Just an FYI, everything I’ve posted here, and pretty much everything I write, I automatically post in this album on Pinterest: Behind my Mirror
The ramblings of an old woman, maybe mad, (as in crazy), maybe not, who really cares if I am?
I can have a perfectly fine day. I can laugh and appear joyful, and I can produce a poem or prose that makes me appear as if I am wallowing in chin deep depression. Most of the time, I’m okay, not depressed, or am I? It’s not like it matters if I am. I’m doing my work, I’m keeping all my clients happy, I’m up early and I’m getting shit done. I dance when nobody is watching, because I love my music, but I’m not necessarily, happy. Maybe this is just normal and middle ground, and I must learn how to be okay in this land of merely adequate.
If all you read was my poetry and prose, you’d think I was suicidal, which I am not, but that said, I’m also not that enthused at living. I’m calling it circumstantial depression, and the circumstances happen to be, life! It’s hard, it’s boring, it’s just a lot of work. I am always barely making it, and always scrambling to make enough to survive. I hate adequate and I hate simply surviving. I ache to thrive!
Yes, I can certainly look at the half-full, and I do. I work at living in the positive, but that said, half-full, or half-empty, it’s still half, and half is barely adequate. I always wish for better, or more, or just someone to share all that I’ve worked to become. Being alone is tuff for me. I used to love it, but now I’ve evolved, and I want somebody. It’s just that simple. I’ve worked on myself, and I have a ton to share, and a well of untapped love.
So, the sad poetry, the heartbreak prose, all of that is how I keep myself clear, and clean on the inside. It’s how I spend my time thinking, and unfortunately, I write better when I’m struggling and fighting depression. I’m alone 99% of my life. I rarely interact with anyone apart from my animals. All I have is myself, and my thoughts, and I tend to think about poetry and prose as I go about doing all these mundane, menial tasks that fill my life.
In the middle of the day, I will run to my computer, and spend half an hour, and I can crank out a fairly decent poem. It’s often sorrowful and comes across as depressed. I can read my loneliness in my words too, but in a strange way, the words keep me company. What happens is, I tap into a pocket of sad, and I write it down. After that, it’s gone from inside me and I am not wallowing.
I had a friend tell me I was in a vacuum because I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I don’t think I am. Not with how much I regurgitate from my soul. Not with how much I post my poems and show my ugly. Not with the self-reflection of reading it back, over and over.
But that said, aren’t we all in a bit of a vacuum inside our own minds? How many of you pour it out, for all to see? The good, the bad, and yes, sometimes the very ugly. Is it better to get a million different opinions and responses and let the views of others, and therapists, alter your course? I don’t think that’s good either. I’ve navigated through all of my bullshit life, all by myself. Yes, I’ve had some help from a couple close friends, but not many, and never with someone who loved me as their one and only. I don’t have a one and only, I only have myself, and I’ve learned how to make myself okay.
I often wonder when I’ll stop writing about, him, and yes, I had a message from someone that said I wouldn’t get him back with all the depressing and angry poetry. I’ll just say it here, I don’t want him back, at least not as he is right now. It was me who sent him packing because I couldn’t allow him to treat me the way he was, and I’ve held fast. Either he changes and tries to be a better man, or he doesn’t get me, and I feel what I have to offer is incentive enough. I’m that rare, once in a lifetime female, and he was given a great opportunity when I fell for him, but he passed on the personal growth needed, so he passed on me.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not heartbroken and it doesn’t mean I don’t still miss him constantly! It also doesn’t mean that I don’t need and outlet for all this hurt, so I continue writing about my heartache and the greatest loss of my life. He was my first true love. I’ve never loved the way I loved him, and even though he didn’t feel the same, it doesn’t diminish what I felt and still struggle with on a daily basis. It’s been months, and so far, the words continue to bubble. It helps me remember him. It helps me continue loving him. It keeps him alive in my heart, because after all, he was the greatest love of my life. I must use these emotions for my art, or else I feel they are a waste.
I’d kill for him to feel half for me, what I do for him. I wish someone loved me, like I do him. I wish someone couldn’t get over me, like I can’t him. I wrote an entire book about him and us, just so I could keep him alive inside my heart. My poetry is always about him. I guess it doesn’t matter he cares nothing for me. I always thought I couldn’t love someone who didn’t love me, but I was wrong on that count, because I still fucking adore that asshole. I can only sigh.
I know most of you don’t understand why I still love him. I really should hate him for what he’s put me through, but I also know, he’s just being himself, and narcissistic personality disorder or not, mental illness or not, he can’t help himself. All I can do is protect myself and take care of myself, hence why I am not with him. But I still love him, and feeling that kind of love for someone else is a wonderful thing. Yes, I’d probably get through my heartache faster if I hated him, but hate is cancerous, and I can’t allow it.
What I allow, will continue. That is the only power I have over what happens in my life. My power lies in how I respond, and what I allow to continue. It’s basic, but it’s difficult for most to grasp.
Love heals everything and all wounds! That much I know, and if my love doesn’t heal him, so what? It’s healing me, and making me a better person. So yeah, I keep writing about him, because I still love him, and instead of burying all this crappy heartache, I’m experiencing it as it hits me. Sometimes in waves of anguish, sometimes in anger, and most of the time, in love.
Am I insane? Crazy? Delusional? I don’t expect him to read what I write. I know he doesn’t, and he doesn’t care about me at all. I’m not in delusion about that shit. I don’t write it for him, I write it for me. I’m not writing to try and change him, or anybody. I know I can’t change another soul, I can only change myself. If he’d wanted me enough and loved me enough, I believe he would have sought the change within himself so he could have kept me in his life. It wasn’t like I didn’t spell it out clear as day; how he was hurting me, what I needed, and that I loved him so much I was willing to change everything about my life. He obviously didn’t want me enough to look at himself.
I’ve always written for myself, and for the most part, nobody reads me. My audience is minuscule. It’s my therapy. It’s my friend. It’s how I love and stay upright. It’s how I stay alive and yes, my words reveal the inner me, but I’m not suicidal, I’m just aware that my life is merely adequate, and I tend to beat against the adequate. I want more, I want the whole package, I want it all.
Isn’t that okay though? Aren’t poets and writers supposed be a bit off? Aren’t those of us who put it into words, supposed to question the norm and the program, and all the fucking bullshit when everyone else says, “This is the way it is, live with it, deal with it.”
I say this isn’t enough. This life isn’t enough. Being alone isn’t half enough.
Hopefully, this is what makes us poets and writers interesting enough to read.
*There is an entire album of my poetry on Pinterest. if you start at the bottom, and scroll up, you can see my evolution and where I’m struggling and failing, or hopefully making headway. BEHIND MY MIRROR