The Blues. It didn’t occur to me how absurd an analogy to depression this is until I found myself annoyed to see it in the myriad articles on depression. Like a poorly made sweater, it doesn’t quite stretch over my head, and I can only fit one forearm into a sleeve because it just doesn’t fit. And I’m not sure I want it to.
Because depression isn’t blue. Because blue is too lovely and too vibrant and too calming a color for a condition so void of all those things, so void of everything. And honestly, those days when I wrapped myself around the pillow and hoped to sleep through the weekend, I’d have killed to feel Blue. The countless hours of burying myself under mounds of shame and anxiety, I’d gladly pass on to have the Blues. To feel Blue would have meant to be at peace. Or something good like that.
being his safety net was somehow reassuring, the knowledge that he would be back to fall into me, a comfort. even though it was always temporary. loneliness does that. the yearning heart will accept the unacceptable when it means a moment without pain. a moment of forgetting he was not mine.
I am his hammock no more. can’t be. will not be. he may have chosen to settle, but that doesn’t mean I will. he must learn to live with his choices, as I have been forced to live with them, without any net to catch my falls. my love was not meant to be his getaway in the shade. while he was always my exception, I remained his excuse. but the gray was never my hue, so I have cut the net. for good.
Cowards run, forever in fear of death, of change, of pain, of any challenge that elicits questions about their purpose. The valiant, however, recognize that in order to truly live, they must die and be reborn.
My eyes crawl open, and I realize I’ve been here before. Lying on my left side, the matte of my congealed blood pooled on the stone, I remember my last visit. I’d dangled from a fraying thread, facing the inevitable, final crash once the string’s last grip gave way. Continue reading “Call it Courage”
mind games are possible because the mind is the greatest weapon in our possession. like any handgun, self-inflicted casualties are likely when this weapon is handled without care.
with a bit of circumstantial evidence, gut feelings, suspicion, and a piece or two of hard evidence, the mind can spin a narrative so convincing, we believe it as if we witnessed it. to doubt its validity makes us question our judgment, and challenge the reason we dismissed in the process of crafting the narrative. and as if it held a gun to our temples, we refuse to disregard that story our speculative sleuthing has written, because our minds have convinced us it is true. or else.
things are only as important as we think they are. we assign value and meaning to everything around us, and treat those objects and ideas according to their worth. but the danger is a fearful mind; no weapon so powerful should be handled by something so irrational.
“Forgiveness is giving up hope of a better past.”
we’ve all done it. whatever it was–be it the deep set eyes, a hand flung in the midst of an explanation, the slew footed gait, the alarming laugh that erupted mid-joke–something about the person we met triggered an association with someone we once knew.
the trouble begins with our inability to distinguish between the person we used to know and the individual who is currently in our lives. we inadvertently and subconsciously associate their laughter with the nails on chalkboard sound that our friend/lover/colleague from once upon a time used to make our hairs stand like quills. these minor irritations give way to greater offenses, until even the most silent exhale from the person quickens the rage we now harbor toward our unsuspecting friend.
i taught a girl a few years ago, who deliberately set out to be as disrespectful to me as she could for the fifty-five minutes we were together every day. she said offhandedly to another student how I was just like her mom. knowing the history between her and her mom, the pieces that wouldn’t connect finally clicked. as long as she could not separate me from her mom, she would remain hateful and defiant. our relationship would be fractured until she was able to acknowledge that i was a different person from her the one she saw me as.
when we allow the inevitable “you remind me of…” to dictate how we treat a person, we are making the mistake of believing our perception is reality. we perpetuate the damage of our past by hurling the emotions we are unable to process at someone whose only crime was laughing the same way. we rob ourselves of the chance to build a better relationship with someone else, while life goes on for the ones who have wronged us. who do you see when you look at me?