Who’s the Princess?

Within me resides this beauty. She stands 5 foot 10 1/2 inches tall. Her skin is caramelized by the warmth of the sun that she spends the majority of her time in. But by birth it is more pale than bridal sheets. This woman has cheekbones that could cut a suitor, her eyes an ocean’s depth of green. Her lips are sculpted perfectly whether curved in smile or pursed in disdain.

She stands tall and accepts the dues that belong to her. And she wants out. She has been banging away and making subtle appearances in my dreams. I now understand the dream where I was fighting bad guys (it was a dream) and I had lost my shaft which now that I think about it was like my walking stick, my staff.  And I couldn’t…..never mind, that was her saying ‘hello you dumb fuck where the hell did you go? We had been having a pretty good friendship there, you had some small part of my littlier self well written and than pouf one day you were gone!’

Apparently she is a little pissed off with me right now because I went away.

I am afraid to write. The crushing blow came when I was 18. I wrote what I thought was an exceptional novel all through high school. It went through four drafts all of which were typed out on a typewriter gasP! and I sent it off to an agency in New York. Back story short I sent in first chapters they thought interesting and off goes my novel to be read for a fee.

I waited and waited. I began my next novel and than came the envelope. And it was not fat with a contract but rather a single sheet bleakly typed stating ‘that while I showed progressive talent I would benefit from creative writing courses. That my novel was just to unwielding.’

I shut down. Writing was the only thing I was good at. The only way that I had of expressing myself and it felt to me as though that choice was now gone. Once more Uncle Morty arrived and I packed away all my writing instruments and began to read. And read and read and read and read.

Became involved with a man who did not understand creativity. Reading was alright but he could not quite understanding of my compulsion to read. Never once asked to read a poem.

When he and me ended a cycle in my life it was as though I was a butterfly emerging from the chrysalid, and the words flowed. I spoke so many different emotions and desires and allowed my vision to expand. I became strong, I decided that I would never allow the banishment of my creativity again.

That was her. Crying to get out. Crying to be released. Banging at the iron doors I had installed as she knew what was to come. And the people I surrounded myself with were just as beautifully talented as I was and we worked together, not tearing each other apart.

But I met someone. Someone my friends did not like. Someone who disdained my desires, my personality, me. And I subjucated myself. I stoppered up that beautiful woman and became what I was meant to be. Not an artist, not a writer, just a mom sitting in the back yard scribbling out notes that no one will see.

I have gone through several places. I have redirected my desire to create, to write, and obsessed with the reading of others. But now I no longer can for she stands at the forefront of my mind. I have the sweet beginnings of her tale and she is a warrior.

Copper blonde hair streaked from the sun is pulled haphazardly to the side. She shields her eyes seeking……across the abyss her eyes met mine and she raises a challenge.

She holds her weapon of choice, a sword that I could never shift never mind thrust into the air. And I hold mine. A keyboard, a bourgeouing belief that I can do this. She wears the Lion’s Crown….bestowed upon her at the young age…..marriage to an elder man….She deserves to have her tale told. And I finally think that I am ready to tell it.

 

©Jay-lyn Doerksen March 2017

Morty The Face of My Depression

I am deep in the midst of a cycle of depression. It is dark, it is all consuming. I feel as though I spend my days wading through water, not really there. It physically hurts to smile and I am freezing. All I want to do is sleep. I eat just enough so that my stomach does not rumble. And I stare mindlessly at the television not even seeing what is there unable to enjoy reading.

I cry for no reason. And I do not need one that is what depression does. I had to explain to my two bosses at work what is going on with me. I mean, I have a hangdog expression on my face, I often emerge from my office with red eyes…..obviously there is a problem. But how do you explain to someone what it feels like to be depressed. To live with depression. So I came up with a character and I gave him a name and a look.

My depression is named Morty. Morty is an asshole. He is the uninvited uncle that moves in and never ever leaves. He may go visit another family member once in awhile but for the most part he resides with me. He is short and rotund, with greasy black hair and a handlebar mustache.  He is aggressive and snappy, his voice is harsh and grating. He dresses in a mix of leisure suits from the ’70’s to the ’90’s wife beaters. His jeans never really quite fit.

Morty when he arrives is careful. He is on his best behaviour for awhile so you never really realize the insults, the taunting, the words running on a loop……you are worthless…..you don’t know how to be a mother……you are going to get fired…..you are so stupid…..you are…..you are…….and suddenly he is right in my face.

And that is another aspect of my depression. See I get to feeling really good and I can push Morty away. I can shut him up, relegate him to the small attic room. The one that gets so humid in the summer the boards swell.  In the winter he huddles next to the chimney eking his warmth from there.  And I imagine Morty is gone. I have conquered him and I stop taking my meds.

It doesn’t happen right away. This last time was a year and a half before I was hit. And I woke up and realized that Morty had somehow escaped. Now this venomous glutton sits on my chest and his claws are buried deep within me. And I start screaming. Only you would never know that I am screaming because I do not make a sound. But they reverberate in my head.

This time is not as bad as my last crash three years ago. I could not even look after my son. I was wrapped in grey wool and I slept my days away. I watched him play with tears running down my cheeks because I was so sad. I could not explain it to him. But a break through came the day I got dressed before I took him down to the bus rather than my pj’s. So I know that it will come with this cycle as well.

Morty has me in his clutches right now and it is painful. I am back on my medication and the amount of crying I have done since Sunday is slowly lessening. It will take time for me to get to exactly where I need to be. I do know though that I will be fortifying the room that I am locking Morty up in this time so that the chances of further escape will be slim. I know they will happen and deal with them when they do.

Nefarious

ne·far·i·ous
nəˈferēəs/
adjective
  1. (typically of an action or activity) wicked or criminal.
    “the nefarious activities of the organized-crime syndicates”

    Last night my best friend left me her house keys and I used them for a neferious purpose. I stole her toilet paper. And than  I realized nefarious needs to be the word of the week. I love how the word nefarious rolls off your tongue, the pictures that it presents. Nefarious. A word I need to use more of.

My Blood Pressure

Okay…..I quit smoking….I ummmm have given up salt…..alcohol  I still drink. I walk an average of 10000 a day save for the days that I am off.

Today  I was in to see my doctor. I live with depression. Live with not suffer…..But sometimes depression gets the upper hand. We talk, I tell him I need meds, he suggests we take my blood pressure. 165/95 and he says to me….not a true reading.

I all teary eyed suggest that maybe I need to be on medication. His response omg so your blood pressure will be 90/60 I don’t think so.

The belief here is that my depression is playing havoc with my blood pressure. My stress levels and the fronts that I present make my numbers out of this world.

But I am willing to admit this, I am so willing to see this….I need to be better.

My Own

Beneath a stark sky….diamond prick prints of star light

Do I know you….do  I care…. am I suppose to hide from you?

I see stark bone limbs framed by black lit sky

Stars acting as velvet backdrops

Drool upon my lower lip, bitten in desire.

Arching, aching, I submit my soul….I do not hate,

I do not detach, I can only hope that I am yours.

If your chose to debase, to turn up your

rosy regard; let me know so my kilt I may keep,

my humanity my own.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen February 2017

Lassitude

I sit with silent lassitude

unable to determine

If I am sane. Or like the rabbit;

have I gone crazy?

I count all my fingers, I count all my toes

I touch my face, my eyes, my nose,

My lips and my ears, am I whole?

The times I have sat before the mirror

the times that I have stared, uncomprehending;

it now all comes together.

For whilst in the darkest of my shadows,

there is no truer delusion than the one that the

Brain does not want to face, that it is no longer

in control, and that the emotions, the tears and the fears

they are the ones manning the barricades.

Barricades that bend and sway beneath the brutal tide

as it tries to break it’s way in, to shred and to eat.

Whilst outside, I am ignorant aware only slightly that

something might be off.

It is only when I begin to really sense the a-kilter of my mind

do I realize that the devil and his minions have come to play

To tear me down and rake my soul, making me believe I can be no more.

Delusions and braggarts, fears and tears, the domicile of my being.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

Feb 22/17