Writing As A Form Of Therapy

The hands of the clock wave at me like I should know what time it is already.
Their movements are empty, or maybe it’s because they are accustomed to holding those flags that are lights, the ones that guide aircraft to land on the mothership.
But it’s way past my time for bed, and instead of guiding me in, they are shouting gently that if I don’t sleep enough I might crash into the ocean of worried nonsense.
I’ve been in that storm for 18 years now, pailing water out of the captains helm, anchor weighed in this little bay before the reef hits up against the sand bar.
I’d swim if I wasn’t terrified of jellyfish kissing up against me.
I’ve survived on a steady diet of psychotherapy and intermittent self-sabotage.
The radio doesn’t work, and the MP3 player I brought along, only has this ridiculous Aretha Franklin album about shitty ex boyfriends.
Maybe nobody needs me in their life but the jellyfish.
With their incandescent globules guiding me into the water.
I’m going to get stung probably, but at least I’d be less stinky.
I might even make it to shore, and the food I can smell from there is better than the punishment I dish out to myself.
Maybe it has fresh bbq pork, and mangoes, and self-loathing.
I could make a canoe out of the bed frame where it all went wrong.
It might be better than avoiding going to sleep, and hearing her name call out over and over in my head.
I hate fishing now, my next lover is going to be a turtle.
Sturdy, well protected, great swimmer, cute but lacking in finer dexterity.
Unable to hold the flags that might signal what they expect of me.
I’m a decent sailor, I just lost my first mate to the karma.
And I lost my hope to the storm, each bucketful of water I empty, is a mouthful of self-help to swallow.
Trauma is like that.
I think I’m tired enough to shut my eyes now.

Snow coloured rainbows
Freezing the nipples and testies of queers all over
Did that begin the promiscuity thought train?
I got a free ride, free ticket, free buffet
Free infectionary disease
Lacking the kind of warmth you would expect from intimacy
More of a burning itch instead
Can I start again?

Snow coloured rainbows
Directing me out of this blizzard
I smell the smoke, and hear chopping of wood
There’s gold here, her hair maybe
There’s no green but for her eyes
And I feel calm looking at them watching me
I went for groceries, and I got stuck in the 21st century
I tried to apologise but it ruined any chance of a hug
Can I start again?

Snow coloured rainbows
Why does that seem familiar?
A cold swim will kick me in
To the next chapter in my existence
I’m dreaming of the last page, last paragraph
But I’m re-reading the last line that I’m up to
Wondering if I can be written down
Living the change to become one
Now I’m starting to feel again.

Its taken me a while to venture out and look for different threads. The 'still' mirrored in these

waters tell me there's uncertain depth to them.

Now and then I shall come sit beside and ponder what lays beneath..

Thankyou too the brave. I bathe in the pools of your eyes. tonys mb1

I come back to SANE today

It has been just over 2 years since my last psychotic break.

I have had 6 in my 57 years, at 24, 28, 40, 44, 51, 55.

I have always tried to write down the memories to try and piece and place the fragments together.

I came across a biography by Anna Jacobson - 'How to knit a human' and it took me back to my experiences of ECT when i was 24.

These experiences I talk of to only a few.

I reread what i have written over the years in my journals.

These parts of me I must honor and show respect too.

It was painful but i am grateful for all I am.

I don't want to experience Psychosis again so I must take care.

I write here to share with some who may have experienced something similar and find comfort and peace in this post.

Thank you.

Hey @rivergal , and welcome back, great to see you here 😀

@tonys , @Ainjoule , @tyme , @RiverSeal

@rivergal @Silenus @Shaz51 ,

Yes, I really think writing on the forums is a real therapy for me. I am always scared to write in a diary in case it gets found and is read by the wrong person.

However, I feel safe to write and share on these forums.

Glad to have this thread revived.

Now I feel the pull of the force of the strength of the tug,

Its the love of the lust of the lie of the drug.

I feel the magnetic attraction the intense pull across the room,

And I'm hopelessly falling again into you.

I should've never answered the call of your song,

The sweet melody of your voice for that I long,

It invades my peace my serenity my soul and my calm,

And it lurches me forcefully and I'm completely disarmed.

Our eyes meet for a moment that lingers in my mind,

For the minutes the hours the lasting of time.

And my lungs once more expanding with the embrace of your breath,

And I remember that this love was always till death.

I know I should've never danced to your rhythm again,

Should've known just how tragically our love story ends.

Should've trusted my instincts and stayed far away,

Knowing I'm not strong enough to refuse you again...

Off with the top of my head and tip out what swirls within...

here's some grey matter

-

People think I'm ok because I'm not falling apart and crying,

But this is not truly living I'm just surviving.

I cut off my wings but for fear of the flying.

-

I, the tide, a waning ache,

a longing lust that is lost in crashing break,

a fury withdrawn, a gasping whisper denied,

the permanence of state I refuse to abide,

I, the tide,

the fall and rise,

the churning persistence that arrives and subsides,

I, the tide,

the promise of lies,

that uncovers and hides,

what can't be known in our hearts nor seen with our eyes,

the surge of destruction and the breaking of minds,

the lost moments it finds,

the ever growing and changing power it's weapon of time,

I, the tide,

fear that which we can face without hope to confine,

a mechanic of life well beyond our design.

I cannot control this great force or reshape this moment of time,

a chaotic calm and comforting discomfort of balance that I find,

and force myself to surrender and exist in this eternal moment inside,

and admit what I am and what I've denied,

and find resolve in the weakness, a duality defined,

by the truth of the powerlessness against which i fight,

I am what I am, just myself, I, the tide.

-

It's the wet kiss of glass lips,

that I miss, it's crazy.

your coldness my comfort,

the next sip I crave this,

enslaved in this fake bliss, your love I taste it.

The lusting and longing for the feeling you gave me,

This will be the last time, I want you hate me,

Discard me forget me so I can just break free,

Just once more then it's gone,

I won't let your poison take me,

I swear I will stop just after this last one

Maybe

Thankyou you Gone Pirate for your writing.

As part of the Ocean, thankyou for sharing the experience and nature of the tide.

l enjoy reading the writings of others and recognize the therapeutic act of both the reading and the writing.

I have been writing more in my journal in the last few weeks again.

Swirling thoughts transfer to the keyboard and the pages with tears in the corner of my eyes.

It is 3 years now since my last psychosis.

I come again to the SANE forum to reflect and look for resources for my current reality.

I am grateful to be alive and thriving at 58years.

I hope my presence is a support to others.