rabperryleaf

[rabperryleaf]

Reflecting on my poetry

If I were to read the essay’s in this blog do you think I would be impressed or do you think that I would be presented with an image of a girl that I do not know. is a mirror the same as a painting, and which is this?

 Would this blog present me with my inner thoughts that are carefully crafted or would I be presented with the image my friends, coworkers, family, and the world is presented with? Is there a difference so huge that they are not the same identity? 

I think truly the only person who knows a difference in my identities is myself and there is a comfort in that just as much as there is mortification. 

To know oneself is a curse, to find out is a blessing. 

I won’t elaborate on that, I think I said what I wanted to say and like the Riddler that I fancy myself as, I will leave it be.

[rabperryleaf]

a lil context as a treat

Hello ! I’m new here, I’ve never really posted anything on the internet except personal accounts with only people I know. I’m really more of a lurker. But, I struggle with depression, and I find writing to be one of the only ways I can work through my thoughts. I have a google document that I started around five years ago called therapy is for losers. I started it when I didn’t have access to therapy and writing was my sole way of coping with my spinning thoughts and numb feelings. Since then I’ve gone through so much more of my life, I’ve gone through the worst depresseive episode I’ve ever had, the development of a panic disorder, a therapist and a psychiatrist. But throughout and forever, I have this google document. I’m an engineer so I won’t have any way of turning these essays into something worthwhile, but sometimes I feel weird when I think of essays I’ve wrote that mean so much to me just sitting in a google document for only my eyes to see. so here ! Please enjoy and if you could leave proof that you’ve read it whether it be a like or something it would make my day. I just want some good to come out of the worst part of my life.

[rabperryleaf]

what major depressive disorder looks like

It is with a heavy heart that I return to this page, sorrow in tow instead of poetry. It sinks into my bones, the feeling a blanket, soft in it’s approach and warm in it’s presence. It is not the feelings associated that I have trouble with, or the sensations they bring, a kind of heavy tiredness, no it is the realizations of what it means. It is the fabric of the blanket itself. Despair, hatred, and a sense of helplessness that seems to never fully fade or present itself. It’s like a white whale, there in a second, taunting me with it’s presence, aware that I am pointedly trying to forget it. But before the whale can have any true impact on my life, any true repercussions, It flees, under the water for all the world to see but me. Maybe the white whale has its own problems, and it plays the same game with me. Maybe the whale wishes i would flee too, maybe it sees the harpoon and instead of taunting me there is genuine fear it its eyes. It wants to see another day, live under another sun than the one on it’s back now. Maybe it flees into the water to avoid it’s inevitable end. The day I pull the trigger on the harpoon. The day I am no longer helpless. But the longer the whale and I play this game of tug and war the more the whale wins. The more it spends its days in the sun, myself in it’s spell. My feelings warring over each other trying to find it in me to kill the whale. But if there is a trigger to the harpoon then I do not know it. Every day that goes by, i become more convinced the trigger was never built in. maybe I hallucinated and a trigger is not a part of a harpoon. Maybe there are 8 billion boats just like mine, drifting in the sea, at battle with a party that’s winning.

[rabperryleaf]

Failure

It hovers.

 It waits. 

It is sure that the day it’s presence will be accepted is rapidly approaching.

 It stares down at the girl, her form curled tight in a ball, the covers wrapped around her like they stand a chance at protecting her, the cotton spread her best armor. She’s close, she has to be or else it would not take up so much of the room. She’s still a child, right on the cusp of adulthood, but her mind stays young. She never changed, always stagnant and proud, always trying to adapt. She thinks it will help her, this strength, she thinks it is the cure. But maybe the kids who didn’t adapt got a completely new lens. When something isn’t repairable it gets replaced, and maybe getting replaced is what everyone else experienced while she stayed the same, her wounds covered in bandaids. Every scratch leads it closer, and it has been fooled into thinking she will accept it before. But she is hard headed. She has pulled out of the darkness before.

 It thinks she may be aware of its presence.

 It thinks the knowledge emboldens her.

 It thinks she thrives off avoiding accepting it. She doesn’t know she’s only hurting herself. She avoids its presence because she thinks it spells the end, she thinks something is over when acceptance occurs. She doesn’t know acceptance is no relief. It is only a fake promise. It is not the acceptance that changes people, it is the blindfold lifting, the ignorance dying, as they found their lives unchanged. It is the knowledge that there is nothing out to get you, nothing chasing you around as you live and exist. It is the knowledge that you are not staving off some outcome you don’t wish to accept. It is the recognition of the end, the lowest you can go, the recognition that even if there is relief in there being no further you are still well below with no plan out. The bottom is not a relief it only exists to taunt you with its looming presence. 

It wonders when she’ll cave, 

and the girl finds herself pondering the same question.

[rabperryleaf]

The real college weed out course is just depression

i promise i won’t kill myself its a metaphor

what is there to existence?

I think I’m lonely. I don’t know what is happening. I’m sitting in cold water, and eventually my body temperature will drop. Eventually I’ll become numb, I’ll loose the ability to feel scared, to feel the cold. Eventually my body’s temperature will be the same as the water, and maybe it will kill me. But will I save myself? Or will I assimilate into the cold. Maybe the cold won’t kill me, and maybe I’ll be reborn from these waters. It’s something special to be killed by such a neutral party. The water is not aware of my existence. The water cannot have intent, it cannot know what it does, it cannot pass judgment. If I save myself, it will not care, and if I coast on the surface while my body’s temperature slowly drops, it will not be the wiser. There’s something caring in indifference. Where there is no love there is no hate, and isn’t apathy it’s own sort of affection?

[rabperryleaf]

a caramel scented dream

Shadows scented with caramel and pumpkin flicker against the wall. It was early September, the month had barely begun to stretch it legs, but Amelia had already procured a fall scented candle. A candle meant to induce the memory of a season she had no claim to as a floridian. She had never known fall and with the way time flowed around her, slow, murky, and it’s stale rapidity seemingly suffocating her it felt as if she never would see fall. It felt as if the future were a million miles away, the idea that she could be sitting in a home of her own watching the leaves turn colors as she smelled caramel and pumpkin on the wind was something as foreign as the idea of magic. Something to wish on, something to hope for, something to curse the lack of, but not something to rely on. It was funny how time worked like that. Just an hour ago she had attempted to make her first real dinner. She could still smell the seasoning on her hands from her attempt. Her ignorance during the ordeal was proof that she was in fact in a new era of her life. She wasn’t living under her parents roof, eating their cooking, living in their universe. She existed in her own universe, cooking when she wanted to, cooking what she wanted to with no care but how it affected her, and that was new. This experience was proof that time does change, that she can in fact change her environment. As unsettling as it seems, she would grow up, she would move away and she would have the chance to see the leaves change. But surety of that future was not a currency she valued. She wanted to make her current reality one worth living, she didn’t want to live with one foot in the future, hoping it will be better. So she had bought the candle, and she lit it every night, the scent of fall filling her as she settled down.