The Rise

I’m tired of making sense. It’s like I’ve got to stretch to fit and it’s not working. Life doesn’t always make sense. Why should I bend over backwards, crane my neck, and break blood vessels in my eyes just to make it all appear flawless and put together? Nothing is perfect or flawless. I was right when I began; I can take all of this. Only, my definition of “this” has changed. I can take whatever I need to. And I realize what I need isn’t the world spinning. To let go is to cry from my lungs, to let my soul shiver in the darkness, the cold that seeped in. To let go is to warm with the silence seeping from inside me until I can feel it, wiping away the pain.

I said something on twitter the other day that didn’t make sense. I do that. I speak sometimes without understanding myself, where it came from, this nonsense. What I think is really happening is I’m escaping through fissures. I’m breaking and its saving my life.

“Something witty. Something lovely. Something inspiring. I don’t know. I know the silence hiding within, trying to pour out into my skin.”

“When the silence spills into my lungs, I think it’s time to hear it.”


Why Depression is Startling

When you’re feeling it – it isn’t startling.

Nothing is startling.


Ha! I finally know and understand the definition of apathy.

Unrelated to apathy –




I feel like some invisible disease has punctured my skin, slithered in, and has found a way to live inside me, parasitically changing me, holding me in a strange in-between, a madness, a muted, a roaring duality of pain and nothingness.

Trapping me from within, trying to squeeze the breath out of me.

It’s like a living entity is sitting on my chest; squeezing my heart in a fist of silver and hardness, harshness, imbuing it with sharpened flecks of poison; languishing in my gut, knotting me into coils and pressured twists; cracks breaking through the veneer.

And how am I still alive?

Am I?

If I barely swim to the surface of myself.

Sometimes this is all I have to give.


The madness has to come out sometime.

And how blessed am I? Writing gives me a way to breathe.

If only I’ll stop trying to control it. It isn’t always going to be pretty; it’s coming from within me. Sometimes giving the disease swarming inside me, leaching to my bones, and scratching at my soul with metallic nails – words, a voice, helps me.

Instead of leaching inwards, only swirling inside my rib cage, I can spill it onto the page and let it live there.

It may be a little worrisome to those who have never dealt with depression (depression and feeling sad are not the same thing, by the way). Perhaps it’s a little depressing to read for some.

But for me, it’s like expelling poison.

A saving grace.

That, is why I write.

How maddeningly beautiful, how simply poised I find it that both poison and the cure live inside me.



Grieving the Illusion

I bought myself new slippers. I feel really good about this.

My old ones were so worn in that I could feel the ridges on my feet and they hurt every time I wore them.

I kept wearing them anyway.

Sometimes I forget.

It’s okay to spend a little money on something that isn’t a dire-I-will-die-if-I-don’t-buy-this sort of thing.

Sometimes I forget to stop being afraid.


It’s the little things. Isn’t it?

That remind us that we’re human.

And we are.


We mess up.

We circle the same thing that we know is hurting us, trying to believe it isn’t what it is.

We’re already grieving its death anyway. We just don’t want to let go.

We hold tight, even as it cuts into our fingers and saps the energy we need to survive.

We’re not really grieving what we think we are.

We’re grieving the illusion.

What we wish it had been.

What we always wished it had been.

Isn’t that what we find with every unhealthy thing we must let go of?


I bought myself new slippers and I feel really good about it.



I Isolate

I isolate

I crawl back in

And beg for peace


I isolate

It’s how I survive

When I cannot revive


I isolate

And for a split second

For a single moment

I can breathe

I can be

I see


I isolate

Because I don’t know how to feel

When I forget what is real

I don’t know how to exist

For more than moments at a time

Without burning

All the wicked parts

That seduce -no- threaten me

I find it quite concerning


And I isolate

Instead of raking my claws

Into another’s skin

Instead of breaking the surface

And sliding on in


Distract me from the pain

Such a strange way to live

Because disgusted I remain

(and the secrets I never give)

With the boiling of my blood

The coiling beneath my skin

Unspoken on my tongue

This end can never begin


I can breathe here, isolated

The voices can unwind, unimpeded

It is not so depressing

But a fresh breath of madness

It is not so despairing

Only releases the pressure

So hope can be found

And the damned remain bound


I isolate

But I’m never alone

I isolate

So your demons aren’t known

I isolate

Instead of wrecking your throne


by Daphne Shadows

The Abyss. The Masquerade.

Do you ever get stuck?

Come up against wall after wall, again and again and again. Until you finally just say screw it?
Do you ever wonder why you’re holding so tightly? Then wonder what it is exactly that you’re holding to?
Do you ever just get tired?
Tired of all the petty, childish, selfish drama of others.
Tired of the same no good, same.
Tired of the pain.
Of the knowing and the incapability to do anything about it.
The correspondence between misery and choice is breath to my lungs.
But I’m still not breathing.
Sometimes the silence is the only thing that keeps me alive.
What do I have but this noise masquerading as life?
What do I have more than a truth I can do nothing about?
What is there but this sadness?
What is there but this madness?
How do I crawl out of the abyss when all I’ve ever known is to suffer? To flounder in the denial.



Life is Weird…and Contradictory

So are people.

I know I am.


I don’t really understand how I can be really low, totally depressed or suffering AND really optimistic and hopeful, feeling kinda pretty good.

But I can. Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Humans are a lot more complicated than I think we give ourselves credit for.

If we feel more than one thing – we *must* be crazy, with multiple personality disorder or something. Did you know they changed the name of that disorder quite a while ago, to “dissociative identity disorder” or DID? I wonder why they change the names of things so freaking often and no one seems to know.

Anywho, we can feel a huge range of emotions at once. We can be more than one thing at a time. I don’t know about anyone else, but that’s been a foreign ideal to me before now.


I get so tired of people telling me that if I were emotionally unstable, I wouldn’t be able to hide it.

Don’t tell me that.

I am a walking act.

All my painful secrets stay inside.

I haven’t known how I could be anything but ‘happy’ and still feel what I feel, hiding it all the while.

I’m optimistic, I’m hopeful.

But that is not all that I am.

Don’t tell me that if I’m bubbly, smiling, or kind, that I can’t possibly be in pain, physically and emotionally. Don’t tell me, when I open up to you, that this isn’t possible.

Why are people so willing to take everyone at face value and so unwilling to believe that there’s ANYTHING, something, beneath the surface???

I thought I was working on all of this stuff but I found I haven’t even made a dent. I guess getting really sick is good. Health failing obviously equals that something is wrong. It just takes a lot of pain to wake me up.

Then again, I am human. I guess human beings have to realize something over and over again until something pings in just the right way that we’ll believe, too.


The holidays ran me over and have been dragging me down lollipop infested roads. So perhaps I’ll have something more to say next month. 😉

On that note, HAPPY HOLIDAYS! Try not to eat yourself to death. Or children. Don’t eat children either.




Depression and Hope

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.

Not until…

Not until.

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?

The truth.

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.