sad-poets-society - Tumblr blog

[sad-poets-society]

And always you were there.

At softball games, at recitals, at performances.

Always you were there.

Through late night homework panic attacks, phone calls to help with essays at times that definitely violated the code of ethics.

Always you were there.

Through shitty professors, certification hoops nobody should have ever had to jump through, my first job.

Always you were there.

My wedding, my children, losing my first student, late night teacher panic attacks.

Always you were there.

One text away. Random: "You're doing great, I'm so proud of you" messages. Always there to encourage and guide.

Always you were there.

20 years of "I love you, you can do this."

And now you're not here.

And all I want to do is call you and ask how I'm supposed to deal with this.

Because you were always there.

And now you're gone.

And I'm here.

And I'm waking up every day, hoping to be just like you when I grow up.

Hoping to always be there for someone like me.

[sad-poets-society]

If Jesus met me today, what would he think?

Would he be proud of how I advocate for those who have no voice?

Would he be impressed with the way I put others first?

Would he notice how hard I try to keep everything running smoothly?

Would he be happy I still believe in him?

Would he understand how angry I am with him?

Would he see how hurt I am by what his people say and do?

Would he listen to my story and offer thoughts and prayers?

Would he tell me everything I've done wrong like the woman at the well, just to tell me only he can restore me?

Would he say I am nothing without him?

Would he offer me his body and blood in exchange for his forgiveness?

Would my accomplishments, my heart for the hurting, my desire for change, my love for people, and my unwavering belief that things have to get better outweigh my doubts and fears that they never will? That none of this is real?

If Jesus met me today, would he know how badly I want to believe his love is good and true and that the Christians have bastardized his story to serve their own purpose?

Or would he look at me with disgust, listen with rage, and tell me I was a waste of his sacrifice?

Would I even want to meet him?

[sad-poets-society]

I am numb again.

Numb to the noise.

Numb to the news.

Numb to the cries.

I am numb again.

I can function now. I wake up. I do the things. I play my part. I go to sleep. I do it all over.

I'm numb again,

But is feeling nothing really better than feeling everything all at once?

[sad-poets-society]

The orange one makes me go.

The green one makes me calm.

The blue one keeps me awake.

The white one keeps me alive.

The red one keeps me pain free.

The pink one keeps me full.

None of them keep the voices in my head from telling me how completely fucked I am.

[sad-poets-society]

Who was I?

Before my kids

Before my marriage

Before my job

Before my relationship

Before my trauma

Before my crisis

Before my disillusionment

Before my feelings of rejection

Before my shame

Before my guilt

Before my need to please

Who was I?

Was I even a person yet?

Am I even a person now?

[sad-poets-society]

I feel like I'm losing you.

When you're next to me, but miles away through your phone.

I feel like I'm losing you.

When I reach out to touch you and you pull away immediately.

I feel like I am losing you.

When you ask if I'm okay and I say no, but you don't listen to the reason why.

I feel like I am losing you.

When I am deep in my depression. I curl into myself and you don't even notice.

I feel like I am losing you.

When I am getting help and moving forward, but you bring me back to before with just the tone of your voice.

I feel like I am losing you.

When I ask to be held, to feel wanted, to be loved. And you didn't hear because you had headphones in while watching a stranger on the internet go live.

I feel like I am losing you.

Because I am at a point where I no longer want to lose myself. And I will continue on my journey to becoming whole with or without you.

I feel like I am losing you, but maybe you're losing me too.

[sad-poets-society]

I am an open book.

My pages are torn. My words are smudged. My footnotes are faded. My cover is ugly and covered in dust.

But I am an open book.

I will answer your questions with honesty. I will show you the maps hidden inside me. I will let you thumb through the pages to see it I'm worth sticking with. I will give you the summary so you don't waste your time.

I am an open book.

I don't know how to converse. I can't just talk to you about my thoughts and my feelings. You have to put in the work. Open my glossary. Read through the table of contents. Pick something that intrigues you and I will happily share.

I am an open book. But I still sit here in a dank room on the top shelf. Untouched. Uninteresting. I do not catch your eye when you walk in. You know I'm there. You've had every opportunity to choose me. But you don't.

I am an open book. But an open book fades and disintegrates. It curls and wrinkles. It collects mites and crumbs and bugs.

I am an open book, but by the time you want to read me, there may be nothing left.

[sad-poets-society]

When you go off to look for yourself, keep me in mind. For I missed my chance.

I was scared. I was traumatized. I was codependent. I settled down.

When you go off to look for yourself, do things that I would enjoy.

Get drunk in the middle of the day. Have sex with whomever you'd like. Wear the crop top and ripped jeans. Live freely. For I missed my chance.

I was trapped by rules I truly believed in. I was suffocated by what I thought was love. I was bound by shame and guilt.

When you go off to look for yourself, think of me fondly. For I missed my chance.

Remember my face smiling. My eyes bright. My body beautiful. Even if it's a false memory, it will keep you company.

Because when you go off to look for yourself, I'll still be here. Stuck, but happy. Stagnant, but content. Behind you, but whole.

I never got the chance to go off and look for myself, but I hope that you do. If you find the me I could've been, let her know I am okay. Even if my sould wants to be out looking for myself.

[sad-poets-society]

"You've lost so much weight"

How fucking big was i before?

"Whats your secret?"

I don't fucking eat.

"Wow, how much weight have you lost?"

The numbers haven't moved.

Every comment brings the demon closer to the front. Every statement, every question, every look feeds the monster in my brain. It will never be enough. Don't look at me. Don't acknowledge me. Don't perceive me. I don't exist. I know you think you're being nice, but you're making it so much fucking worse.

[sad-poets-society]

Am I brave? Am I stupid?

Am I strong? Am I delusional?

Is it worth supporting the kids if I end up dead and unable to support my children at home?

Is it worth loving the kids who don't get it at home if it results in my never going home again?

Should I be staying after contract hours to rearrange furniture in a defensive stance rather than going home and making dinner for my family?

Why the hell is my answer yes?

Why the fuck do I feel that it is reasonable to do a job I'm scared to death to show up to?

How will I get out of this loop?

How do I choose to lose my livelihood over a hypothetical- no matter how possible?

-Teacher

[sad-poets-society]

I'm not going to kill myself. Believe it or not I don't even want to die. When I take the blade to my skin it's because I want to feel alive. When I scratch and pinch and starve and pick and burn- it's not because I want to hurt myself. It's because I've dissociated so deeply that I have to shock my system back to reality. I have to have a physical reminder that I exist outside of my head. I don't do it for the blood or the weight or to numb myself - I do it to feel something, anything. I don't want to kill myself, I want to stop being dead.

[sad-poets-society]

The August heat is melting the mask I wear. It's dripping down my face, revealing the rotten corpse underneath. I try to hold it up with bandages made of my kids, my job, my meds, my friends; but they slowly disintegrate into the void. My reality is blurry. I don't know if the mask is a mask or if the corpse is a mask covering what's underneath. Is anything underneath? Is anything real? Have I ever been real?

[sad-poets-society]

I dont know when I became life and death simultaneously.

They fight over my brain. There is no cohesion or correlation. Content takes the wheel, and things are good, but without triggers and without warning, hopelessness takes over and nosedives the plane.

When I am good, I am 100% good. When I'm not, I am 100% not. There is no 50-50 split.

This is what I am. Part life, part death. All feeling, never feeling. Alive on the outside and dead on the inside with no valid reason for either.

[sad-poets-society]

Am I manic or am I happy?

Do I want to go be with people, get right with Jesus, fix my marriage, be a better wife, be a good mom, and take care of myself because the meds work?

Or am I doing what I do best and covering my ugliness with what people want from me so that I don't have to face the fact that I feel no different?

Am I manic or am I happy?

I've never been able to identify tiny happiness. The anxiety doesn't let me. Im always one step ahead of it, "I may think I'm happy but it's all about to crash"

Mania I can relate to. High highs that are followed by low lows are the diagram of my life. If you can call them highs. Maybe they're not. Maybe it's low lows and higher lows.

Maybe I'm not meant to know.

If faith and trust are the building blocks of perfect humanity, maybe I am really just fucked.

[sad-poets-society]

They say that flowers grow in the valley. That one day, I'll look down from the mountain and see a beautiful field of flowers that was watered with my blood, sweat, and tears by a gentle God. What do they expect me to say? It was worth it? The pain made me stronger? It didn't. The pain didn't make me stronger, it made me hurt. The field wasn't magically blessed. It wasn't predestined to bloom. My flowers are poisonous. My years in the valley killed the Earth. My flowers didn't bloom because He planted seeds. My flowers bloomed out of rage. They came up from nothing and blossomed out of spite. Was it worth it? Maybe, maybe not. But when I look down from my mountain that I clawed my way up bare-handed, I don't see beautiful field of God grown daises. I see a vast expanse of angry, thorny vines protecting the shell of myself I left down there. The flowers show that I died in the valley. They took root in my bones and rose up through my empty eyes. I rose from the valley with a new spirit. A new sense of identity. And I did it myself. When I look down from my mountain, I see a graveyard of innocence, a deathbed of gentleness, a cemetery for a childhood long forgotten. Was it worth it? Maybe, maybe not. Would I do it all again just for the view? Fuck no.

[sad-poets-society]

What is love?

Love is laying in bed watching a movie (while he plays on his phone)

Love is looking at him and smiling (while he asks you what the fuck you want now)

Love is leaning your head on his shoulder and putting your hand on his leg (while he pushes you off and says you're assaulting him)

Love is putting on a pretty dress and asking him how you look (while he smiles and says "do you want me to hurt your feelings")

Love is doing the grocery shopping so he doesn't have to (while he complains a out how much you forgot and jokes about it for a week)

Love is spending your off days cleaning until you can barely move (while he walks in the door and asks if you even did anything all day)

Love is your heart jumping when he walks in the door after a long day at work (while he just says hello and goes to the bedroom immediately)

Love is planning trips for the family (while he is angry and gives the silent treatment the whole day because you got carsick)

Love is saying I love you before ending every phone call (while he does it in a tone to show it's only because he feels like he has to)

Love is a kiss before bed every night (even if you have to beg or have it be one sided)

Love is joking and playing with each other (but only if he starts it. If you do then he gets mad and goes silent)

Love is waking up to "Good morning beautiful" text messages (even if it's been 5 years since you got one)

Love is being constantly on the defensive when others point out his flaws (while he doesn't even bring you up in conversation)

Love is choosing him daily (even if you lost friends, lost your spark, lost your personality, and lost yourself to do so)

Love is sacrificing everything you need so he can have everything he wants (even if he never asked you to do that)

Love is constantly being on edge so you don't make him leave you because you can't live without him.

Love is having flashbacks of the day he died in your lap everytime he makes a joke about it.

Love is compulsively doing everything as right as possible so he doesn't want anyone else or need anything else and still being told you did something wrong or you're dumb or you're crazy.

Love is hiding your dark days so he doesn't have to worry about you (while he never noticed the cuts and bruises or that you were actively suicidal lying next to him every night)

Love is making excuses for everything he does that hurts because the things he does that don't make the waiting worth it.

Love is kid who doesn't want daddy home because he will be frustrated too easily and punish too quickly. Love is a wife who bends over no matter what but hasn't had an organization that wasn't self inflicted. Love is hiding your phone, not because you're cheating but because your friends reach out and ask about the shell of a human you've become.

Love is hugs and kisses and laughter and sunshine, even if you have to beg and plead and pursue and patiently wait for it.

That's what love is, right mom?

[sad-poets-society]

Hypothetically, I enjoy my disease. Hypothetically, the shaking feels comfortable. Hypothetically, the migraines are proof I am putting in the work. Hypothetically, when the too small pants I bought buttoned, I was thankful I hadn't eaten more than 5 meals all week. Hypothetically, I am grateful that the pills that make me better allow this to persist beautifully. Hypothetically, I love that I can feed my addiction to restriction and drugs by doing things the way they are prescribed while also getting a serotonin boost. Hypothetically, the numbers going down drown out the reality that this isn't right. Hypothetically, the side effects of bruising easily make me more clumsy. Hypothetically, I don't want to get better in this area because Hypothetically, if we work on and fix the depression, the ADHD, the anxiety, the PTSD, the BPD, the SH, and the ED - how will I know that I am real anymore? Hypothetically, if I get healthy, I will have nothing left to ground me in reality and I will go back to floating through life while never getting to experience it. Hypothetically, I will take bending over a toilet, picking, scratching, restricting, and triggering myself over feeling nothing at all again. Hypothetically, I want to fix everything else but this, so I still have an excuse to beat myself up for being fucked in the head. Hypothetically. In reality, I am so good, the meds work so well, and I am so glad we are working through my issues so I can do better and be better.