an experience is a straight path
memory hacks through
weeds and trees to forge
a new way to the same
destination
unnamed 1.56
i started growing
starting as a sliver of a green thing
poking out of the ground
all i wanted was to reach towards the sun
and show the world how beautiful i could be
until i realized i was merely a weed
growing between two pieces of pavement
and someone came and showered me with poison
and killed me before i had the chance
to bloom
unnamed 1.55
would you ever want to give us a chance again
to let me redeem myself for being too independent,
for not knowing how much you would consume me
in the future, and allow me to fill your empty beer cans
with words of love and feelings of content
so that each time you drink you are full of me
and I remember my doubts as just that,
as a weed growing in the lines of the pavement,
not as a crack in the sidewalk itself
I want to prove it to you almost as much
as I want to prove it to myself
unnamed 1.54
i know you don’t think of us as friends, but i do. when i see you walk in the door, i want to take your hand and guide you through my past experiences so that we might understand each other better. so that you might understand me better. maybe it is not friendship that i seek, but attention. validation. acceptance.
i would love it if you saw me.
unnamed 1.53
He says he loves this town
And then sits behind a beer glass for a week
Not looking up except to ask for a refill
What’s the point in coming all this way
If you don’t enjoy the view you claim to love?
unnamed 1.52
i don’t know how to tell you
that i like it when you leave parts of yourself behind
for me to find later,
when my lips are tinted one shade darker
or i can see where your fingers grabbed at me
to try and pull me closer into you,
i don’t know how to tell you
that i like scars because they show me
snapshots of more painful times
and when i chew on my lip and wince
i will remember you and how captivated i was
when you sucked out my marrow
and left me out to dry
unnamed 1.51
When the day came to a close she hung her head, not because she was tired, but because she couldn’t possibly bear the weight of the world anymore.
unnamed 1.50
Life kicks your ass. The least you could do is kick it right back.
Lowering the Bar
When you have depression, suddenly the world shifts. You have the burning desire to sleep all day, your passions become an afterthought, and small tasks seem unattainable. The number of times I have had to explain to my dentist that I don’t brush my teeth as often as I should because of my depression fills me with shame. Or when I start crying when I get the urge to pee because that means getting out of bed. When I’m at the bottom of a depressive well, the amount of guilt, shame, sadness, and exhaustion cover me so I can’t even see the light at the top. And I’m at the bottom of that well right now.
One of the adjustments I have had to make lately is adjusting the standards I set for myself. I now get rewarded for the smallest things. Things that I’m sure most people have no problem doing every day. I now get congratulated and celebrated when I do something simple, like put a dirty dish in the dishwasher, or take a shower. I have to force myself to go hang out with my friends, or reach out for help when I feel overwhelmed.
Today, I was congratulated for making social plans. At first, I was disheartened. All I did was reply “Sure” to a text from a friend who asked to hang out. Why does that earn celebration? I once read a memoir about a woman with bipolar disorder, and she writes something similar about receiving praise for moving from her bed to the couch.
The thing is, I can’t look at things the way I do when I’m not depressed. Because those are completely different circumstances. When you feel it’s impossible to get out of bed, or keep your eyes open, it is a major celebration when you do those things. Because, in your depressed mind, you have just accomplished the impossible. Which means, you can do anything. It will be hard as hell, sure. And it is doable. That is what I’m holding onto while I’m stuck looking up from the bottom of this hole I’ve found myself in. It’s going to be work. I’m going to have urges to act on maladaptive behaviors. I’m going to want to sleep all day. And I know that I can say no. I can get up and go to work, or see my friends, or buy groceries.
Just because I have to lower the bar now, doesn’t mean it’s forever.
judgment police
I’ve been having judgments lately about myself, and my poetry, in particular. Nothing seems to measure up to the standards I have set for myself. The content– what I have to say– doesn’t seem worthy of publication. In fact, I believe it only encourages judgments from others.
The last poem I wrote, unnamed 1.49, was one that I have many judgments about. Specifically, the topic: someone’s hands. I don’t know what it is about hands that I love so much, but I wanted to try and write about it. After all, the blog is all about me challenging my perfectionism. So, I posted it. And as soon as I did, I started beating myself up.
But the thing is, that’s not what art is about. It’s not out there for the sole purpose of being judged by others. It’s for you, the creator, the artist.
I don’t know if that poem was any good. I do know two things, however: that it came from me, which makes it the right thing to post here, and that it is imperfect. Nothing is perfect.
I’m going to challenge myself more and not call the judgment police each time I have an idea that I want to explore in my writing. This blog is for me, not you. I’m just privileged you would want to come on this crazy ride with me.
So, thanks for reading and please be sure to challenge perfectionism in your own life!
putting down the rope 