Tag: Mental Illness

how tiring it must be
to be a Black Widow
to be a woman trained in the art of becoming
to be a chameleon with human skin
to be hyper aware of everything around you
to be incapable of being anything but what they expect from you
there is a hollow victory in never being compromised
in fooling even those closest to you
in pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes
in remaining an enigma
forever undefined

when they found Captain America in the ice and thawed him out
they left Steve Rogers lost in a new world
full of same-but-differents
everywhere he looked
people still fell in love but
they had less pressure to limit themselves
to the right kind of partner
and marriage was no longer a requirement
or expectation
people still fought wars
though this new war on terror
has a hazy enemy we might never defeat
the way we once defeated Hitler and his Nazis
people still have pride for their country
but it’s as artificial as
the synthetics used to make clothing these days
patriotism doesn’t sound the same anymore
it’s easy to get lost
coming back but not coming home
when I moved back to America after a few years stationed in Europe
the world was a confusing funhouse mirror
nothing looked right anymore
people judged more and discussed less
they parroted the right words
to show their love for this country but
never acted like Americans
people forgot why we’re called
the United States of America
and fell prey to the hammer and chisel of division

it didn’t go away
that shadow in the background of everything I do
I can stand in the noonday sun
and bask in the good life
but it’s still there
tickling the edge of my thoughts
a shiver up the spine
a reminder of the constant struggle
the need to choose to smile
in the face of my ever returning depression
because let’s face it
good or bad
this too shall pass

while others play the part
of wild hurricane and torrential downpour
I become only drizzle
they tear apart the world around them
remaking it in their wake
and I just
get things a little wet
my presence passing without fanfare
this would be a depressing truth
if I cared

failure tastes like bad wine
like burnt popcorn
like the worst case of morning breath you’ve ever had
failure tastes like his skin
like sweat and sin and silence
whatever silence tastes like
failure sticks to the tongue
after toothbrush and breath mint and gum
because failure is unavoidable
and reliably persistent

Bruce Banner is my favorite hero
I connect to him
the way one fighter connects to another
my own Hulk a vivid personification
of my darkest depression and self-loathing
like the good doctor
I’ve learned how to bury it down
how to take the rising storm and calm it
before it can begin
I avoid having an incident
because too many people can be hurt
if I let go and sink into myself
I have to stay in control at all times
and it’s so exhausting
so I understand
why Banner tried to swallow a bullet
and why the Hulk refused
spitting it out like bad candy
my depression did the same in reverse
tried to get me to fall down and not get back up
but I refused
dragged myself up from the ground
and found a way to keep moving
I may not have radioactive poison in my veins
just blood and too much sweet tea
but I know how it feels
to burn from the inside out over a mistake
you can never undo
yet Bruce found a reason to move forward
helping others any way he can
even if it means embracing the Other Guy
that’s why he’s my hero
the gentle reminder
that life goes on after even the worst disaster
and the right kind of friends won’t mind if sometimes
your inner violence comes out to play

so much of the world around me is
incomplete
by my own lazy hand
piles of books waiting for a home on a shelf
a basket of laundry washed
but never folded
half a dozen unfinished poems piled like
evidence of an almost effort to do something creative
I find comfort
in the half done chaos that is
my chosen environment
most days
I’m lucky to feel like I did anything measurable
aside from breathing and
taking up my designated space
but this is how I experience home
as the safe place to tuck my incomplete heart
until I can handle the art of putting it back together
home is the one place
I’m allowed to be the unfinished puzzle
allowed embrace the mess of random pieces I am
without explanation
or apology

I won’t lie to you
sometimes
I am as empty as the Texas summer sky
and this is just a false smile
a beautiful shade of brilliant blue
the cloudless stretch becomes a metaphor
for the numbness
the mask of contentment that hides a drought
my waterless eyes
no less in danger of crying
just less obvious than heavy raindrops
trickling down my cheeks
instead
cracked earth smiles show the desperate need
for something other than all this
blue sky

they say that a person who’s contemplating suicide
will often start giving away things they once held dear
a favorite hat
a beloved stuffed moose
a ring from their great grandmother
if you notice the slow seeping of a life’s treasures
through spread fingers
you’re supposed to speak up

so
where were the questions when
I handed out my library book by book
after years of cultivation?
who thought it strange when
I gave away altar pieces like old garage sale junk?
my shirts and blouses
flowy bits of my femininity
were shucked into a bin along with my long hair
chunks of myself tossed out like old garbage
and no one said a thing
if I’d planned a permanent vacation in Hades
the silence was my first class ticket

^{NOTE: First, know this isn’t a guilt trip poem to anyone who was around when I was depressed enough to make suicidal behavior a concern. This poem is just an outlet, not an accusation.}

^{Secondly, if you’re feeling suicidal and happen across this poem, please ask for help outright. Stranger or friend, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t let silence be the reason you kill yourself, okay?}