Someone I love dearly beyond words or measure asked if my depression being unmedicated was creating havoc on me. And I think it is. I know it is. I’m an uninsured American with multiple problems that all intersection with a dose of depression. Sometimes I write, to let it out. To let the inky, dark, crawling emptiness face some blinding light.
I can’t and don’t trust myself in many ways. I trust myself professionally without hesitation. I trust my writing, my abilities to create and craft research. I trust my own instincts, but I can’t always trust my own goodness. I can’t see the part of me helping illuminate my good points, not just bad.
I do things for people because it’s right, it’s being part of humanity and a community. But I can’t take that into account in a ticking ‘good’ column since being decent isn’t really award-worthy in my mind.
Oh, I’m my harshest critic–make no doubt. Nothing you can say will match my own hard truths I deliver all the time. If you’ve ever graded my work, or proofread anything, you have no idea how truly cold I can be. Bloodless bath of misery. Part of my tendencies to strive for perfection.
But sometimes it feels like so much more…
No More Light
Whole is a vision you just won’t see,
hole is a minefield inside my soul.
Staring and looking back, irreverent mocking.
dizzy and exhilarating, broken muses.
The black is there, standing to the side,
watching, observing, smirking.
Sliding and moving, fingers gripped tight
along my wrist. Pulling and bringing close.
Unable to escape the innermost.
Voices carry, call the wounded back,
But oh the seductive black slithers around my neck.
taunt and jerking, I sigh in relief.
Hole is a minefield inside my soul.
Of special note, this isn’t about suicidal hanging. It’s more more insidious. It’s about the stirring, the passive descent into feeling and staying lost within myself. The person I love the most, the person I trust the most, asked me to trust him. I do. Beyond all things and words and feelings.
But I can’t trust me–the ability to not be a perfectionist, to not hold onto to too high goals and not enough chances to get there. To trust that it’s okay to fuck up on occasion and simply give an “I’m sorry” instead of holding myself to unrealistic abilities and standards.
My deeply rooted body holds me down, keeps me floating just shy of letting go and seeing everything the world has to offer.
Depression sorts and moves my parts around–the little bits inside me. And turns me in dizzying circles of mental gymnastics and lies. The hard part is always finding a way out when you don’t have money to pay the rent. Much less get the necessary meds, like insulin. Mental health care becomes a luxury.