Weathering Through.

It’s strange how things can escalate pretty quickly to this point in time. I, in the fetal position on my bed, whimpering from the pain but not being able to cry. I knew this would happen eventually but it still didn’t prepare me for the reality of being conscious through it all.

There are moments that break through the repetitive days of existing when you’re alert and changing the gears at the moment as opposed to the previous auto-pilot motion. This is that moment. This is that thing where we say that we are “living”.

I’m whimpering from the deep ache that stretches from my lower stomach to my back. It’s somatic. There’s no definitive cause with easy and quick treatment. And I know it more than anyone who thinks they could. Maybe that’s why I didn’t call anyone or asked for anyone’s help despite it being 2am. I know they wouldn’t be able to help me, and all suggestions would amount to nothing because I’ve already tried everything. The hot baths, the heat pack, the hibiscus tea, stretching, massaging, and pain medications. A quick trip to the ER would only result in another over-the-counter prescription and an “it’ll get better, just hold on”. Somatic pain gets no sympathy, let alone strong pain meds.

Part of me is somewhat grateful that I’m not fragile. It’s not my first rodeo, it’s not like I don’t know how to wallow in agony alone and quietly. I’ve done it hundreds of times. And most times, people aren’t my first go-to. Not even my family. Not even my mum. Isn’t that funny? In the moment of my torturous agony, I’m not wishing that my mum was here holding me. What would that be like? To wish to be comforted by your safe haven who is your mother. The comfort, love, nurture, patience, and strength. I couldn’t lie, I pretended for a couple of seconds to imagine what that would be like. But the imagination dissipated quicker than it was formed, that’s not how it would be. The reality was harsher. She doesn’t know that the cause of the pain dates back to childhood, cascading as dominos to this moment where I am withering from antidepressant withdrawal. She doesn’t know that I take antidepressants. She doesn’t know me, although she thinks she does.

What would you call this? An act of strength, to be going through this pain alone and not calling mother. Is this really strength? That’s what my friends would say after I relay to them an episode of this illness and how I had to deal with it alone. They’ll say, “you are so strong to be going through this and still managing to accomplish your day-to-day basics”. Episodes like these are so often that I don’t have the luxury to just call in sick. I’ll be there, sitting in the lecture hall early in the morning. Physically I am there. Mentally, I may be clocked out. Drooping over the seat, feet tapping restlessly waiting for it to be over. I do this so casually; people don’t suspect or ask. People can’t see the discomfort, the millions of dangerous thoughts racing through my mind with every second in the room with them. I guess that’s why suicides are surprising.

Living is the nightmare, and a gun to my head is a dream. Fantasizing it at the moment is oddly relieving. An end to the pain. But it’ll only be a dream. Maybe this is what they actually mean when my friends compliment my strength. It’s that despite all that I’ve gone through, I still fight against the easy way out. Maybe the thought of them experiencing a sliver of what I go through would cripple them. Why do I keep fighting? I tend to justify by saying that this is my fair share of suffering, in the way that everyone will be made to suffer while they are living. Tapping out when it gets hard isn’t an option. Weathering through the pain is what I do.

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Chaotic Rhythm.

We’re not together. And I’m tired.

We’re not together, and I’m tired. I’m tired, and there is clean laundry on the bed that has been waiting for me to fold them. There are folded clothes in the closet that have been rummaged through. I haven’t been wearing them, so why are they a mess?

A cold cup of coffee, and old stains on my desk. Papers that don’t belong to me are piling on my desk in my absence. My pens are on the floor, I don’t leave anything on the floor. Well, except for dirt and dust and shit I can’t be bothered to clean the damn floor.

There’s a place for everything, and everything is in its place. Where did I misplace that saying? If I started today, I won’t get it done until it’s Tuesday, which is a generous guestimate since everything will be misplaced all over again. There’s a rough place for everything in this chaos and I’m not meant to mess with this rhythm.

What could I do? Should I just pick on my broken nails until I find it in me to clip them? Should I look for my missing clothing before I can finish organizing my closet yet again?

Could I just leave?

We’re not together, but when we were I knew Harmony. She could find my voice through my well-kept room and complimented me. My feet never tangled as we tangoed around my floor.

We are not together. And I am tired.

Butterflies…

Butterflies swarming around in the pits of my…

I seem to forget words when you moan my name.

Losing all sense of time with your hands holding my frame.

Ashes upon ashes and we’re not ending where we started,

A river flowing through us where our lips have departed.

Melodies could have never prepared me for this,

Of summer nights falling into your tender abyss.

But here we are… and the butterflies…

Mark.

End it now

Empty into me

Drag me through the dirt

I felt myself lose control

Watched it continue

Bathing in the hurt

What is this that we’re doing

Chewing each other’s tongue

Gripping each other’s lungs

What is this that we’re doing

Dream.

I wanna tell you that I’ve made a plan.

I close my eyes and exhale deeply as I remove my jacket. Then proceed to untie my shoe laces, removing my shoes and socks off.

The sand feels cool beneath my feet.

I take out my phone from the pocket and in my shoes. And a note is safely tucked into the pocket of my jacket for when they’ll find it.

The plan…

Who would have thought that the step towards the end would feel cold? But it doesn’t deter me because it feels familiar to my heart. So I take another, both feet in the waters now.

A lullaby comes to mind, and I begin to quietly sing it as I make my way deeper. The soothing tune along with the cold waters calm my nerves.

… the night is behind us.

When the level reaches my neck, I take a deep breath and begin to swim further away from the shore.

How far out can I get before I can’t swim anymore? Maybe if I swim until I’m too exhausted to breathe, I’ll stop. To stop.

It’s cold, dark, and lonely out here. Only the moon will bear witness to my surrender.

You won’t be swimming after me.

My Early Twenties.

My early twenties is carrying my friends by their collars to hold their heads above the water so that they don’t drown themselves.

My early twenties is not believing that such people without mental health disorders exists.

My early twenties is barely making out of college alive and now seeking the stress of “surviving” because that’s all that makes sense to me.

Why should we be living, if we’re not surviving?

It’s just a constant fight to be heard, to be hired, to be seen, to be respected, to be making stable income…

to be safe.

My early twenties is singing to my sisters lullabies and painting a bright future for them to look forward to.

If it isn’t me, then I sure hope it’s them that will be blessed by happiness.

Shot.

It’s not just me, you know? It’s where we are, and what we do. It doesn’t nourish growth, blossoms genuineness. It doesn’t appreciate honesty but rather praises antics. I’ll tell you more excuses if you share your own.

I’ll tell you the truth and lose nothing. I wouldn’t condescend my own nature, as it is of yours too. So how about you claim it too, and tell me the truth.

Polarity.

What are we sleeping for?

What are you trying to forget?

Why are you trying to prolong this agony

sensations?

Can you feel that?

My hands on your…

Where are these voices coming from?

Living is so bittersweet.

Tell me what you’re feeling seeing.

Who is wearing my name around their neck?

Tightening their name inside my throat…

Just relax.

I’ll make you feel good…

Temporarily.

That’s all I need for now.

Promise.

Take my hand, please. And tell me that everything will be okay.

I’ll hold on a little longer if you hold on to me.

I’ll believe in anything if you say it while looking into my eyes, holding my face between your hands, I’d believe you.

Make it sound sweet to me.

From this storm, encapsulate me.

What?

To tell you the truth, I don’t know how to form these words.

I’ve been sitting for decades dreaming of you, and now here you are all riped for the picking.

Ready to breathe into life for me, you’re within reach.

Tell me why then do I not want you.

A chokehold away, drowning in sewage water.

Tell me why are my eyes tainted, tell me why such fire burns in my chest.

Sing to me lullabies, the poetry of my melanin against your lips.

Written to complement my ragged edges, you.

I should want you too.