‘Armed With Skill And It’s Frustration. And Grace, Too…’ The Hip

It might look a lot like weakness to the outside world

Maybe even to inner circles

But there is nothing weak about the daily struggles that it takes to survive through a mental illness

I repeat

There is nothing weak about it

There is nothing weak about me

Yeah I get it

Maybe you see someone who is fragile

Someone who is broken

Maybe you see someone who is crazy

Fuck

I don’t know who or what you see

I know what I see

Every single time I pass my reflection in a mirror or window

I see a fighter

Someone who has spent their entire life fighting

Fighting to live

Fighting to find happiness

Fighting to find peace

What an oxymoron

I read somewhere once that,

Fighting for peace,

Is like fucking for virginity

I get it

But its the truth

I fight tooth and nail

I dig in my heels

I scratch

I claw

Anything

To make my way back from the war that is constantly waging in my own brain

If you’ve never been there

You’re blessed

Truly lucky

That you’ll never understand how totally terrifying it is to not feel safe with just you and your own thoughts

You’re lucky that you don’t have to wonder when it will all come crashing down around you

Again…

I’ll never be grateful for having mental illness

I won’t lie and pander about how its taught me so much about myself

About the world

Trust me

There are things I’d never wanted to learn

Like what Paxil withdrawal can do to your once functioning brain

Like how food can cease being appealing to a die-hard ‘foodie’l

Like what the inside of a single room at a crisis centre looks like

I could have happily gone through two lifetimes not caring to know any of those things

It hasn’t made me wiser

Or kinder

So I can’t find it in myself to express gratitude towards something that has stolen so much from my life

From my family

From my father

From me

What I can unequivocally state

Without any doubt in my mind

Is that anyone surviving with a mental illness

Must want to be alive a whole hell of a lot

To be persist

To continue

To just keep going

To anyone who doubts it

You have no fucking clue

The strength and determination it takes to do it all over again

Tomorrow

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Somewhat Damaged

Feels like all I ever say is I’m sorry

I should just write them out like lines I used to do in school

And then tape the words over my mouth

Or throw them in the trash

For all the good they’ve ever done for me

I’m exhausted of the emails, the appointments and the alarms I can’t get out of bed for

I’m tired of trying to pretend

To fake it till I make it

To paste a smile on my face

It’s not for me anyway

I’ve never been so skilled at make believe that i could dupe myself

It’s for your comfort

And his

And hers

And it makes me feel worse

I don’t want to care what anyone thinks

I don’t want to see the judgemental looks

I don’t want to hear the accusatory tones or the false sympathies

Yet It’s all my brain can process

Everything has become so fake it smells like my grandmothers plastic couches

Or so bleak it’s like I’m trapped in a dark closet with no light bulb and no way out

I want to shut off my brain

My somewhat damaged brain

This brain of mine

What good has it ever done me?

Filled with anxious thoughts that I couldn’t get rid of

Then so much sadness it was drowning in a sea of it

Then lesions that *poof just appeared one day

And I’m supposed to find a silver lining in this?

Since I’m so skilled at apologizing…

Here goes nothing:

I’m sorry that my lining must be covered by so much shit that I can’t fucking see it

Maybe I misplaced it along the way

For what it’s worth I’m sorry that I lost it

I’m sorry that I lost that silver fucking lining that would make all of this bearable

I’m sorry that I can’t find the silver lining that would give all of this shit a deeper meaning

I’m sorry that I can see everyone else’s silver lining

I’m sorry that maybe some people are just born without the ability to see their silver lining

And I’m so fucking sorry that mine seems to be missing

Or maybe it’s somewhat damaged

And wouldn’t that be a perfect kind of irony?

(An angry playlist to go with an angry mood)

The power of anger can rage inside until it tears you apart

It’s been an anger fuelled few weeks

It’s not one thing that I can pinpoint

But rather an avalanche of bullshit

I can’t really tell which event triggered the catastrophic movement

I only know that at this point it seems like the load is unbearable and can’t possibly withstand anymore weight

I can feel anger building within me

I can feel the moment where my blood begins to boil

Feel the way it warms my body

Feel the adrenaline racing through my body

Gearing up for a fight

I’ve always likened anger to a pop bottle that continues to build its fury when shaken

And we all know what it happens when the next poor fool opens the bottle

But

What happens the avalanche doesn’t stop?

The fight doesn’t happen?

The pop bottle never gets opened?

The toxicity just stays in the body

It permeates every cell

It ferments

It changes you

It alters who you are

How you see the world

How others relate to you

And this is the fucked up part;

It doesn’t kill you

Instead,

It just slowly ruins you

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