Sarah Musick
You’re the thing nightmares are made of
You dropped your stuff at my front door
I was perched at your wet dungeon
Leave me I can’t take any moreI’m diluted from society washing over me
I am wading through its crux
I’m soaked in my own insecurity
I am wet from her touchMy shoes are soggy please step away
My tracks, they follow me home
My hair is drenched clinging to my face
My eyes are burning take it slowKeep intriguing me and you can keep me
Keep intriguing me and you can keep me
Keep intriguing me you don’t really need me
I stand intriguedI lie awake listening for you
For you to shift your weight
It’s dried and crusted all on my face
I can’t seem to wash you awayLove is a cactus
And I grabbed it tightly
Now I’m throbbing from the thorns
Love is a cactus
And I grabbed it tightly
But in the desert I’ll drink from its coreChorus
I’m diluted from society washing over me
I am wading through its crux
I’m soaked in my own insecurity
I am fucking wet from her touchChorus
Spacious cavities of emptiness and wordless years. The lull of the time between when we last were and when we will be again, together.
How vast will we make this space between two days? Two moments? Many lives?
Who’s call is it to make?
Who’s the most stubborn?
Is a belief farther reaching than the lifeblood we share?
We’re a gutted building. Don’t you think it’d be nice to start rebuilding? I know decorating’s a long way off, but can’t we at least plaster some walls? Relay some tile? Replace the plumbing?
You’ve got my digits. I’ve got yours.
Monday, like most others, was indicative of my mind’s churning. Yet, unlike most I sweltered with anticipation for a moment to feel like myself again. The “me” I like. The “me” others prefer. Sound elusive? It is. Mostly, I was blurred on the inside.
All day Sunday was spent incased in the body of someone I’m supposed to be, but wasn’t. It was blank behind my eyes. My limbs moved robotically. I was joints, not muscles. Rigid, not flowing. When she looked at me I knew she saw it. When I looked at myself in the mirror I saw it.
It’s the look of grief and unknown trauma. Almost like a loved one died in my arms and I’m too stunned to speak or move the body. On the rare occasion I spoke my voice was high and uncertain – annoying and fake. It made skin crawl.
I hate myself this way.
I find it funny how we tend to compare where we are to where we’ve been. It’s the rationale of experience and we all lean toward it whether freely admitted or not. I’m one to hastily say I “never” feel this bad, or I’ll “always” be like this. To me it’s the malignant state of my disease that scares me. My depression has two goals: to survive and conquer new territory. Rather than stay put and be, my struggle seems to grow and spread. My sad cells are multiplying and vying for the space of my happy cells. I’m an organism over populated with downers.
Is it purely chemical?
I think not. I’m coming to understand the truth that my body and soul are trying to tell me something. They’re trying to get my attention, to win it back from the stresses of life who stole it a few, long, months ago.
Yet, I have difficulty not feeling entirely responsible for how I behave and respond. I want to blame myself for not being able to conquer this without outside help. I fight to understand how this may be a part of me I can’t fully control without medication. Where I was raised seeking help was frowned upon. There was pride in being self sufficient. To a fault, I became a self care taker. I find my present days prove I’m better with others, better admitting my need, better seeking help.
I bare the same shame of my youth when I admittedly dial my physician to set *another* appointment with full intention of not cancelling the day before this time.
Silly little me.
I spend hours of my life pondering the purpose of my existence. Twenty-seven: the number of years I’ve had to discover how purely unknowing I am. Foolish. Lacking brillance. The idea of knowledge and wisdom are heavy on my mind. Heavy on my heart too, maybe more so. Ironically (or providentially). Who can say?
I’m passionate about living with a reason. I accept the fact I may never fully know or understand said reason.
Is that faith?
Is it the same idea that I claimed to have lost that still lines my life?
Is it merely an idea?
Holidays are pauses in the timeline for me. I zoom out and look at the entire picture of my life on these days. I lift off the ground of myself and do a fly over. Looking down from above, I realize how infinitesimal I am again. I realize anew how years are a leaky faucet in an infinite universe. At any point the knob turns and my drip stops.
Heaven or hell are not dictators of my actions. My time on this earth is more than buying time somewhere else. I. Am. Here. Now. That’s it.
Today, I choose to enjoy the perspective. I simultaneously take on the responsibility that comes with knowledge. Even if my knowledge is deep within a subject matter I’ve tried to flee. I’m turning the bend of a long circle. I’m bilingual in christianese and paganese. I can, more than, translate. This is my greatest challenge.
I don’t hate my roots. I acknowledge them and each day I lean toward embracing them.
For lack of analogies and figurations, I will say plainly: I am a flat line sometimes. My struggle with depression is simply that – a struggle. I’ve ignored, fought, disguised, relinquished, over-compensated for, been held under the power of, and rose above it; all at any given moment.
Amazingly, I understand that this is always a part of my life. I even accept this truth. My high energy comes with a demising twin and it balances my world by taking me drastically under. I’m not odd or unique. I’m the cliché of a Creative bent on casting meaning throughout my days and sinking when it isn’t attained (to the level I deem meaningful, have you).
There’s no one else to tell me what works for me, no one to diagnose and manage my day-to-day. I either, learn to manage my own rise and fall or I don’t.
Simple, really.
If only it felt simple. The complexity of a rollercoaster life is perplexing at best. I doubt my own position, especially when it begins to get in the way of my personal and professional self. Being in the midst of others distracts me out of the lows or agitates me into lower-lows. It’s a guessing game.
It’s not that I see the world dimly. For, I very much recognize and experience bright spots, but it’s almost like a dream state sometimes. Moments are so intensely bright they’re blinding. Others are so gray they almost feel damp, like mental moisture. It’s difficult to explain.
Those who share this reality know.
I know, without asking, that many around me experience this same struggle/grievance/outlay/wonder. Some have told me, others need not say a word for me to feel the commonality we share. Only last night, for the first time, I embraced and acknowledged that this is a part of me I need not judge. It’s part of my ability to create. It’s also part of the height that others enjoy. It’s *just* part.
All thoughts initiated by a couple chapters in The Van Gogh Blues, by Eric Maisel. I recommend it to any who share this position, even a little.
