She Wants To Believe

She-Wants-To-Believe

She’s a fighter, they say, been on the front lines in the battles against her own mind for many years.  She’s been fortunate despite her illness, though, comes from a loving and supportive family.  They say she’s better now, the depression is under control and she’s on the right track.  They all talk about how much she’s grown and the things she’s accomplished in recent years.  She thinks it’s nice they’re proud of her.  

She’s gotten better at presenting well and hiding her emotions, most of the time.  She will tell you she is better at managing her emotions, most of the time she is.  She still feels it gnawing at the edges of her sanity, an inexplicable fear and sadness scratching her smooth surface.  She’s sure you can see it if you look into her eyes, but she’s not sure anyone is looking closely enough.  They see what they want to see, she tries to feel what they want her to feel – she wants to feel it, too.

She tries to tell them she doesn’t feel right, that the edges are crumbling and the walls are closing in.  They tell her she’s fine, this is what real life feels like.  She questions herself and she questions them; after all, real life to her is different than real life to them.  She wonders if feeling nothing and fearing everything is what real life is supposed to be like.  They say to stay the course.  They tell her to hold on and she’ll make it – welcome to the real world.

She wants to believe she can be free from the traps her mind sets so cleverly.  She wants to be sure she’s not slipping back into the depths of depression’s grasp.  She struggles to see clearly; feels weighted down, lethargic, and often teary.  Uninspired, disenchanted, and restless, the days drag by endlessly.  She uses all strategies in combating these unwelcome symptoms of her disease.  She is a fighter, she refuses to let this battle be her defeat.

They say she’s better now, they say the depression is at bay.  She says it depends on how you measure what ‘better’ is.  She’ll tell you she’s fought enough to know she’s stronger now, but the depression is never far enough away.  She’s learned the hard way that they don’t understand the intensity of her feelings and that’s okay.  They love her, she thinks it’s nice they want her to be happy – even if they don’t look too closely.     

Advertisements

Always Misunderstood

Always-Misunderstood

She was always misunderstood, even as a child. Her parents thought she was just a little over-sensitive, always so affected by the natural ebb and flow of sibling rivalry. Her sister didn’t have the vocabulary to understand her, so she just told her she was stupid. She learned how to be on the outside looking in most of the time, never quite feeling like she fit. Some might disagree, I think she slipped through the cracks and nobody really wanted to admit that. But she was always on the outside, even if only by a foot or two.
Continue reading

Pointless Tears

The darkness pulls at me like a child tugging at the hem of my shirt, Pointlessurging me to pay attention.  There is a tightness in my throat, the child laughs, knowing the tightness is my effort at holding back tears.  They well in my eyes like small oceans, waves ready to crash against my lashes and find release in the familiar paths they’ve carved down my cheeks so many times before.  I wonder if there is any point, any relief in these tears.  Tears that come so often without explanation tears that I’ve known as long as I can remember, tears that will come again and again.  Logically I know there is no point, these tears are a side effect of a brain that doesn’t function properly.   It’s foolish to think I could find relief in such pointless tears.

 

Image Credit

Home

It’s hard to come home after being away.  Not because I wanted to stay where I was, I just didn’t feel ready to come back.   Continue reading

Back To Basics

Have you asked yourself recently what is really important?

There are times in life we realize we no longer recognize ourselves.  So many things can cause this malady; busy life, demanding job, toxic friends, exhaustion, environment, illness, loss, and much more.

One day you look around inside yourself, check the dusty corners of your heart, open forgotten doors inside your soul; and you realize you don’t recognize much of what’s going on in there anymore.  Even your mind could use a good squeegee, it’s like one of those decorative windows way up high that nobody can reach to clean so they only get cleaned every few years.   Continue reading

Quiet Steps of Intention

Knowing how you fit in this world, knowing without question that your time on planet earth is meaningful, living as though your life’s quest is to fulfill the purpose for which you are here and walking through life with the dignity of that knowledge feeding your strength, is my understanding of what ‘living a life of intention’ means.

I am a guest today in the series Walking With Intention
hosted by Sreejit Poole of The Seeker’s Dungeon

Please join me for the rest of Quiet Steps of Intention there.

NanoPoblano2015 | NaBloPoMo15
Day 23

Comments turned off here

Beautiful Death Trap

Beautiful Death Trap

Suspended in air, the spider’s web is a beautiful trap.  Often its little insect victims don’t know what happened before they’re all tangled up in sticky silk. A beautiful death trap. Continue reading

Broken

NaBloPoMo15, NanoPoblano2015

I traverse the recesses of my battered soul
Lightly trace my fingers across what might have been
I stand in the dark doorways of dreams long since dead Continue reading

The Unimaginables

It’s a place you pass through to get somewhere else, not much of a place itself.

Take heed and pause for a moment.

Don’t let the inbetweenness frighten you, there’s a lightness to the darkness when you open your eyes just right. Tread softly with gentle intentions and watch for the unimaginables, most frightfully nervous of creatures they are! Continue reading

Empty

Image Credit: Pixabay

Image Credit: Pixabay

Noise in a vastly empty space pierces silence like sudden silence deafens a vastly noisy space.  I prefer the empty space, each noise given discernable meaning and placement.  The wind may whistle as it steals through the broken window or whine as it finds its way down around the rotted door jamb.  The bits and pieces leftover in this decaying structure crunch under my feet as I take gentle, purposeful steps. Continue reading