Over the past year I have poured every last thought into a journal. This was my way of coping and although most entries are chaotic and illegible, they collectively speak to the true nature of mental health. There simply is no cohesive melody. Anxiety does not look pretty. Sadness is often sporadic. And mental illness does not abide by any rules. As cliche as it sounds, the only guarantee to life and our hardships is that there are no guarantees. Forever a roller coaster of maddening sentiment, my mind remains as messy as it ever was in spite the boatloads of progress. And that is something I am going to have to accept. In hopes of creating a community of love, acceptance, and support, I want to share just how unpredictable the mind can be.
Through the good days and the bad, I must remind myself I am not alone. I am never alone. And neither are you. There is always hope.
I submit to you: The Pieces of Me.
I have realized that everything I thought I would never get through, I got through. Realizations like these are what shift the ground beneath my feet and make the sky change its hue.
Waves. It all comes in waves. My focus. My creativity. My sadness. My everything. It all comes in waves and I am getting sea sick. And I am forgetting to come up for air. And it is getting harder to see the shore line. So for now, I will float. And I will hope. Hope the waves will bring me home in time to see the sun set.
I revel in moments like these. Moments when everything is in the inbetween. The world has stopped and I can hear my heart beating steadily to the melody of a past summer. I am alive. Despite all that consumes me, I exist.
The smallest things get under my skin. They pick at my thoughts with a fine tooth comb, uncoiling the curl pattern of my mind until it is uniform in negativity. It’s funny how the the littlest things have the potential to change everything. From my mood to my day to my life. My entire outlook is influenced in a matter of seconds and I wonder how I became so malleable. Under the right amount of pressure and heat, I melt into a puddle of gold. Yet, I only feel valuable when I am solid. When I am locked in vaults and worn on ring fingers. When I am guarded by brick walls and tied to red strings of commitment. I only feel valuable then.
In this body is a good place to be…
Because it holds me up even as I lay down to surrender. It holds me up in both shame and glory. And although I often forget this – although I am more shameful than I’d like to admit – I am grateful. I am here. Slightly wounded, but healing everyday. I am here. Breathing in the sunshine and living any way. I am here. Thanks to my body, I live.
I am growing into myself and it is the most tragically beautiful thing one can go. A dreadful miracle.
Suddenly, the calmness of a hazy summer is overwhelmed with the uproar of an anxious mind. What was is now once more and I can see myself slipping. My bubble has burst. The world is blue again.
I am stupefied with the illusion that I cannot get through this day. That I cannot hold the pieces of me together long enough to do anything useful. I am stuck. And the thoughts of breaking free are well beyond my reach. I keep playing with idea of letting go. Stay inside and wallow in the mourning of myself, but then there’s life. It is knocking at my door. Asking to play. Asking to stay. I am constantly being tugged at the seams. Pray I do not unravel. That I do not tear holes in my cashmere. I am much too valuable for such unruliness. I am much too valuable. Remember that.
I am okay.