Depression|Part 3

Drawbacks.

What makes it really interesting about depression that some fake it? What makes it important that people love to say, “I am depressed, it sucks!” In actuality, what is depression?

Depression is a master in disguising.  

It’s been so long since I wanted to write again on this topic to just make myself feel that I need to take it out of my chest. The more I try to make clear sentences, it jumbles a bit and makes it feel too forced out. But to talk about depression in my experience makes it too personal also.

So, erasing and writing again for the umpteenth time, I have decided to let my mind do the talking and edit when I am done.

You see, a person going through depression doesn’t like to address her issue like depression. Or to talk about her issues to someone and say, ‘you see, I am depressed’.

But, this person can get easily irritated when somehow she finds the confidence to talk about her mind, the listener interjects with her own sad stories or one or two sad incidents from her life and casually end it with, “I am depressed.”

Like a switch being off, her mind clicks and goes to a blank phase.

Whatever that is being said by the other person is not recorded into her mind, and the talker finds this non-responsive stare or emotionless hums annoying. The end will be mostly, an accusation thrown at her. Here her being the victim! The accusation gets registered properly and like a favourite song being replayed in a loop, the sentence or word gets played in a loop; which makes her even more miserable.

Sometimes life is not a fair game.

And now, if she speaks her mind, it will come out as harsh, cold, abrasive or heartless.

She might have only have said what is going through her mind, which she thought was the right thing to say. But, suddenly her words came out wrong or was met with wrong ears. The ability to speak and be bold about it is ripped out from her.

Afterwards, every time she opens her mouth, it will be careful, calculated or robotic. She could feel the hypocrisy in her words but wouldn’t dare to change it in fear of more accusation thrown at her, which to her is a kind of embarrassing situation that will haunt her for a lifetime.

Or if her heart was set to be, ‘I will be who I am, what I am, and I don’t care what others are going to say’; the next person she meets will make her believe that what others are going to say is the only important thing that we have to face.

A depressed person is the most misunderstood people in the word.

A person going through depression or similar conditions, will find communicating or trying to speak their thoughts difficult. Not because they don’t know how to talk, write or pronounce words; but because their mind is a jigsaw puzzle with million pieces scattered across her entire universe making it a herculean task to explain even the simplest of things.

 Or if she had the courage to speak. And she did. The accomplished smile shines on her face, making her feel proud of herself; but the listener might have heard it in a negative way and argued to differ. Or it was simply met with disregarding ears. Or was exclaimed as atrocious. Or was laughed at. Which further rips her confidence into ashes.

Not always, a depressed person is misunderstood. But once when someone comes and say, ‘I can understand,’ her fear escalates and pushes the opportunity to be free, far away from her. And the person being pushed away remains pushed away. Not everyone has the time or commitment to make a change.

Well, not everyone is meant to be in our life.

Some, come and go while some, come and find a way to stick by our side.

And I wish that everyone get a chance in this universe to be happy. And everyone who is secretly fighting depression finds a reason in their life that will make them forget what depression is. Yeah, yeah, I get it… unconventional talking… but I am a person who believes in ‘nothing is impossible’.

So yea lets cross fingers and hope for miracles.

Rant will continue…

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Sorry if this is really boring. I really wanted to get some of it out from me. If you read it, please do comment and tell me what your expieriences are.

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Blemished (NaPoMo 5)

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~~

my limbs fold in
itself,
merging together
to form a self-carved
stone;
atop pebbles
thrown at me,
as I tried to crawl
through abyss of
echoing conflicts.

time swayed
relentlessly
forming monochrome
in a heartbeat;
yet,
I remained as a stigma
amidst stipples.

~~

Spurious (NaPoMo 2)

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smoldering solitude
between the distance
of my winged eyes,
creates hazardous aura-
as I paint
charcoal stains
down my chin
to this cheap sequenced dress.

the tequila swab
did nothing to stop
the birds
from rupturing my ribcages.

I end up
open palmed
in the solitude of
a distorted imagery.

I am a freaking mess.

Image result for crying to her hands

I see many motivational speeches and uplifting words. I read many quotes and people’s experiences. I hear a lot of people talking positivity and pushing forth people to quit being negative. Heck, I myself sometimes falsify people into believing that the world is all bright and golden if only we open our eyes and look.

I am a mess and I keep messing it all up. One minute, I am fine, I am good, I breathe normally and engage in activities, feel ok. The next minute, I am a mess, feel bulky, heavy, feel all the fat around me weight me down. Guilt, for that last meal which was dinner but nonetheless the guilt for eating it. Hating myself and blaming others for not being able to stick to my plan or at least do as I wanted to do. Questioning myself why… so many why’s that I am freaking tired of it.

The sadness. Intense sadness of being alone in a world full of people. Intense loneliness when I am all but surrounded by millions of people. Not understanding why I am being left out of the crowd when I have nothing wrong done. Hating and despising the way I should count my words before I say that. Hating and hating myself for strutting and not being able to say what I want to like I want to. Hating and hating so much for not being able to be productive and do something in order to achieve something in my life.

I have always been locked down. Either by rejection, discouragement, mockery or by some other means. I have never been bullied because I reacted violently back and thus I am a person who is feared by everyone. Because of my size, my actions sometimes feel like a jackhammer to them and their simple words like, “Come on, just because you don’t realize it, it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. I am scared when you come close to me.” Not intentionally anyway, but it happens. They say this with a laugh or smile and I smile back. However, they don’t realize I am hurting inside because like I said, I can’t freaking control my actions and it hurt. Deeply.

Sometimes, I am this overly happy bubbly mess which gets appreciated and clapped hands while sometimes I am this virus; being ignored by all. All in all, I am not someone who people like to hang out much with. They don’t like taking selfie’s with me, they don’t really engage their time with me. And I wonder and wonder and freaking wonder why and what was that I did wrong.

I so strongly decide to ignore all and be just myself. But the gaze, the inside smile, direct laugh to my face and direct insult or indirect mockery; kills me. Plainly and adamantly. Kills me.

What do they know about the demons I fight daily? The depression that they don’t know. The sadness and loneliness that they don’t realize. The pain I have to go through just because I am fat, and… why? I don’t know.

I just want to be normal and be happy and talk and laugh like normal people does. But sometimes I am pulled deeply into my depression, anxiety, and sadness that I forget to be lively, cheerful and happy for their sake and guess what? Few to none only realize I am missing my usual self.

I have lost count of how many times I cry myself in front of mirrors in public gatherings and come out missing myself. And people don’t even bat an eyelash even if they realize something is wrong with me.

Am I too stupid for thinking it all? How can I conclude myself? There are even more that I want to say and just scream. But I am blank and that scares and angers me. I want to say, period. But, no, I am just shaking myself and seething with anger. Even a single sound of something around me gets me mad. I am a mess and I am just getting messier!

Look me in the eye…

pexels-photo-234059.jpeg

I have forgotten
the hang of writing poetry
as I master my craft
in silencing vowels from breaking out
and taming restless hurricanes in my eyes.

the crumbs dripping from my fingers
form a trail behind my
lethargic pen,
crafting shapes on stained papers,
and the leftover residue
mocks my game
as I crawl behind ellipses.

black petals sprouts
between the cracks in similes,
but I stop at no cost
plastering fake metaphors
at every distinguished rest stops
to mask miseries.

and if yet you are unable to decipher
the depth in the folds of my stare
that ricochet on empty barrels;
you simply speak words
that holds no feelings,
since my words have stopped forming sentences
to ears that hold a smile
behind compassion.

When my fears died inside my screams.

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the winged imagery
on my fragile eyes
that have seen worst storm
than my recent smoky synopsis,
died at the right curve
where my crinkles
could never reach
to romance.

yet, I tried to powder
too many lines
worth mentioning on my forehead
to make it look weak,
with fewer metaphors-
to grandeur the already dead soliloquy;

but the color on my lips
take the audience away,
the bright show stopper
arch into a killer smile
that have mastered the
skill of creating an enigma
enclosed in marble stilettos

I have walked in angles
that doesn’t bend to solve
an equation
and now that I have resumed
walking after the crash
in metered sonnets,
I have ever since raised the number
of rhinestones
on my jacket;
each a tattoo of violent hurricane
I tamed.

Look me in the eye…

user img

I have forgotten
the hang of writing poetry
as I master my craft
in silencing vowels from breaking out
and taming restless hurricanes in my eyes.

the crumbs dripping from my fingers
form a trail behind my
lethargic pen,
crafting shapes on stained papers,
and the leftover residue
mocks my game
as I crawl behind ellipses.

black petals sprouts
between the cracks in similes,
but I stop at no cost
plastering fake metaphors
at every distinguished rest stops
to mask miseries.

and if yet you are unable to decipher
the depth in the folds of my stare
that ricochet on empty barrels;
you simply speak words
that holds no feelings,
since my words have stopped forming sentences
to ears that hold a smile
behind compassion.