Two nights in a row, I went out with friends, despite that looming negative voice telling me that nobody liked me, that I should hide, that I am worthless.
Two nights in a row I threw a huge middle finger up to that voice and dressed up, did my makeup, and attempted to have a good time.
Two nights in a row, I felt a wave of hopelessness and emptiness that I couldn’t quite shake, that made me want to hide, that convinced me people would be better off without me.
Two nights in a row I was given a helping hand from a friend, who listened and stayed with me until the feelings passed.
Two nights in a row I overcame the hopeless thoughts and fractured self-image and ended up having a good time anyway.
After two nights in a row, I saw a pattern emerge.
I had always known that I had sudden, intense mood changes – but I also knew that these passed relatively quickly. In the past I would just leave, letting the changed mood ruin my night.
Now I see that I can overcome these difficult moments, especially with the help of friends and family.
Now I see that I can weather the storm.
Tunnelled through my brain
Scratched away at my skull
Hollowed out my insides
Sucked me dry of energy
Burrowed through my marrow
Pierced through my skin.
Now ugly outside as I felt inside,
I ran for shelter.
In the security of open arms and broken silence,
I finally closed my eyes.
Restless, turbulent, but nevertheless, sleep.
In the morning, to my horror, I saw the people around me
I closed my eyes.
This was written after a very vivid dream I had of this happening. I used to be afraid of seeking help because I believed I would hurt the people around me.
Back when we kept pictures in photo albums,
We stored memories behind plastic covers or glass panes.
In fear of misplacing or wrecking them,
We kept them tucked away somewhere safe.
Over time, corners would fold
Edges would crumple or become stained by spilled tea,
But these memories were protected, more or less.
They remained far away. Separate from us.
They remained where they should be – in the past.
Now, in the age of newsfeeds and numbers
They never leave us;
Easily accessible reminders of what we’ve lost.
Photos are crumpled by obsession
Memories are stained by emotion.