Sometimes the Light at the End of the Tunnel is Just Another Train
I jotted down this bit of rambling verse about depression today, and I'm trying to follow my "just write" experiment by not going back & obsessing over every line. Whether that results in a certain amount of pleasing rawness or just non-proofread suckyness, we shall see.
ETA: All right, so I allowed myself to go back & edit a few lines, but only a few!
(Trigger warning for mention of suicidal thoughts & self-harm)
***
Sometimes
people will be eager to remind you
that happiness and positivity
are a choice.
They'll hang it on their cubicle walls;
they'll post it on your Facebook feed.
They'll be proud of their bestowed knowledge
like some kind of motivational speaker
who just changed your day,
if not your whole life.
They forget
that, for some of us,
happiness is a bit more complicated.
They forget
because we blend in
and get lost in the shadows.
They don't consider
the cocktail of wacky genetics,
misfiring chemicals,
and possible trauma
that had to come together
to create the mind you've battled with
for a lifetime.
Day in,
day out.
Again & again & again.
Should I get dressed today?
I can't move my body.
Surely, I wasn't meant to live this long.
I'm past my expiration date like bad milk.
You can only scream for help so many times
before they all sigh in exasperation
and begin to see you
as the broken record that called wolf.
You never really mean it, do you?
(She just wants attention)
They don't realize
the tightrope
upon which you fight tooth & nail
to remain.
For them --
sometimes it's only for them.
For some of us,
happiness is less about choice,
and more about access.
Access to the right healthcare,
to money & transportation,
to a psychiatrist who listens,
to a counselor who cares,
to one's own personalized box of coping tools,
the fragile balance of meds & milligrams,
and a hospital, just in case, that feels more like a safety net
than a punishment.
They don't understand how
hard it is to just decide to be happy
when your brain
is on fire.
It controls
the fire hose
and the firemen.
There are no windows or doors
to be seen.
Everything is smoke.
Everything is burning.
Your face & hands
are turning to ash;
bugs are crawling up your skin.
You are falling fast into quicksand;
the harder you fight,
the deeper you sink.
But you do have a choice,
your sick mind reminds you:
you can either die slowly,
or you can die quickly.
There's a single gun in your hand.
It's loaded with one magic bullet.
One chance to reach the light.
One chance to get it right.
Or is it
wrong?
You can't think clearly;
your vision is turning black.
Your heart is beating in your throat;
your stomach is twisted in knots --
yet all you can feel is
nothing.
All you are
is nothing.
Nothing but
unceasing dread,
the sudden truth of it all,
and the vanishing light.
Depression lies,
you'll remember later,
but you'll forget again.
It knows
and lies in wait.
It's more patient than joy.
"Make a list of things you're grateful for...", they'll suggest.
Because that's the real problem:
you're just spoiled.
You just need to learn
The Secret.
Manifest your dreams!
(...but all I have are nightmares. All my dreams are out of reach. They always were; I realize that now.)
Have you tried that new diet yet that I told you about?
(I can't really eat much anymore. I'm always sick from stress.)
How about a nice walk?
(It takes me all day just to get in the shower.)
"Why won't you at least TRY?"
You don't bother reminding them
that you've already been trying.
Trying
is all you do.
Even when you're prone in bed at noon
like some marble statue,
you're trying to survive just one more day,
then one more after that,
hanging onto the side of your mattress as if it were a life boat
caught in the middle of a perfect storm.
(Sometimes, outside stimulation only serves to compete
with your already crowded thoughts & emotions,
creating an exhausting cyclone of chaos all around you.
You don't want to hide; you need to hide.)
You're trying at 6 in the evening,
blinds closed,
skin carved & bleeding,
staring down in satisfaction
and shame.
You're trying at 2 in the morning,
wide-awake &
staring at nothing --
the visual representation
of a pointless lifetime
in a pointless world.
You're as frustrated
as they are.
You've been busy
hanging off the side of a cliff,
and your fingers
are slipping, one by one,
while they sip lemonade & bask in the sun,
admonishing you
that you just need to get out more.
Why can't they just let you go?
Why can't they realize
they'd be better off without you?
Why can't they see how you're
already covered in third-degree burns?
Eventually, you find yourself asking God
to take the choice away from you,
to save you
from yourself.
Whether that be by killing you
or curing you,
there is no acceptable in-between.
You wait for the big, booming voice from the sky to come,
but it never does.
Sometimes you think you hear it
in passing thoughts and soft breezes,
but your mind demands evidence,
and all you have to give it
are more questions.
In the end, they're all the same:
why?
...Sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel
is just another train.
Sometimes the only real choice you have
is whether to call the police --
to keep breathing at whatever cost,
despite the smoke.
Either way,
it's not really much of a choice.
The reality is
that, for some of us,
the closest we'll ever get
to choosing to be happy
is by learning to accept our
unhappiness first,
despite your best efforts.
...Sometimes the only way out
is in.
Fin
***
ETA: All right, so I allowed myself to go back & edit a few lines, but only a few!
(Trigger warning for mention of suicidal thoughts & self-harm)
***
Sometimes
people will be eager to remind you
that happiness and positivity
are a choice.
They'll hang it on their cubicle walls;
they'll post it on your Facebook feed.
They'll be proud of their bestowed knowledge
like some kind of motivational speaker
who just changed your day,
if not your whole life.
They forget
that, for some of us,
happiness is a bit more complicated.
They forget
because we blend in
and get lost in the shadows.
They don't consider
the cocktail of wacky genetics,
misfiring chemicals,
and possible trauma
that had to come together
to create the mind you've battled with
for a lifetime.
Day in,
day out.
Again & again & again.
Should I get dressed today?
I can't move my body.
Surely, I wasn't meant to live this long.
I'm past my expiration date like bad milk.
You can only scream for help so many times
before they all sigh in exasperation
and begin to see you
as the broken record that called wolf.
You never really mean it, do you?
(She just wants attention)
They don't realize
the tightrope
upon which you fight tooth & nail
to remain.
For them --
sometimes it's only for them.
For some of us,
happiness is less about choice,
and more about access.
Access to the right healthcare,
to money & transportation,
to a psychiatrist who listens,
to a counselor who cares,
to one's own personalized box of coping tools,
the fragile balance of meds & milligrams,
and a hospital, just in case, that feels more like a safety net
than a punishment.
They don't understand how
hard it is to just decide to be happy
when your brain
is on fire.
It controls
the fire hose
and the firemen.
There are no windows or doors
to be seen.
Everything is smoke.
Everything is burning.
Your face & hands
are turning to ash;
bugs are crawling up your skin.
You are falling fast into quicksand;
the harder you fight,
the deeper you sink.
But you do have a choice,
your sick mind reminds you:
you can either die slowly,
or you can die quickly.
There's a single gun in your hand.
It's loaded with one magic bullet.
One chance to reach the light.
One chance to get it right.
Or is it
wrong?
You can't think clearly;
your vision is turning black.
Your heart is beating in your throat;
your stomach is twisted in knots --
yet all you can feel is
nothing.
All you are
is nothing.
Nothing but
unceasing dread,
the sudden truth of it all,
and the vanishing light.
Depression lies,
you'll remember later,
but you'll forget again.
It knows
and lies in wait.
It's more patient than joy.
"Make a list of things you're grateful for...", they'll suggest.
Because that's the real problem:
you're just spoiled.
You just need to learn
The Secret.
Manifest your dreams!
(...but all I have are nightmares. All my dreams are out of reach. They always were; I realize that now.)
Have you tried that new diet yet that I told you about?
(I can't really eat much anymore. I'm always sick from stress.)
How about a nice walk?
(It takes me all day just to get in the shower.)
"Why won't you at least TRY?"
You don't bother reminding them
that you've already been trying.
Trying
is all you do.
Even when you're prone in bed at noon
like some marble statue,
you're trying to survive just one more day,
then one more after that,
hanging onto the side of your mattress as if it were a life boat
caught in the middle of a perfect storm.
(Sometimes, outside stimulation only serves to compete
with your already crowded thoughts & emotions,
creating an exhausting cyclone of chaos all around you.
You don't want to hide; you need to hide.)
You're trying at 6 in the evening,
blinds closed,
skin carved & bleeding,
staring down in satisfaction
and shame.
You're trying at 2 in the morning,
wide-awake &
staring at nothing --
the visual representation
of a pointless lifetime
in a pointless world.
You're as frustrated
as they are.
You've been busy
hanging off the side of a cliff,
and your fingers
are slipping, one by one,
while they sip lemonade & bask in the sun,
admonishing you
that you just need to get out more.
Why can't they just let you go?
Why can't they realize
they'd be better off without you?
Why can't they see how you're
already covered in third-degree burns?
Eventually, you find yourself asking God
to take the choice away from you,
to save you
from yourself.
Whether that be by killing you
or curing you,
there is no acceptable in-between.
You wait for the big, booming voice from the sky to come,
but it never does.
Sometimes you think you hear it
in passing thoughts and soft breezes,
but your mind demands evidence,
and all you have to give it
are more questions.
In the end, they're all the same:
why?
...Sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel
is just another train.
Sometimes the only real choice you have
is whether to call the police --
to keep breathing at whatever cost,
despite the smoke.
Either way,
it's not really much of a choice.
The reality is
that, for some of us,
the closest we'll ever get
to choosing to be happy
is by learning to accept our
unhappiness first,
despite your best efforts.
...Sometimes the only way out
is in.
Fin
***