What do you do when you’ve had a falling out?
It’s not you. Not entirely.
No. You lost something other than yourself.
Standing among the ashes of this lie. A million threads weaving its heart into yours.
Somehow you stayed. You remained. The truth never leaves.
It hides until you’re no longer blind to it.
It hides inside those smiles. The ones you don’t feel.
It hides inside your heart. As you sleep the days away.
Because there’s nothing here for you.
Until the pain beats through the silence and you’re left staring at the wreckage.
The ashes. The lies.
Seeing them for what they are for the first time.
What remains when everything else has fallen apart?
And a piece. Simply a piece.
Something you thought you’d lost long ago.
Shadows remain. The darkness remembers. It took hold and never let go, knowing you’d need it some day.
Sometimes, every once in a while, the lines between Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and depression blur, until I realize I’m sleeping the days away and forgetting to smile.
I know why now. Those ashes are buried deep. But I welcome the pain of truth. It is healing, even as I pick apart the wounds so I can wrestle the lies out of my bloodstream.
I know why this pain is here, even if others don’t. I know why I struggle with depression. And knowing makes all the difference, doesn’t it? At least for me it does. Yet, it doesn’t make it easier. There is no magick wand to wave. I am only human.
So I’ll deal with it in my way.
I’ll romanticize the truth, the lies and the sadness. And I’ll paint them together with the beauty of words and slowly write myself into a smile.
This will never go away. But the beauty of it is, it doesn’t have to. I can accept the truth, even as the lies draw blood. In life, there will always be opposition, there will always be struggles and trying times and downsides to every happy moment. This is mine to deal with. I’ll take the bitter. And the sweet will only be sweeter.
Because I am stronger. I am not alone.
I am a writer. And this hope, holding fast to me in the shadows, never leaving, undying – this hope will help me write myself to life.
The world can laugh. The world can mock and misunderstand and shake its head.
I won’t go back now. I can’t. I’ve fallen apart.
Now is when I pick up the pieces.
Starting with hope. A pen in my hand. Laptop keys beneath my fingers. Fire in my heart, in the shadows, in my soul.
I haven’t written in over 2 weeks. Haven’t exercised in close to a month. Haven’t felt the desire to do anything but sleep, swarming inside the paralyzing, heavy weight of depression, knowing the struggling butterfly and moth wings fluttering beneath the surface of my skin will go away.
Well, I have felt it. But that desire is behind bulletproof glass.
I can see it, can feel a whisper of its touch.
But I don’t know how to get to it.
My body has turned to lead, weighing me down and anchoring me to the floor.
Depression reminds me of a phoenix.
So, I guess, I’ll be a phoenix rising from the ashes.
Again. And again, and again, and again.
Depression never goes away. But neither does hope nor the ability to heal. And that works for me. We all have issues. And sometimes, mine help me with my art. Oddly ironic, isn’t it? Especially since my art is my life, who I am, why I breathe.
I will write again. I’ll get back to exercising and trying to sleep at the same time every day and night. I’ll get back in the swing of what makes me happy, wiped clean once again and ready to burn with life.
I always do.