January 20, 2017

I spent my day today surrounded
everyone around me ebbing and flowing
and me, a jetty, stoic and unmoved.

That’s how it is for me, PTSD
pushes me from one extreme to the other
so emotional I cannot be touched then
so far removed nothing can touch me.

Today I let the salt run down me
and I stood in the midst of it
eyes dry and heart still
trying to find a way to reach
out from the haze surrounding me
to touch each and every one of you.

All I want to do is enfold you
take each trembling drop of you
and press you into stillness in
each of my cracks and crevices
build a home within where you can
rest your weary bones.

You have been breaking for so long
I don’t remember a time when I
didn’t hear you, didn’t register
your cries in the night, cold fingers
of your hands grasping at me only to
slide back into the sea and recommence
your crashing melody.

Today I spent my day surrounded
wanting to reach out, to do more
but unable to shake myself from my
foundation.

All I can do at times like these is
stand. And hope my stillness gives you
something you can safely break against.

Advertisements

New Blog Entry: Depression Edition

The past two months have been super rough on me. It took me until about two weeks ago to admit to myself and, eventually, my circle of humans, that I have been depressed.

Depression is a weird animal. It creeps up on you like a fog. The world gets hazier and hazier until you realize you can’t see the landscape around you anymore. Everything happens through a thick mask of atmosphere and it’s hard to tell whether you’re coming or going.

When I started being unable to do basic things like laundry and couldn’t articulate my needs at all when anyone asked me about anything, that’s when I knew I was deep in the depression fog. Well, that and when I found myself crying in the bathroom when I was brushing my teeth. And all the napping. Let’s face it, there were lots of signs. But still, the realization was slow.

Crawling out has been hard. It’s still hard. The monologue going on inside my head is gross and abusive when I’m depressed. Think Hyperbole and a Half. Every time I have to do something, I wind up not doing it because I don’t have the energy. But every time I don’t do something, my inner voice gets more and more aggressively negative and hateful.

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2011/10/adventures-in-depression.html
Accurate.

Going to therapy helps. My therapist has made this bout of depression my quickest turn around that I can remember. I’m so grateful that I’m in a place in my life where I have insurance and can afford to take the time for myself to treat my mental health with the care that it deserves.

I’m still not 100% there. I feel run down and not super excited about what’s going on. But the hateful voice in my head is a lot quieter. And I have enough energy to contemplate getting back to doing crafty things that make me happy, which will go a long way to helping me feel myself again.

As it is, opening up this blog again is a good sign and makes me feel good about where things are going. You will hear more from me in the coming weeks and months, now that the fog is lifting.

 

Seasonal Exhaustion

The holiday is pretty much directly upon me. This weekend I have Christmas with my family. We are going up tomorrow night.

But I don’t feel super merry. In the words of Bilbo Baggins: “I feel thin. Like butter spread over too much bread.”

It has been a long and tumultuous year. The world has continued to terrify me with its ability to be random and cruel while simultaneously delighting me with the warmth and full hearts and adorable cat photos that I have found within it.

Normally at this point in the season I am wearing a festive hat and bouncing around the house to Christmas music like there’s no tomorrow. But I’m not doing either of those things. And what’s weird is that I don’t really care to.

I think the weight of everything that has happened this year has just hit me all at once. The deaths of black women, the burning of black churches, the police brutality, the trans lives that have been lost, rape culture, the everyday harassment that comes along with being femme on the internet or on a street or wherever. Shit, some asshole even killed a lion.

I’ve talked before about the exhaustion that comes from dealing with social justice stuff all the time. The compassion fatigue that we all can feel merely from having access to the internet on a daily basis.

It wears. It takes a toll.

I’m not in a place right this second where I can talk about how to cope with that toll. I’m in it. I’m just looking forward to going home tonight, slapping on some Christmas music and faking it as if I’m going to be making it while I mix up some holiday cookies.

We cope. That’s all we can do sometimes. And I’m just learning now that it’s OK to just cope. To breathe into whatever we’re going through and to be not 100% for a while.

That’s actually a pretty good Christmas gift for me to give myself, now that I think about it.

 

A fifth of November I won’t soon forget.

Today is the day I finish  my tattoo. I didn’t choose the date on purpose, I swear.

I planned my back piece for ten years. I thought about it. Obsessed over it. Poured over it’s meaning and symbolism. The dogwood tree for my mother. For the guidance she provided in teaching me about the natural world. It also stood for my Catholic upbringing. For the tree on which Christ was crucified. For consequences. For the way in which our actions can cause ripples in the lives of our inheritors. The dogwood is the first tree in this region to burst forth in springtime celebration. It’s life is brief. It is small and delicate. But it endures harsh winters. The tree on my back is a permanent reminder that spring is coming. And that fragile-seeming things can endure great hardship.

I have always maintained that tattoos are a way of finishing a body. Of putting the final flourishes on when you are incomplete. They mark the way through your life. They are also a way of taking the body back, be it from some type of trauma, from illness, even from ourselves.

I have not always loved my body. It is probably fairer to say that I do not always love my body. It is not my friend the majority of the time. It fights me. It is tired when I want to work. It does not fit into the clothes I want to wear. But it is so vital, so important. Marking it, finishing it, serves not only as an artistic act but as an act of claiming this thing I ride around in. This is my body. Tattoos seal my body to myself. They make me present inside my skin.

Anyone who has gotten a tattoo can attest to the fact that they can also be transformative. When I started it three years and two months ago, I was on the verge of ending a terrible relationship with an emotionally abusive sociopath. I walked in feeling sad and defeated. Something in the motion of the needle and the act of drawing on and making permanent this idea that had been dwelling in my brain for a decade… activated me.

I walked out of the tattoo parlor 8 hours after I walked in with a spring in my step that I had not had in years. The next day I packed up my most vital stuff in big ass trash bags, grabbed my cat, and moved out to my parents’ house.

My tattoo changed my life. It helped me to lay claim to my body. It has helped me to sort through my past. It has moved me forward in ways I find difficult to express.

It’s been over three years. Today it will mostly likely be finished. I cannot wait to be finished.