#mental health poetry

[beautifullymacabre]

a tiny creek near the train tracks,

a small pond by a back-hoe stored under a wooden awning,

plants erupting from an old bathtub,

grass white and crispy with frost;

they say the town is haunted,

but maybe its only me

[petrichor-moss-and-lightning]

you think about killing yourself. you think about going to bed at a reasonable time. you do neither of these things.

instead, you resign yourself to staring at the cracks in the ceiling—tell yourself that tomorrow will fix it. that a mouth to the underside of your jaw will fix it. that ginger shots or yoga or taking three deep breaths or patching the goddamned cracks in the ceiling will fix it. you've been trying to fix it—this gasping, hollowing sensation in the gore of your chest—since you were fifteen and bitter and lurching into traffic / into lovers you couldn't love back / into any scrap of warmth that would have you.

you take three deep breaths. you watch the ceiling. you let time pass through you like a knife.

[waitingforthesunrise]

And oh, love, I think 

I want to stay, I want to stay, I want to 

hold hands and dance in the rain again. Dear Lord

I just want it not to burn so much. To stop begging forgiveness 

For crimes I’ve dreamed of committing. 

I always harbored a deep suspicion that if 

I simply tried a little harder, I could give what I wanted to give. 

Which was never what I had, but more, more, as though 

My heart was a greedy gremlin who demanded the world from my fingertips. 

My chest tightens with all the love I have to offer. 

When did love feel so much like desperation? 

I think my sadness is a lie 

Told by witches in the dead of night. I think I could find it again

That bright jewel, that elusive slip of clarity 

Behind my couch. In your eyes.

Does the search ever ease? I’ve been tying up my joy in package form

Pressing it into strangers hands. Take it, breath it, if I can sap your suffering 

I would have accomplished some mighty feat. 

I would have saved us. The way I prayed for salvation 

The way I did not recognize it when it came. 

Perhaps I have forgotten what love looks like. 

Perhaps it is time to remember. 

[pain-is-my-game]

I hate that my perception of myself is dependent on the attention of others. I want to exist without being perceived and yet I don't know who I am if I'm not being viewed through the lens of others.

[bluepenstemon]

“you’ll never find love if you can’t love yourself.”

he showed me the silver lining of the stormy clouds. he reminded me of the fresh smell when the rain hits the ground. he reminded me that every storm has a purpose. he reminded me that every storm eventually passes.

i did not love myself for a long time. i still don’t entirely, but i don’t despise the person i am. how can i hate someone he adores? he loves me so much that i believe maybe i can love me some day too.

he makes me excited for the future, when the future used to be my greatest fear. i would live forever if it meant i could live with him throughout it all.

i did not love myself before i loved him, but now i think i can start to.

[junflower123]

Wore not needing to drink caffeine like a badge of honor Taking meds was my Nobel peace prize Being unmedicated feels like the end of the peace treaty with myself

How am I supposed to barter? The only way I can win is chemical warfare

Hiding in the trenches Until I am strong enough to fight again

___

About losing access to ADHD meds

[nervous-like-a-wild-dog]

Better/Worse/Different

By Monty

Scratching at the glass

Savoring the smoke

Swallowing back my guilt

“I will be happy”

A phrase I recite

While my nails grip my skin

In the same way you used to grip me

“I am happy”

A phrase I choke out

While memories swarm around my neurons

Skin picked raw and dried

A shuddering half-assed panic attack

Followed by a peaceful yogurt bowl

Eaten while staring out into the bright sky

Summer is coming

And I am changing

[phantom-heartbeat]

My heartbeat is a phantom

Whatever brain activity is left over and still going is creating ghosts of the symptoms of a living body

There is no circulation in my blood just cold still liquid lacking iron

There is no real heartbeat just a phantom in my chest creating what feels like a pulse

There is no life in this walking corpse, just a vessel barely holding itself together in pins and needles with supplements and braces

There is no strength to my muscles

No warmth to my touch

I'm not a person like the rest

Instead before you is a zombie, a vampire, a ghost

A dead undead thing living with a lack of life

My heartbeat is a phantom

[chillwithnea]

urge surfing

“what’s the next step? what should i do” my ego asks.

my heart replies “sit with the pressure, sit with the pressure, sit with the pressure. breathe spaciousness into the chaos, become a loving space, become the calm amidst the storm. give your mind a gentle massage, let it soften, let it melt. the heaviness will lessen, the urges too. the wounds will heal, the noise will be quieter, so that i can work through you.”

[makatang-igorota]

Midnight Symphony

My muted cries sync with the mumbling of the midnight moon

Along with the melancholic whistles of trees sympathizing with my forlorn songs

The gentle breeze even sings a requiem with grace

Mourning for a heart that failed to be where she truly belongs

This whimsical symphony is what kept my deranged mind sane

On nights when darkness has wrapped me in its cold embrace

A melody that'll forever live to numb my pain

~M.K. Sueño (12/06/2022)

[ramblings-ofanon-artist]

nemesism

i have wasted all of my breaths and all of my heartbeats to become a wandering corpse. i have no blood strengthening my heart except the accumulation of ashy pencil and muddy paint inside its chambers. no matter how much i teethe myself on the art i create, i will never draw myself a life where i can live unaffected; heroic in my fate.

[waitingforthesunrise]

Praise

Praise to the people

Who feel the constant 

Urge to sabotage their world, and lives, and bodies 

And do not act. Praise to the people

Who lay in bed today

(and it was the hardest 

 thing they could do). 

Praise. And joy. To the people who 

Lock eyes with themselves over the bathroom sink 

And do not look away. Do not move their hands. Or their knives. 

Praise to the people who smile 

Praise to the people who wake up again

Praise to the people who sit, and stand, and move about

For there is a rare magic in the waking 

making of a marvelous being. 

There is such a power in a human 

Who could destroy themself, but chooses to stay. 

What magic. 

What grace. 

What beauty in the overturned 

Bed sheets, bowls, books. Eyelashes on your pillowcase 

(One more day) 

 and another and another and another 

Sunset. Star-rise. Love dies in small containers, and you, my love

are the universe.

[serephinastardust]

You, my root demon

---------

When I hear you call my name,

I shake and shrink and run away.

You trigger voices, deeply menacing,

My instincts die, no bells will ring.

Your anger is like molten fire,

Why, oh why, you don't grow tired.

It haunts my dream, and thoughts unbidden,

The trauma I just want to ridden.

From child to now I try to heal,

Not wanting the past to haunt me hear.

I turn off my thoughts, but that leaves me numb,

How and why did you do this to me.

Memories are black when they should be vibrant,

A colorful tapestry, for me to appreciate.

But instead all I see are pin holes of color,

A portal instead for the demons arrival.

I should not have this primal fear,

I don't think you realize the damage you caused.

But what hurts me the most, ironic it is,

When you are calm, I just want to be near.

I am the child, who has to fear thier father,

Because he couldn't regulate his anger.

But it wasn't because of what you would think,

Disregulating emotions was his trigger.

Things out of place, or things not done right,

People too nosy or people not bright.

But what's worse with this fear,

That it brings me to tear,

How do I function when conflict appears?

I struggle with raised voices,

I struggle with conflict,

If people's auras flair up,

My heart beat will rise.

My legs will shake, and I grow weak in knees,

The tears come unbidden, to these strangers here,

My throat will close up, because I can't let them see,

How broken my trauma has left me here.

My emotions are a burden, because of all this,

Even when I cut you from my life.

But even though cut, you still try to stay in,

With gifts that you thought I would need.

But because of my trauma, I'm cautious of your gifts,

You've gotten angry, because I tried to be free.

You've threatened to stop stuff, you volunteered

freely,

You've called me ungrateful for doing all the could,

I'm a user, abuser of all your goodwill,

Even though I can never say no.

But moving a way has help me heal,

Though I still fear you, your anger is random

I don't have to fear seeing your person,

I don't have to fear hearing your voice.

My mental health issues, are probably not your fault,

You definitely exasperated them, now I'm an adult.

I honestly don't know why I still live,

As living with you I had made 3 attempts.

But some how I'm here, and I don't feel a thing,

Which is terribly sad,

Because this isn't how I pictured my adult self,

Hiding, and unavailable to the world in my home.

Just know you never once told me "i love you",

And i still really don't know what that means.

But I vowed as a child my kids would know,

The words of I love you, from a parents mouth.

A child knows love so unconditionally,

That even if I, an adult, don't know its meaning,

At least the children I say, will instinctually know.

So I will stop part of this generational curse,

Because what you have done has been extremely cruel.

P.s

The one and only memory I have of you saying,

These three words, "I love you",

I was an adult about thirty, and it shocked me.

The whole household stopped and just stared.

After being disowned, gaslighted and more,

I didn't know how to react to that.

But all I could think was who was this man,

What had he done with his indifference.

Did he think three word at thirty,

Would make up for my childhood trauma.

But toxic is as toxic does,

And it wasn't long before he did me dirty.

And ao he lives with my void once again,

And maybe when dead, we'll try again then.

[tirzahstears]

I used to think that my house was haunted, back when I was a kid. 

I’d put rainbow sticky notes on the walls to see if a ghost would move them as I slept with my head under the covers each night. I didn’t know what a haunting was, but evil had made itself so comfortable in that house that it seeped into the walls like nicotine and fear, poisoning the air supply for generations to come. I live beside a graveyard, after all. Ghosts latch on to vulnerable people. I’m still not quite sure if they ever leave.

Sometimes a ghost will take on a human form. I am possessed by the ghost of my father’s anger, and his father’s anger, and his father’s anger as well. I think that a father is a type of ghost. Having a father is a type of haunting I will never be able to explain on a page. There are no blood curdling screams, no pools of corn-syrup-fake-blood sticking to my bathroom floor. The ghost instead lives in the hole his cellphone made in the living room wall back in 2009. The ghost lives in those green eyes I share with my sister that we’d both do anything to change. The ghost lives inside of me, and I really don’t know how to perform an exorcism on my own flesh and blood.

Apparently, there are no clinical cases of haunting, and it is instead an alphabet soup of diagnoses that make sure I will never have children of my own. The haunting is hereditary, after all. It doesn’t matter where I end up, I will pack the skeletons in my closet into a moving van and cry when I wake and the graves I placed on opposite sides of the house have already been dug up.

I don’t think that I live in a haunted house anymore.

I think that I myself might be the haunted house, with smoke pouring out of the windows and a foundation that is crumbling as we speak. I am haunted by the ghost of my mother’s sadness and her mother’s sadness and her mother’s sadness as well. A mother is a type of ghost that does not wish to be a ghost. If a ghost is meant to be invisible, my mother dedicated her life to fulfilling that prophecy— as if Weight Watchers or the expensive grocery store would reanimate her, as if enough Diet Coke could replace the formaldehyde sitting in her veins. Having a mother is a type of haunting, one that I will never escape. The ghost found me in the form of secret social media accounts and a diary full of calculations when I was twelve years old, in the form of sugar free energy drinks and a near death encounter with hypophosphatemia just a month before my eighteenth birthday. The ghost is in my body still, no matter how hard I try to kill it. It will always live in my kitchen, slamming empty cupboard doors and whispering promises into my ears. My mother will bring this ghost into every kitchen I ever try to relax in. My mother’s kitchen is haunted by her own mother, who’s mother passed this ghost on to her.

The only way to stop being haunted is to become a ghost yourself. I do not like that I may already be someone else’s haunting. In an ideal world, I am invisible— not like a ghost, but like air. I do not want to take up space for anyone. The only way I wouldn’t see blood on my hands would be if nobody were to think of me at all. I hate knowing that I am my brother’s ghost, that I haunt this house just as our parents do. Being alive is a type of haunting, I think. One can be haunted by themself. I think that maybe everyone is.

I will never understand the extent to which this house is haunted. There are ghosts that my parents will never tell me about, ghosts which still possess them in ways too dangerous to share with me. Whether I know their names or not, the ghosts hiding under creaky stairs and bleeding floorboards are family heirlooms I will inherit against my will, no matter how many attempts I make to bury them.

Maybe I do believe in haunted houses.

I’m scared that every house I live in will be haunted. Not haunted by my father, or my mother, or any of the mothers and fathers who came before them, but myself. I am the ghost at the back of my closet, and always will be. I scare myself in the mirror, I thump around in the hallways at hours that make my neighbours despise me. Haunting is what I learned to do best— after all, what better teachers than a pair of ghosts?

I used to think my house was haunted, back when I was a kid.

ghost stories , soleil louise . february 9, 2023

[junflower123]

I didn’t know what was going on back then

I just noticed a shift in you

Every once in awhile

The same soul

But, a different mindset

Up and down

Head spinning all around

Yet, everyone is expecting you to keep on moving forward

You feel as if you’re hanging from a wire, moving

Up and down

Up and down

Either wanting to die

Or doing things that could kill you

Chemical warfare

Dopamine, living the dream!

SSRIs, helping mania take flight

The plane crashing as depression takes ahold

Booze, weed

Then finally, antipsychotics!

A new battle begins

Findings the right meds

Maintaining access to the right meds

Battling the side effects of the meds

…would it be better to fight chemical warfare without chemicals?

Always fighting, no matter what!

Up and down

Thoughts spinning all around

You must be exhausted.

Up and down,

And all around!

——————

This poem is about me watching my friend deal with bipolar disorder and her trying to navigate getting help for it and trying to manage it the best she can.

[blessedheartwithwings]

this cycle of pain and persistence has swallowed me whole.

where do I start? and where do you end?

the synapses in my mind have been bent and shaped to your beautiful face, my blood screams that your right

I am a sheep, and you are a shepherd, and you have led me into nothingness