I live... still

I am depressed.

There I said it. Not that saying it seems to solve anything. It never has. The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have it? Phooey. Sometimes it seems to me it's an excuse, but it's not. I'm sure I can fight it though.

I lost everything - my dignity, sanity and even the moderate amounts of intelligence I gave myself credit for. And the thing about hitting bottom is that sometimes by the time you reach, you've already drowned. Or you feel too tired to push yourself up again, and drowning seems like the easier option. Morbid, cowardly and selfish? Perhaps. And yet what gives anyone the right to judge another's path?

I never used to understand the concept of giving someone else the power to end your life, and yet I've given someone the power to save mine. The person I begged and pleaded and wished for wouldn't deign to try, and yet someone saw the shell that was left and considered it beautiful and worth preserving. Life's funny, isn't it? So why isn't gratitude enough? Why can't I let go of old longings? Why must I still reach out to the person who helped put me here?

But can I really blame anyone else? I am responsible for my own life aren't I? It's what I always believed. So why now, when I need it the most, has this belief deserted me, along with the faith I had in myself, in my dreams, in life and in others?

I still haven't figured out how to pick myself up and I'm sort of floundering on the bottom, but I guess I should give myself points for being able to get this out, because a day ago, I couldn't have. Progress in any direction is still progress, right?

Live, Love, Lose

Standing at yet another edge of sanity, looking back, I'm wondering whether the choice to jump off was worth it. But what was there left to do? Latent hatred, roiling anger,and the desire to no longer be here, do this leaves me speechless. I wonder why you, and why you had the impact on me that you did. In picking up the pieces, I keep finding bits missing. It wasn't your fault, the wrong time, wrong place, wrong person mess of it all. Maybe it was mine, and I am sorry. But I've said I'm sorry so many times. And what good would it do even if we were to be friends again? What could I do with a friendship like yours now?

I have everything I need, and yet memories of you claw at me. I hide them out of sight, where no one can see, where no one will ever know but me, and pull them out to flail myself with when I'm in need of no further pain. Someday, maybe I will let myself free, in the meantime, the penance goes on. Maybe that's why I need your friendship, so I can let that go. But what use is it asking you? I've been nothing to you for so long now that it wouldn't matter if I asked.

My most recent ex-love, the most tumultuous of them all, I dream of you still. Different from the others in ways I can't begin to define. Do you ever let go of something like that, or does it seep into the flaws of your being, coating them over, giving them a different shape?

I've lost so much, and yet I've gained so much. Here's to the future.

The Way Things Are

I haven't been able to write. I've been blocked, completely. Nothing at all, not little snatches of poetry, not my thoughts or feelings. They've all been stuck inside me for a while now. And I find that scary. Because I've always been able to write. It's the one thing that could set me free, give me the release I couldn't find from talking to other people. Having that outlet cut off made me feel lost, like part of me was dammed. I don't feel like I have it back yet, but I'm clawing my way there.

Things have been happening lately that I didn't think would ever happen, and I don't know how I feel about them. And they all happen at once, or in a sequence that knocks me off balance and keeps me on my knees. Every time I think I've fought my way back to some semblance of equilibrium, something else comes at me and leaves me reeling. I've always wondered if it's my fault, and the way things are, I'm going back to believing it. I know I shouldn't. Things just.. happen.

It hurt when dad left. I cried myself to sleep and it makes me feel so - weak. I don't think I ever really had a hard shell, but at least I had the illusion of one. But I'll accept that, 'cause he's my father.

And then yesterday, I cried again. It's strange, this feeling of loss. I thought I'd get used to it. Maybe I will. But I don't want to, so why should I have to get used to it. Aren't we supposed to save the things that are important to us? But how do you know at which point it goes from saving something valuable to clinging in vain to something irredeemable?

My Kryptonite

... is you.

I never learn, do I? If you open yourself up to people, you give them the power to hurt you. They may not mean to, will swear to you that they'd rather do a million unpleasant things like sleeping on a bed made exclusively of live, writhing snakes and thorns, but believe them at your peril. Most often, they'd make it feel like it's your fault. Not that I'm perfect, but no one deserves to be shunted aside until they're convenient, or to have someone be angry with them for needing time.

So, screw true love. Screw relationships. Just screw 'em all.