I long for weightlessness, for a reprieve from sadness and rage. I long to be a better, nicer, more patient person. I long for the quiet. I long to be kind in my heart and not just in my words. I long to be someone who isn’t me, who isn’t covered in the debris of fuck-ups, who isn’t fat and overflowing with ugliness. I long for the courage to end it all. I won’t.
Depression has such a heavy step. It wears steel toed boots and moves with a vengeance. When it takes hold, everything turns to ash in my mouth, to quicksand under my feet. I want to break things. I tear poems to shreds.
I feel so much rage toward myself. Perhaps it is really me I want to destroy, to break into tiny pieces that no one will ever be able to find. I am consumed by a loathing of my flesh and my eyes. I want to tear out my heart and stop it from hurting. I want to run as far away from myself as I can, to escape into a place where there is no mind, no breath or tears. I want to sleep for a hundred years and wake up in a new skin.
I only had 1 pair of glasses; I broke them apart, with all the rage I have toward myself bleeding into my hands. These are the kinds of things that make me feel truly crazy, the things I feel the most shame about, the things I feel no one in my life could possibly understand. Why would I destroy the only thing that enables me to go out at night, to watch tv, to go to the shops or to a restaurant? Maybe I don’t want to go to any of those places anymore. Maybe I am digging my own hole, trying to climb inside to eradicate noise and sight. Who does that? A crazy woman? A sad woman? A stupid woman? I am all of those.
I can’t afford new glasses. I wouldn’t get them even if I could. I won’t spend money on anything as long as I am so fat, taking up so much space. If I get new glasses, I will have to engage, to step out into the world. I don’t want anyone to see me this way, so fat, so ugly, so mean. The weight is unbearable. The weight of my body and of my mind. I eat as if I am starving. I eat as if it will fill an emptiness that can never be filled. How can someone feel empty and so heavy at once? Why do I have such hatred for myself? Where did I learn it? Or is it that I see the truth of me and I know it deserves my loathing, my disdain, my abuse? I am a fiction, a fraud who hides beneath a shroud of words. I am a failure who harms everything she touches.
I was never supposed to be born. No one was happy when I came along. I was conceived to fix something that was broken, but I failed. I was born to fail. It is in my bones, in my DNA, just like blindness, just like the body I have been forced to live in, to despise, to punish.
I am afraid of these feelings I have, afraid to release them, but maybe if I do, my words will help someone feel less alone, realize that there are so many people who feel so many crazy feelings. I am not looking for sympathy. I just want to be as truthful as I can in this moment, this moment that exists in the pit of my mind, the place with the most sadness, the place that is bleakest. In this moment, I am raw. You may want to look away and that is ok. But, if you have been here, in the pit of your own mind, in the bleakest corner of your own story, you are not alone.