Writing As A Form Of Therapy

I wrote this poem to describe the terrible hold that depression can have on me. I spent so many months in a darkened bedroom, the curtains closed, hiding under the covers of my bed. Again and again I would tell myself that today would be the day that I would be able to make it to work. Again and again, I proved too weak to be able to meet the challenge. But I'm still here, so depression has never truly defeated me...

Erm... I had to type the word k-n-o-b (as in doork-n-o-b) with hyphens because the automatic filter didn't like it. Go figure... hahaha...

Deepression

I lie here now, a useless lump,
Listening to my heart go thump,
My lead blanket holds me trapped,
A premature shroud in which I’m wrapped.
I cannot face the world today,
My inner demons now hold sway,
Rising, an ocean of tears inside,
I am dead to me, my tears uncried.

I know I should escape my room,
My hopes and dreams lie in this tomb,
Unrealised and trapped, just like me,
A mad fool who longs to be free.
But “should” is just another word,
I berate myself for being absurd,
I bang my head with my fist,
No pleasure for this masochist.

I made it to the front door today,
Believing I would be okay,
I reach a hand out for the k-n-o-b,
I must get out and do my job.
But like so many times before,
I cannot open that front door,
Instead I turn and get undressed,
Fall into bed, a man depressed.

I look in the mirror from time to time,
Practice fake smiles, a happiness mime,
But I never look myself in the eye,
If I see the emptiness I know I’ll die.
And who would I smile at anyway?
I’m lone and alone, (and prefer it that way?)
I hate myself for being so weak,
For being this stupid emotionless freak.

I know that this depression will pass,
And I’ll be able to get off my ass,
But tell that to my leaden limbs,
To my precious inner light that dims.
This weight for me is an eternity,
I feel condemned to taciturnity,
I am now at my lowest point,
My failures continue to disappoint.

I wrote this poem in an attempt to describe the power of dreams and of the terrible torments we can put ourselves through. Dreams can reveal much about ourselves, if only we are able to train ourselves to remember them and to interpret the images and hidden messages that they contain. I firmly believe that dreams are a way for the subconscious to process trauma, stress or perplexing issues that the conscious mind has been stewing on or suffering from.

Over the years, I have honed my skills in being able to recall dreams once I am awake. I have also done much work to develop my ability to do what is called 'lucid dreaming', wherein I am aware that I am dreaming, and have at least some limited ability to control the direction of the dream. Often, if I am dissatisfied with the direction that the dream has taken, I am able to replay a section of it to try and explore other aspects or 'change the ending' as it were.

My dreams can be very vivid, graphic, violent and disturbing, or they can be peaceful and filled with joyful bliss. When I am troubled, or when I am in a mixed episode or my hypomania is way too high, the dreams can be impossible to control, and very troubling fo rme, but I try to take the good with the bad, and interpret what I can from my subconscious. Often, it is wiser than I am, and reveals things that I would not otherwise be able to see unassisted.

Dreamweaver

The demons had their way with me last night,
Ichorous talons rending at my heart and soul.
Dreams, the doorway to the id,
Played across the silver screen of my inner eye,
And I, the helpless spectator,
The trapped and tormented watcher,
Was forced to look on and to feel the horrors that lie within.
I did not even have the cold comfort of Beethoven’s ninth
To accompany my journey into the depths of my psyche.
Screaming without sound,
Trying with all of my might to close the eye that cannot close,
Turning away in a hall of mirrors without end,
Always focusing on the turbid tendrils of terror,
I at last faced the cold and brutal truth that no lies can hide.
I, a pitifully weak Virgil, faced my own hell,
So much more profound and real than Dante’s wildest imaginings.

All stark and in my face, my weakness, my faults, my flaws,
Gathered around me to throw me around in a circle,
Sneering, hating, teasing, tormenting, violating, ripping me to shreds.
I could not escape.
There was no rope, no helping hand, no lighted tunnel,
No omniscient God-figure, no guide, no love nor hope.

Waking in a cold sweat, eyes wide and fearful,
Looking for phantasmagoria in the shadows of my room,
I calmed my turbulent mind, my wounded soul, my beating heart,
And turned my waking eyes to the flayed and splayed
Mess that is me.
What had the demons shown me?

The Truth,
With all lies stripped away,
Especially the ones we tell ourselves
In the dark recesses of our mind,
That we repeat so many times
We do not dare or care to question them.

I am a weak and flawed creature,
Full of false pride, full of myself;
Hurtful and hurting, I have lashed out in pain,
And shared my hurt with the world;
When actions should have spoken so much louder than words,
I chose to remain silent, mute,
Ensnared in a trap of my own making,
Hurting those I love (including myself);
Ignoble beast, I bite the hand that feeds me,
I gave in to the darkness, the hunger, and hate myself for it;
I am emptiness, I am void, I am null,
The nullerman with a gaping hole where his heart should be,
Playing at being human, pretending to be whole;
I weave my own fate,
And hang from the threads, a limp and useless lump;
Damnation, salvation, flip sides of the same coin,
Minted in my mind, deposited in a bank
Where no interest is paid.

I face this Truth,
And facing it,
I dream on,
And try to change
The broken empty thing that is me.

This poem is short but sweet. It was written as a reminder to myself that even supposedly bad stuff has a purpose.

Poo

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Neither would grow
Without some poo.

I wrote this poem to remind myself to never harden my heart, no matter how much it is hurt by others or by life events. Love is the greatest power. With it comes healing and redemption, and ever more love...

Open, Warm and Forever Beating

From the fresh wound in my heart, the words did pour out.
The secret is not in the hurt, nor is it in the wound.
It is not in our power to transcend the pain in the here and now,
Nor to carry ourselves with dignity when the whisperings
In our ears say to give in to the anguish.
It is not in our conscious choice to bear stoically
The piercings of Amor’s arrows.
It is in our ability to craft our love anew,
Despite, or perhaps because of, the pain,
And to not be borne down by our scars.
For love is not a means to an end,
Is not always grand and golden,
But rather the greatest power there is.
And so I wrest the dart from my heart,
Promising to keep it open, warm and forever beating.

Sometimes, dreamless sleep is what I crave most. That great calming restorative oblivion that awaits when one closes one's eyes at the end of the day...

Viscera, Sera

And so I ponder that great leveller,
That most glorious embrace that is sleep.
Surely now it will meet me with loving arms,
Stroke my forehead, and comfort me to the point
Where the demons no longer tear at my viscera,
No longer pluck at the threads of my thoughts;
Making either an intestinal mess or
Yarn to share with tomorrow’s audience.

A very simple and short poem, dealing with how we see ourselves. Yes, we are all broken in one or many ways. But this is only the beginning, the first step of our lives is to realise that we are broken. Then, the realisation comes that we are our own best healers. All of the steps beyond this first and second step leads us ever on to a better life...

I Am

I am the thing I am not meant to be – broken;
Or perhaps I am meant to be this way,
So that I can seek to be that which I will be –
My own healer.

One of the most important things I have been able to learn from Buddhism and elsewhere is that life is about balance. This is especially important in the topsy-turvy world that is often governed by bipolar. We reel from extreme to extreme - (hypo)mania to depression, major mood swing to major mood swing, drama begetting drama, bouncing between bipolar opposites...

Half way between it all is the sweet spot, the point of balance. Acceptance is such an important part of this. I accept who I am, good and bad, up and down, in all of my weirdness and broken splendour...

Half Way Between

Looking down
I see the ground,
Firmly ‘neath my feet.

Looking up
I see the sky,
Feeling the sun’s fiery heat.

Reality
Reality
Is this all I should expect?

I forgot to mention
This weird creation
Half way between ground and sky.

This poem holds a special place in my heart. It was written in response to the love and fellowship I found on BlueBoard, especially that of my brother by another mother, @GonePirate...

These online communities that we build, they have a great strength not to be trivialised or underestimated. They save lives. They form friendships everlasting. We sail on through our individual struggles and turbulent seas, but we do not sail alone...

Sail On

Like ships passing in the night,
When we sail together,
We become a fleet of prodigious strength.

Perhaps not sailing as one in tomorrow’s light,
But still held by emotion’s tether,
We mark not our love by its length.

I sail new seas to those I have of late,
And the salt crusting on my skin,
Whether from ocean’s brine or tear’s shine,
Is a precious and wondrous precipitate
That reminds me to lift up my chin,
For even love lost does not our heart confine.

Sail on, sail on,
And let the wind blow.
Sail on, sail on,
And let your love grow.