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With tongue laced in acid
words drip venom down my chest
held deep within your binding spell
unable to tear myself away.
You rip me apart
words laden with bile and hatred
etching everlasting the loathing
that I carry within myself.
Voices dripping with disdain
a roar within my brain
ripping and tearing
the fragile fabric of ego
causing me to crumple in pain.
I raise my head
tears fleeing down my cheeks
defiant in the face of your abuse
pummelled by your voice no more.
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.
So today is Let’s talk about Mental Illness day.
While I appreciate the notion every day is a day to discuss Mental Illness.
I have been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, major depression, ptsd, bi-polar 2 and holy fuck I am just cray cray.
I struggle sometimes daily but I can go months without feeling anything but good.
Than come those days where I sob into my pillow because everyone hates me and despite my talent I am not writing. I struggle with feeling like I am the world’s worst mother. That I am not a good friend, a good girl friend, a good daughter or sister. I writhe with disgust at my inability to not cope without having a drink. I look in the mirror and cannot stand the image that looks back at me. I have my ups and by god I have my downs. I cry and I bitch and I huddle beneath the blankets because there I find comfort. There I find security.
This is the face that depression wears in my life.