The parasites of suicide nibble a mind that cannot protect, only eject such thoughts of demise. Amoebas of doubt sprout black blossoms of hope that one day I’ll be dead and off this suffering slope.
The tapeworm of suicide beckons my mind, over and over again I find, to off itself in this moment of time. Reaching down into the gut, the truth regurgitates enough to get me through the day. But, how many more do I have to take.
The weight of depression sits atop every expression and rings out tears from mind and body compression. Like a coiled spring, there is no bouncing back until I find what it is I lack, and remove this two-ton stone from the center of my back. I try and try and claw and scratch, but cannot reach the weighty rock of darkness, in fact. I fall and fail and flail about wondering why I have no voice, no mouth.
Nanobots of fear enter my ears and drink the last of my tears. I haven’t felt such things in years. I do remember the parasites. I do remember the days feeling like nights and nights like days. I do remember this place. I do remember the parasites I face.
I am not a prophet.
I am not a saint.
Thought I was, but I ain’t.
Grandiosity killed the cat.
I now see this looking back.
Inflated ego caused a mess.
Left mind and life a wreck.
How I wish it were different,
but this is my journey.
Shards of glass churning inside
a body and mind covered in blood
nothing…nothing…nothing can be done.
Time is my friend
will eventually mend
mind and body again.
The water an ocean of fear. The waves a cycle I cannot stop. Up and down my mind bobs and bobs. I tread the fear water trying to keep my head above it, but another wave of suicidal thoughts, of worthlessness, of hopelessness crashes atop me and I’m sucked under the gigantic fear water wave yet again. As the fear wave cycles to the shore, I’m left for another tsunami of: I feel ok===>a little high atop the wave crest===>crashing down beneath the thunderous pressure of the wave pushing me down deeper and deeper. This process I cannot stop. This process runs my life. I never make it to shore, and am growing tired of treading water.
The lift has come and gone.
Knew it would all along.
The drop has taken its place.
Back into the cave.
The lift was like a two-ton weight being slowly craned from atop his head; like being told he had to work seventy hour weeks for a year straight, and then being told it was a mistake, he only had to work a twenty hour week for the same pay. It was relief. It was laying atop a comfortable raft in a cool swimming pool on a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon, not a care in the world.
The lift of the heavy dark cloud of mood, if only for a few hours, was relief beyond anything he could articulate. Although, being a writer of sorts, he must try to convey how good he felt for those brief moments. Otherwise, the darkness would win.
The lift was like floating. Floating above all things good and clean ( a smell good field of wild flowers with yellows and purples happily dancing in the warm breeze; A family gathering with a crackling fire warming the hearts of loved ones; a long, slow exhale of negative energy, and a big, relaxing inhale of positive energy). The lift was a good meditation session, a session locked into the here and now, beauty seen in everyone and everything. This was, and is, the lift.
Of things unseen in a mind that screams. A little taste of a synapse you’ll never devour. An hour inside, and for your mommy you’ll cry. In the quicksand that is mental illness, no friends exist. Strangers speak words without meaning of superficial worlds known not by the mind that is simply trying to survive. The rumination of suicidal thoughts; fighting not to take the minds life; fighting just to stay alive. And you, you speak of reality TV, and your kiddies who have yet to be. Minds of your kind cannot fathom ones like mine.
The dark abyss of despair, pain, isolation…you’ll never know. Maybe you’ll dip your toe into the pool that is depression, but never sink to the bottom of the depths. Then you say to my mind, “I’ve been there. I understand.” You understand nothing, my friend. You’ve never been to the places I’ve been, and back again, and into again, and back again. Days filled with circling vultures of death, just waiting for my mind to give in, give up. Days filled with hopeless, worthless, helpless thought after thought after thought after thought. There is no ” snap out of it.” Once you’re in it, you’re in it. Tell me what you see when you get to the place of things unseen.
Hard to tell from where he came, but this man was not the same. Not the same of courage and strength, but a small flicker of a blink. A tiny beacon that once was tall with hearty stone walls, slowly fell under weight from within he had yet to tell. From deep in his soul he cried for help, but it escaped his innards as a poetic yelp.
Of the paranoia, he did not write. Of the fright and visions, he did not pen. Of the break happening yet again, he could no fathom ’til its very end. He could feel the crack in his brain and slipped into it, almost insane. Of these things, nobody knew. He penned Just an eccentric poem or two.
One thing he knew for certain as the break began, he would not come through it ( if at all) the same kind of man. After wave after wave of deluded thought and shockwave of pain, seeing the world from the thread of its fringe, starting once then beginning again, he sank. After digging out of the abyss only to fall back in, the man would simply begin, then begin again.
After the storm had passed and left him flooded within, the man he once knew would never be found again. Drown by the pain, the past, the crash and burn; he must find a new path to meander through life. One thing for certain…the man was not the same.