Silver Journey

Perhaps these days I'm writing a bit more for myself. And not for the thrill of it. As the days meld into on another, I tend to glamorize my experience. If someone were to ask me, "how have you been?", my inclination is to respond with "good" or some such phrasing, but looking back over the documentation of each day, each moment, I see that it is not so accurate to say I am "good." Certainly there are moments of goodness, for which I feel much gratitude, but to exclude the times that are less-than-good is to proclaim an inaccurate picture of my existence. My last entry read like this:

"Feel tired and nervous about the cramping in my legs. Throat hurts a bit. Intro to Social Work class has been mostly good. Thoughts of going off medication all together. Wish for more time, more energy. Glad tomorrow is payday. Wish I lived in a country with better social programs. Feeling guilty about not being involved with my Mom and her care. Wish I could feel more or something. Not sure where I am or what I feel. I think I'm tired more than anything. I guess this is life. Shower and bed."

I can find the goodness in most anything. I always try my best to see or create the silver lining, but still I can't help but feel the loss of the sunshine in my heart and hints of optimism that things will be better. Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe this is just how it is, an idea in which I find both comfort and terror. This is where I stand in this moment.
Peace to you. May your journey be only yours.

In the Grass

This heart of mine, it aches.
Depression or repression of the spirit, the definition of melancholy read. 
I focus on the gratitude that I feel for the many things in life. The stuff I know.
The sky so blue. The grass against my back. For accordion players and laughter.
Be grateful.
Be grateful.
Be grateful.
And I despise myself more than I realize. The active voice of hatred I used to have is gone,
but in it's place remains an underlying sabotage of goals and the havens I seek.
The battle is a battle day in and out and moment by moment.
And then comes the gratitude in the mere moments that seem like they must be happiness.
This isn't the place I consciously choose to be, but here I am.
Journeys of healing never seem to be swift and I suppose that holds the purpose.
Because the gratitude I feel is real. So real, that I use it to remember I once knew joy.
Droves of joy.
Have known it. Will know it again, I reassure myself. Maybe yes or no.
But for now, I remain side-by-side with sorrow.
It is now, but I aim not forever.
For whatever can be forever...?
Neither smiles, nor frowns.
Developing the mechanisms to handle the ups as well as the downs.
This moment: the only one I have.
I breathe the air and remember....I am breathing.

The Tunnel

Each time I want to believe it has come to a stop.
That the sadness I've felt is a mere phase. But it never is. Rather, it seems to be a familiar presence. Not completely unwelcome, but old and tiring. I look at people time and again who express happiness or seem contented and I am as much in awe as I am confused. Are they really? How do they do it? What is it about their lives? Maybe I deserve this because I don't make the time to meditate or exercise. Because pulling myself out of bed and feeding myself is the biggest victory of my day. I dread coming to work, not because it's work, I don't think, but because I feel imprisoned. Imprisoned by myself, my brain, my very being. I don't cope well and I'm grateful for most of the effects of the medication, but sometimes it makes me wonder if I can even feel anymore. When I cry, it seems to almost come out of nowhere and sometimes I only feel the urge, but cannot. Not that crying without cognitive reason is much of a new sensation. I suppose I just don't know how to gauge progress. What is progress for me? How far have I come?
Where am I in my brain? I feel lost. I feel like I want to sleep for forever and I'm not even sad about missing out.
I retreated into the bathroom a moment ago, but couldn't get the tears to fall, even though moments before I had to hold them back from behind my computer. Who am I?
Maybe I just need sleep and need to fix this recent diagnosis of sleep apnea. What if treating that fixes nothing and I'm just as dazed as before? What if I can't find the focus I need to be a better employee? What if I never stop asking "what ifs"? Is this my life?
"For now," said a much smarter voice in my head.
I wonder if I have an internal Buddhist in there somewhere.
Also, I can't believe it has been yearly a year since I wrote regularly. I think I spent much of that year convinced I was happy and only wrote as much in the past due to absence of happiness. That only true creativity comes from sadness. That's not how I want it to be. I believe writing helps to cleanse the toxins that seem to run rampant in my system and I don't even realize until they've taken over and I can't see out of the tunnel. This fucking dark tunnel.

To know.

Days like this I wonder how I even function at all. How do I do things ever.

My heart aches. I feel trapped in my cube.

I couldn't barely wake up and get out of bed.

I saw my counselor. 

I'm trying to be productive, but each moment feels like a struggle.

Why is my brain the way it is? Am I not doing enough to fix me?

Has there been progress? I don't know. I hope and hope, but don't know.

How are you with me? 

Will I always feel discontented and restless? What kind of life is that?

Not one I'd wish on anyone. 

Am I the only one who feels like I'm stuck in one place, even though my brain is screaming to run?

I don't know.

I don't know why there is you.

Sometimes I fear you don't believe me when I describe how fucked up I think I am on any given day.

Until that moment when you realize I've been speaking the truth the whole time.

My heart aches.

I want to feel contented, but sometimes it seems the more I grasp for it, the further away it is.

You make it seem so easy and I envy that about you.

I look at those that seem happy to try to replicate their efforts.

Try to go a day without wanting to cry or feel self-pity.

Why is this life, this life?