten years old. I don't know how to explain how I felt at that time-only that I was just so tired. I remember coming home from school every day, curling my body into a tight little ball of gangly limbs and denim shorts, crawling into my pink canopy bed, feeling wave after wave of nothingness crash against the walls, lulling my body to sleep with its soothing rhythm. 

My mother: "You can't sleep away your problems, Beth."

What problems? I had lots of friends, I made good grades, I lived in a big three-story house with upper-middle-class parents who loved me, I never wanted for anything, and quite honestly, had the picture-perfect childhood. I was just exhausted. 

See, that's the thing about depression so many people don't understand. Can it be caused by a certain negative experience or really difficult time in one's life? Of course. But for many of us, it is a never ending battle that pins us down, keeps us up at night or holds us hostage in our beds. We guiltily remind ourselves of everything we need to be doing, everything good in our lives. But she has a romantic way of luring us into the dark cocoon of our head, saying, "It's too much for you to handle, anyway. Quit trying." 

Because more often than not lately, it's been happening after all the good things falling into my lap. I feel the rush of what could be, the glimmer of a life grander than I have ever imagined. But depression's little cousin, fear, offers to come by, stroke my hair softly, sing me a lullaby and give me a place to rest my head-so full of ideas they both remind me I'm not capable of carrying out. 

I know there are things I can and should do. Things that will scare her away. Like, call an old friend, exercise, read, write a poem. But the second she shows her face, I let her crawl inside my salty, yellow lungs, lay her heavy head upon my chest, give her a soft kiss upon her forehead, and together, we hide. 

I love her and I hate her. Out of anyone in the entire world, she knows me best. We have spent so many days & nights entrapped in each other's arms, sharing secrets, clinging together with hands laced tight. She allows me to waste time, reassuring me all of my efforts are in vain-granting me the option to give up. 

I hate her because I do not want to give up. She sucks the marrow of my bones and invites anxiety and self-pity to supper, both of whom are excellent cooks. She is a skilled boxer, and has beat me so many times, I am terrified to even spar. 

But somedays, I fight like hell. I bury myself in projects; I ask my sister if she will please come see me. I dream impossibly big. I put on a pretty dress and lipstick. I tell an old woman she is beautiful-and mean it. I read old love letters. I allow myself to truly receive a compliment. And believe it.  

Depression will never completely abandon me. She has crawled into my ribs and permanently tangled herself in my hair. But I remind myself that she is a fickle visitor, that she has multiple house calls to make, that she will grow weary of me and fly away.

But as for today? I slept most of it away. I worried about money. I worried about writing this, because I know I am capable of expressing this feeling much better than I did. I know my words and the way I use them is a gift. I know I did not make the best use of that gift. 

But, I wrote. Therefore, I win today's battle. And I will try again tomorrow. I will not rest easy, but rest, I will. 

And sometimes, just sometimes, I give her a tired smile and a thank you. Just for listening....

One of my favorite poems that explains how I feel. 

This poet here says it best.....

https://youtu.be/sRrORhWHkOc

Do you struggle with depression? If so, please tell me about your experience with it in the comment box.

Yours Truly,

MourningGlory