To Pretend or Not Pretend?

I have this uncontrollable urge to pretend that I am okay. That everything is fine. No one is wanting to hear day after day that I am only meh. In 23 days I have had 7 good days and 14 meh days and 2 bad bad days. Which means at the moment I have a 75/25 split between meh and good days. Better than 100% meh.
The urge to pretend comes from the fact that I know how I sound. Like a broken record. When asked how I am, I weigh the pros and cons of telling the truth or to lie. Who wants to sit through another boring litany of my sorry life. How I am having anxiety attacks. How for last 18 hours I again have not been able to stop crying. Lucky is driving me insane with her need to be right on top of me. At the moment she is sitting as close to me as she can without actually being on top of the keyboard. Even in this I sound like I am whining.
I put up a front. When I am alone it is easy to just remove myself by watching t.v. or playing games on the computer. When T is here I have to be present, push myself to look after him and I can do it. I live for when he comes home. I have been lax in the meal department. Well vegetables anyways. T will not eat my salad and I eat salad with everything so Sunday he only had farmer burgers for supper and last night chicken burgers. I had oatmeal.
It is easier not to burden people with how I feel. For when I am like this, when I feel like all I am doing is annoying everyone, I pretend. Pretend that everything is okay. Pretend that I am happy. I vacillate between being high and falling low. I am so all over with my emotions some times I do not know which way is up. I would give anything to not be like this. Everything I write is negative sounding. I reread what I have typed and it sounds like I am ungrateful for the people around me. I am not. I do not want to hurt them which is why I carefully consider what I am going to answer with.
Do I tell you I am having a rough morning? Or do I lie and say ok? I no longer know. I only know that if feels to me as though when I tell someone things are not that great, suddenly there are no more texts. So I am beginning to believe that I should just remain quiet. That my sadness, my pain is my own.
And it is my own.  No one can share it with me. No one can shovel it away to ease my burden.
To pretend or not to pretend? That is the question.
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I am a bunny

***Image via Cartoon Network found on Internet.

I am a bunny

hear me roar.

What?

You say that I cannot roar?

That I am too tiny and too cute?

Do you not see the fierceness

with which I protect my heart?

Do you not see

that I am the provider of my family?

I am a bunny

see me soar.

Why?

Why do you say I cannot soar?

That I am meant to stay rooted to the ground?

Do you not see the dreams

that I create within this harsh world?

Do you not understand the hope

that I watch each day unfurl with?

I am a bunny

tiny and cute

fierce and determined

ready to embrace

the differences that life will share.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

Oct. 9/17

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Once I danced along,

streets covered in golden dreams

believing the fantasy

that I built from nothing.

Now I creep alone

through empty concrete dreams

my fantasies but ash within my mouth

as my tears bring no relief.

I rend my heart in bitterness

curse my soul that remakes my wound

the scar marking the damage done;

damage I cannot get away from.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

September 6/17

 

 

 

Birthday Eve

Today is August 28th. In slightly more than 24 hours I will be 45 years old. I did not actually arrive in the world until 8:20 p.m. so am not “really” 45 ’til than. 

I am looking forward to turning 45. I am not the same woman I was when I turned 44 last year. I am by far a much better and stronger version of her. I have taken my life and where I could have continued along the path of destruction I was on I changed. Slowly at first. But as the changes became good changes, as my outlook and feelings became harmonized and less disjointed I welcomed the changes.

I have documented my cycle of depression and how I had to claw my way back. I have an amazing support group who have been with me since I started on the new journey to me.

A journey that has seen me rise high enough to realize I was in an unhappy marriage and find the strength to leave. To my mistakenly believing all my problems were solved by the dissolution of my marriage and I went off my meds. I began to rely on alcohol to get me through the days. 

My crash, which scared me so badly because I had allowed myself to be tricked into believing I was okay. Our brains are wicked when presenting one with deceptive illusions.

Even after I resumed taking my meds I still continued to self-medicate with alcohol. Finally July 1st I decided to stop. I went six weeks without drinking. And when I did, I woke the next morning disappointed in myself. 

I have had some again but there is a difference. One that I can see and feel. It is no longer a need. There is no desire to negate the feelings I did not want to face. 

So tomorrow I am turning 45. 

 I am eating better. I am sleeping better. I am exercising. I have quit drinking to self-medicate and find that I do not miss it. 

Best of all I am writing again. I am more secure in the voice I have. I am letting those wonderful words combine and emerge like a waterfall from my finger tips. I believe in magic again. 

At 45 I am beginning to emerge from the cocoon of the past. I can see my present but the future….that is a dream still waiting to be dreamed.

Shards of Silver

I walk through the greying mists

seeing vague shapes

to the right and left of me.

But when I call out

my voice becomes a mere whisper,

slighter than the flutter,

of a Monarch’s wings.

My tears are but shards of silver

pecking away at my heart

Uncovering hidden losses

and the pain I try to hide.

One day there may be comfort.

One day I may be free.

But until that day I shall fight,

to come back from the albatross

that hangs around my neck.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

August 26/17

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Somewhere in time

fantasies did grow

Over-taking all reality

until no longer

can one differentiate.

Was it madness?

a disease?

An escape from life?

swallowed in a mimosa of hatred

swaddled in grey.

Beating against enclosing walls

fists bleeding

numb with pain.

There is no escape from this truth

no matter how hard

no matter how fast

one tries to flee.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

July 24/17

Broken Heart

He done broke my heart

the night we said good bye;

he to return to the feudal village,

I to dance across the public’s eye.

“That is not the way to start. It should read, he broke my heart the night we said good bye.”

“Why am I not allowed to write the way that I want to write? Why can I not use the language and speech of my childhood to portray the pictures my words create?”

“Because that is not how I brought you forth! I have taught and molded you to become the top Poetess of all times and you will continue to follow my path.”

“Yet they are my words, my truths why can I not use them they way I see fit?”

“Because you ungrateful wraith, without me you would not have this fame and fortune. Without me you would be back in that village you so long for mired in poverty.”

I lifted my head, greasy hair falling back, revealing pallid skin and blackened sleep deprived eyes. He loomed over top of me, pristine and put together. His suit a navy blue so dark it bordered on black, a piping red tie, winking tie pin, he was everything I had loved and now loathed.

He rested his large hands on the desk, leaning forward, the pungent aroma of his cologne overwhelming me. Citrus notes interspersed with undernotes of vanilla and sandalwood. I could smell my own stench, a mimosa of unwashed body and hair, the perspiration I sweat to come up with my creations. I was not the lovely Poetess revered in inner circles, I was the poet in a small cell, my emotions and anguish how I create.

The thick chains of dependency wound around my wrists, shackling my legs to the desk. Illusionary, yet they retained me as much as real chains would. I was caught in a web of my own making. But there was a choice, one that I had to make.

“It is time for you to leave,” I breathed. “Time for you to take your life and unentwine it from mine.”

“I am your King, your Maker,” he roared. “You will not take from me what I have worked for.”

“You have worked nothing, nothing that I already did not know. You wiped the ashes of childhood away and lead me along the path to stray,” I seethed. “You never meant for me to be this welcome, this loved, but plans have a way of changing and now the time has come.”

I glared up at him, daring a rebuke. Never had I spoken to him in such a way. His nostrils flared with unrequited rage. His body shook with the repressed desire to make me behave. He had lost and he knew it.

I felt my heart break in two

with the soft snick of the lock catching as the door closed;

He who had brought me up, who taught me polish and truth

my betrayer, my warden, a man of circumstance.