you are loved

stay with me.

right here,

right now.

 

it’s so much easier to love you

when you aren’t so far away.

it’s so much easier to hug you

when you aren’t so far away.

 

i love you over here

i love you over there

but most importantly

i love you everywhere.

 


i love you to the moon and back.

back to the moon again

and then far beyond that.

 


you may be asking

who is this for?

i’m not even sure.

 

my love is for everyone

and everything

and everywhere

because nothing

and nobody

deserves to feel unloved.

and i love everyone with passion

 

 

 

Thanks to Rachel for sharing another of her beautiful poems. You can read her previous submission here. Be sure to give her some love in the comments!

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram

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Creative Pieces dear hope

A poetry selection: Ali Z, part 2

**Trigger Warning: mentions of self-harm, death, and suicide

 

STRAWBERRIES AND JELLY BEANS

The past few times I have scoured my scalp for grey hairs, I have found white. The last time I checked, three stark white hairs grow in the roots among my curls.

I do not grey.

So why white?

One white hair for my grandmother whose hair was white at sixty and gone at seventy when the chemo treatment was unsuccessful. White for her thin pale skin, for the teeth before they rotted inside out, for the bedsheets she died in, for the dress she was buried in, for the lining of her coffin, and for the snow on the January day she died on, white.

My grandmother held our family together with paper-flaking fingers. It took her feeble body caving in for us to see her as the solid pillar she had always been. When my grandfather argued with his children, including my mother, over petty rings and inheritance, I went to the fridge to find comfort in strawberries and jelly beans: grandma’s two favorite things. He didn’t know how to keep it stocked without her. All that was there were white empty shelves and black licorice flavored jelly beans left.

That was when I knew she was gone.

The second for my father’s hospital room, for the clean blank slate on which we started over, the white for the van he worked in, the white for his knuckles when he held onto the white kitchen bowl, spilling red from his mouth in the back of my car.

I hated myself for hating hospital rooms. I realized he was sick when I forgot to visit and had to be reminded that he missed me now. I realized we were friends when the concept of him missing me seemed strange and friendly. I bought him a card once, and couldn’t think of what to write, so I left it blank but for my name, a cold, empty white.

And the third, for me. For the mountain of papers that shut me up, that said “you’re healed with this money, so stop being sick.”

For the robes of the doctors that operate in heads and minds, white for the piano keys that made me feel alive, for the moments of light in a sea of black, for the sheet music I couldn’t read, for the class rooms and waning moons that gave me any routine, for the pills when they left the red bottle, for the label that defined me, and the white lies that reminded me I wasn’t worth the truth to some.

I do not grey.

~

NOTHINGS

When I was in 7th grade, I heard that a fellow female student had written a bomb threat on the bathroom mirrors with her menstrual blood.

My first thought was that I hoped I got my period soon so I could hate the school has much as she did.

So long as our class criminal intended on blowing up the entire school, I didn’t mind, for if my bullies suffered, I’d pay the price and sacrifice my own life for justice. At 12 I felt I’d seen enough.

When I did, eventually, get my period, I wondered how she used her body’s ink, as it didn’t seem easy to write with.

On the days we were doomed, the police officer who taught me ‘boys will be boys’ stood guard by the entrance, irritated, another cry for help painted on the mirror.  Another lie, another false alarm, another girl reaching into her pants and using her only resource to scream to the reflection because it was the only one who listened. Another day and nothing to worry about.

Nothing to worry about, echoed the parents.

Nothing to worry about, echoed the teachers.

Nothing to worry about, echoed the administration.

I was nothing to worry about, echoed the corpses with cut wrists, the gentle giant of our school toppled and rocked the foundation with his suicide. The RIP statuses, the funeral preparations by parents burying a son. Blame it on his state of mind and not the environment. We, said the town, are not the problem. We had our rules, you see; we don’t want our children involved with police. If one life falls in between the margins of the anti-bullying laws and the stacks of homework, who’s to say who’s to blame?

My friends at other high schools joked that their school was built by an architect that designed prisons, therefore modeled after such.

I said that my peers were designed after prisoners, and acted as such..

My prison gang was the rejects, the uglies, and the disabled. We were not the blonde hair cliques trading lunchboxes with red apples, we were not the tattooed and the badass, we couldn’t rap or breakdance. We still excused ourselves for cursing.. We were the ones that watched the populars stroll from the view inside a locker and the bottom of the stairs. They always looked taller when we were pushed at their feet but I swear to God, they were not giants.

We rioted in the quiet stalls when we wrote poetry and foul language; we rioted with blood on bathroom walls with things we didn’t have the strength to say yet. We gauged our ears with sharp bracelets until life’s ink told us to stop and we leapt down stairs so no one could push us We laughed on every painful step so as not to give the prison guards the satisfaction of seeing us break.

We were the nothings they always had to worry about.

 

 

Another big thanks to Ali Zagame for sharing her beautiful poetry with us and our community. If you haven’t already, check out part 1 of her poetry selection. You can find more from Ali at her website, Facebook, and Bandcamp. Be sure to give her some love in the comments!

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram

 

Creative Pieces dear hope

I Wear a Mask

It is truly amazing how one person can bend over backwards for the people they love and care about, but only feel the tiniest bit of self-worth.

I am someone who is devoting my life to helping others.

I believe that everyone has purpose.

I put in so much effort to make those around me feel loved and appreciated.

Yet, I wear a mask.

Creative Pieces dear hope

Treasure Map to Confidence

Your insecurities are a treasure map to confidence

Growing up, I was insecure to the point where my insecurities looked like insanity. I took those insecurities and literally shredded them into oblivion, shredding them apart just a little so I could see the light. Just to get a small bit of relief.

Well, the light was strong enough to force much of them away. This was because your insecurities can lead to a unique way of loving yourself, further leading to a different type of story that people want to hear.

Creative Pieces dear hope

Clean House

Worry not, friend, for despite its title, this piece does not detail the pseudo-therapeutic practice of the de-cluttering of the mind (and therefore of the soul) through mindful sorting of writing utensils on one’s desk. This is not an uninformed do-gooder’s letter to the masses written to conjure imagery of a desperate teenager, vacuum in hand, ridding their bedroom carpet of a film of negativity dust with the misguided gospel cluttered room, cluttered mind glaring in red paint from the adjacent wall. No healing could be so simple or immediate. Rather, this is an honest work; it is myself, and that state of being is a rarity in recent days. This is the point, I suppose: that I want to feel something true today. While this goal takes its place in a dizzyingly lengthy queue—such is the curse of the unrealistically ambitious depressive—I will add it nonetheless with the detachedly determined hope that I fulfill it.

Creative Pieces dear hope

Moving On: diary entries through the years

Why is it so tough to move on from the people who hurt us the most?

This Summer Sucked, August 2012

If you have been following my life from an older post, you’ll know I transferred to Westfield State in a horrid, fragile state.

That was after the summer that I tried to commit suicide, after an already failed attempt the prior fall at my old school.

Twice. Because once wasn’t good enough. Once did not satisfy the urge.

What did I hope to accomplish at my new school?

Friends.

 

New Beginnings, September 2012

I wanted friends.

I needed friends.

Why did everyone else have so many?

Why was such a simple task becoming so immensely difficult?

In high school, I had a ton of friends.

I always had a boyfriend, or someone interested in filling that position.

I was in five music ensembles and an AP course by senior year.

I was by no means popular but I was queen of the musical-eat-your-lunch-in-the- hallway misfits.

I wasn’t the prettiest girl in school, but I was happy.

I was comfortable.

Maybe that was my first problem.

I made some really great friends at Westfield. I always have to preface that.

But what about the people that didn’t want me?

Why didn’t you want me?

 

End of My First Semester, December 2012

You welcomed me into your group reluctantly; I was your random transfer roommate that you had to learn to deal with.

It is amazing how small a double room in Lammers can become.

But I thought we were friends. I mean, I really thought we were cool…

 

Sophomore Spring, March 2013

…We used to bond over stupid shit, smelly boys, drunken nights.

What happened to the group of girls that once called me a “Westie Bestie?”

Why did I so quickly become the outsider?

The crazy one?

The only one that is still affected, still hurt?

Still putting the pieces back together of what even happened…

 

Spring Weekend, May 2013

Sometimes you girls were mean to each other.

People were divided. Differences in personalities were beginning to emerge.

I didn’t realize that mine was so terrible.

I wasn’t the one that shamed anyone for being different, yet I was constantly being made fun of behind my back.

That should have been my first red flag.

 

Halloween, October 2013

Maybe it was junior year, when boyfriends came into the picture, when friendships were more divided.

Maybe it was the fact that I devoted my friendship to the person that I trusted the most, because she also needed me the most.

Best friend: I stuck by you through so much. I watched you destroy other people. I watched it all.

How is it that present day you is back with all of them, and I am the outsider? I was just doing a duty as a friend.

Why is it like this?

 

Easter Weekend, April 2014

Maybe it was the girl who invited me to her house for a weekend, and then realized an hour into it she wanted nothing to do with me.

I was bullied horrendously through text messages.

You told me I didn’t know how to dress myself.

You told me you would rather be homeless than live with me.

Why is it that she was cool with everyone senior year and I wasn’t?

This should have been the second red flag. Or fourth. Or sixtieth.

Why was this happening to me???

 

Move-In Day, September 2014

I gave up my pride senior year to make my other two roommates happy. At that point, I felt like I could make no one happy.

I lived with two strangers. I did what I had to do to graduate and get by.

I was immersed with a cappella and dance and my other friends that made me so happy.

I avoided my broken home as much as I could.

But at the end of the day, I was lonely.

 

Graduation Day, May 2015

It is graduation day! Is anyone excited to see me?

Why doesn’t anyone want a photo with me?

…Can’t you see me?

 

June 7th, 2017

Especially now, knowing that all of you moved on, I realized the one in that group I was closest to had no actual value for my feelings; it was all a selfish act.

And here I am, still affected, still hurt, still picking up my pieces and wondering what I could have done differently to be better.

Everyone else has moved on now.

Mainly because the situation has no affect them on at all…

…And that should be the biggest red flag of all.

 

 

This piece comes from Stacy Wacks, a community member who has always written about her struggles honestly; this submission is no different. You can read Stacy’s Coping: This Is Who We Are piece, and you can also find her on Instagram. Give some love to Stacy in the comments.

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram.

 

Creative Pieces dear hope

I Didn’t Want You to Know Because…

I Didn’t Want You to Know Because…

“You can tell me anything,” she said from the stove as I set the table.

A smile began to creep across my face as she continued.

“I will always love you no matter what, so you should never be afraid to tell me anything.”

It’s not that I didn’t want you to know because I was afraid you wouldn’t love me. I didn’t want you to know because of how much you love me.

I didn’t want you to know because of that look in your eyes-the little wobble of your pupils. I didn’t want you to know because of the way you’ve voice ca-ca-catches and changes in tone as I vent to you over the phone.

Are you sure you’re ok?

I know you ask out of genuine concern but, I’m not going to kill myself because they ran out of cheese at the burrito line. I’m not going to kill myself because I forgot to print something out before class. I’m not going to kill myself because I cracked my phone screen.

I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want you to worry. I can see you after I hang up the phone. I sense you resting your elbows on the grey tiles of our kitchen’s island, creating creases in them as you replay our conversations over and over and over again in your head. Did you miss any signs, symptoms, or clues to ensure the truth in each syllable of  “I’m fine”?

Are you ok? Do you feel fine? I didn’t want you to have to share this weight. You already carry so much; you don’t need to share in my burden. You don’t need to hold my hand anymore.

I didn’t want you to know, but you were still the first person I could think to call. I was walking in the warm air, the sun low enough where it was starting to change from yellow to gold. I could hear the music as it traveled through the trees, floating on the spring breeze outward from cozy blankets on the green. Walking back from class, I was careful not to step on any of the cracks.

All the normal pleasantries were there, as was part of our daily routine.

But wait! Just one more thing:

“I think I have an unhealthy relationship with eating.”

“Okay,” you said, leaving nowhere near the amount of space I thought would be there in between. There should have been enough space for me to question whether or not you were still on the line. It should have been a long somber silence ringing out over the joyous spring soundtrack in the distance. But no–so natural, so easy, so fine-with-it. It was almost like you expected it.   

This wasn’t everything.

It was a start, and it seemed to go well enough. But, after I hung up, I could see your train of thought, running backwards toward every memory that we had together: all the meals and snacks when I was little, looking for any possible mistakes that needed correcting. The thought of you losing sleep kept me up that entire night.

I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want you to think it was your fault. I didn’t want you to think that you failed.

Some Sunday mornings I can still feel the warmth of our family cuddles sessions in your queen sized bed, radiating on my skin fourteen years later. Sometimes I can hear your voice singing “Now it’s time to brush your teeth” the tune of Wheels On the Bus echoing on the stained tiles of my apartment bathroom. Sometimes I can hear our giggles in every tick-tick-tick of the sprinklers in the summer time. Everytime I see tulips I can’t help but think of our Springs, digging around the garden with dirt-crusted knees. How the sunlight still brings out the little reddish flecks in my brown hair to match yours, making me feel even more a part of you. I think of blasting “Yeah” by Usher on the radio every time it came on, breaking it down at the stop lights in your silver Honda, windows down, no matter who was in the car next to us.  

Lastly, and selfishly, I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want to see your face when you heard it. I didn’t want to see your eyes start to squint, synchronizing with the twitch of your lip as I said to the doctor “I want to kill myself.

You, the self proclaimed master of the poker face, have never been good at hiding your emotions when it comes to your kids. I get my expressive face from you.

I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want to hurt you. This is why I didn’t go through with it in the end.

Still, I’m glad I told you.

***

I wish “Yeah” by Usher came on the radio that afternoon on our ride to the doctor. I could feel the exposed parts of my legs sticking to the black leather seats, and I was already beginning to dread the process of peeling myself off of them. The lack of comfort in the forced small-talk between us turned the thick air of summer more soupy and uncertain.

“How did you sleep? Did you dream? Man, isnt it a nice day?”

We both felt our anxiety rise with every white line passing by. But there was nothing to be uncertain about. This was all a part of the routine.

Depression is a symptom of fibromyalgia. I have been depressed on and off for about nine years now, but I can only blame fibro for about five of them. It started in fifth grade, thanks to those lovely little hormone changes, and seems to get worse every year. I have what I like to call reverse seasonal depression. Instead of being depressed in the winter because of lack of light, I become depressed in the spring and summer. I didn’t know if this is the doctor we should be seeing, but it was one more step in what I hoped was the right direction.

“I don’t think they validate parking anymore.”

My mom’s voice interrupted my thoughts

“Yeah?” I questioned, trying my best to feign interest.

“Yeah, last time I was here I don’t think they stamped my card.”

“What bullshit! We’re already paying them to come here,” I scoffed, sitting up in the car seat I hadn’t realized I’d been slouching in

“I know! It’s crazy, my lady. Crazy!”

She says in a playful tone, trying to break up the unnecessary tension as we park. Hint taken.

“You’re right, Sharon. It’s crazy.” I smiled as I unbuckled my seat belt.

“What did you say?” she asked, leaving her mouth in an open smile

“You’re right, Sharon.”

“Don’t call me Sharon,” she said shaking her head.

“But Sharon, that’s your name,” I said getting out of the car.

“Don’t call me Sharon.”

“Sharon!” I yelled over the car.

“Don’t call me Sharon!” she said walking over to me

“Shaarrooooooon!” I said in my best Osbourne voice. She started to poke at me.

“Ow, don’t poke me!” I giggled.

“What did you say?”

“Sharooon! Ow!”

“What did you say?”

“Mom! Mom!” I pleaded instead of uncle.

“That’s right,” she said, putting her arms around me as we walked through the sliding glass doors. Normally they don’t see us, those stupid motion detectors. My mind brings me back to the many times we’ve stood in front of CVS or Big Y waving our arms in front of the closed doors for five minutes, only for them to be opened by someone walking up behind us.

Ding Ding

The elevator door opened. We walked in and she pressed our floor number with her elbow, because who knows how many people have touched those buttons?  

“What company is it?” I asked looking around for a logo.

“Kone,” she said pointing to the inspection form.

“Ew,” I joked. My dad is an elevator mechanic for Schindler, so whenever we’re in one, we like to check and see if it’s one of his.

Ding Ding

The doors opened. We walked down the hallway, greeted by the office doors’ frosted glass. They opened, the hospital smell seeping into my nose. You could tell that someone tried to cover the stench up with the three, friendly flower arrangements on the check-in desk and the Febreze air fresheners periodically spraying lavender lemon fresh. Underneath the fresh and fake floral aromas, soaked into to the very foundation of the room, was the persisting smell.

I followed my mom across the blue-gray carpet to one of the waiting room couches. Colleges and hospitals must get their furniture from the same places. The upholstery was different, but these were definitely the same couches in my library at school. I shared my epiphany with my mom, and began to sit next to her.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Her question makes me stop mid-squat.

“Umm, siting?”

“How are they gonna know that you’re here if you don’t check in?”

“Don’t you do that?”

“Morgan,” she said in her cool, casual parent voice. “You’re eighteen. Go check yourself in.”

I dragged my feet over to the rounded island in the middle of the office. I rested my hand on the desks fake oak finish, making polite eye contact with the woman on the phone behind the sliding glass. I winced with the screeeeeech of the it heavy sliding.

I smiled to complete the script: Morgan Stabile. Yes. No. I don’t know. Okay. Thank you.

Returning to my mom with clipboard in hand, I sat next to her and stared at the words. I watched them move around the page, as my eyes went from focusing on the black letters to the spaces in between them. I shook my head slightly, blinking heavily for a minute, then looked to my left. Sure enough, Sharon was there, immersed in her Bejeweled iPad game, but as soon a she heard the first scratch of pen against cardboard, she rejoined me.

“Give that to me.” She closed her game and reached for the clipboard

“But I’m 18 now. I can check myself in,” I said, moving the board away from her reach.

“Yeah, but your handwriting is still messy,” she said, grabbing the clipboard from me, “and mama can still do some things for you.”

She flashed a full smile. I returned it with a full-half smile: full because all my teeth were showing, half because I was not smiling on the inside.

I don’t understand why it’s important for you to be on time for doctor’s appointments when they always run late. All doctors run late, or at least all of my family doctors do. I wonder if it’s a requirement to get into med school: running late and having shitty handwriting. If this was the case, I could be a doctor no problem.

A full thirty minutes of staring at different spots in the room passes, and I couldn’t force my brain to space out for much longer. I definitely wanted to save at least five minutes of that in case of emergency boredom during the actual appointment. I grabbed a magazine from the coffee table in front of us and started to flip through the glossy pages, just to hear it’s floppy, high-pitched wobble sound. Anything was better than the sunny smiley pop music they played. If I heard “It’s a Beautiful Day” one more time, I might have just thrown a chair at the window behind us.

“Morgan?”

I turned my attention from inspecting the durability of the glass window behind me, to the smiling nurse standing by the door. I got up walked about halfway to her.

Stopped.

Waited for Sharon to get her purse together.

I flinched as the door auto locked shut behind us. It echoed in my head as we walked into the examining room, which was then replaced by the echo of that door shutting to the tune of “the doctor will be with you shortly.” We both knew that “shortly” meant about twenty more minutes of waiting.

The room was blindingly white: white walls, white tile, white cabinets. They all forced me to squint as I made my way to close the blinds. When I closed them, though,  it didn’t even help, the artificial fluorescents still creating a glow.

I sat down with a crunch. The worn red leather examining chair, the only color source in the room, was still covered by the white parchment paper. Sitting on it always makes me feel like a cookie waiting to be baked.

“I’m gonna take a nap,” I said, shifting to my side in a choir of crunches.

“Didn’t you just wake up an hour ago?” my mother says from chair in front to me as she takes her iPad out again.

“It feels like it’s been longer. I’m still tired.”

“Okay, baby. Rest up.”

There was no way I could fall asleep in that room. It was too bright. Even with my eyes shut I could see the light reflecting off the counter tops. It created a orangey haze behind my eyelids. Had this office always been so bright? I couldn’t remember. I’m pretty sure this was my third time here. I don’t see this doctor very often. With eyes closed, I tried to think back to my last visit. I still couldn’t remember. After about fifteen minutes of not remembering, a soft knock is heard at the door.

“Come in,” Sharon called out as I sat up.

“Hello. Good afternoon.” He greets us in a slight south-Asian dialect as he walks into the room.

“How are you?”

“Okay. How are you?” I responded.

“Fine. Fine. What brings you in today?” I look towards my mom then look back at him, then back at my mom. I was waiting for her to jump in like she normally does at all my doctors appointments. But this time she didn’t.

Instead, she responded to my confused look: “Go ahead. Tell him.”

I sighed, trying to release a little of the tension in my shoulders. I tried to remind myself it was all part of the routine: all the doctors ask the same questions.

“I’ve been severely depressed lately,” I said

“Okay, depression is a symptom of fibromyalgia. But how do you know you’re depressed?”

“Because I’ve been depressed before. I know what it feels like.”

“She’s tired all the time,” Sharon interrupted. I knew she couldn’t resist jumping in. I smiled, slightly relieved, as she continued.  “She sleeps most of the day, she’s irritable, her appetite isn’t normal.”  

“When did it start?”

“Like, my depression in general, or this specific time?” I asked.

“This time, specifically”

I glanced over at my mom. These are the things she knows, I think. The things that are okay to say, in front of her, but don’t get carried away. Don’t get carried away.

“A few months”

“Alright.”

“I’ve experienced depression around this time of year normally, but it hasn’t been this bad in a long time.”

“Do you know why you’re depressed?”

“Does anyone know why they’re depressed?”

“Yes, but do you know what has caused them in the past?”

“I guess.”

“When was the last time it was this bad?”

“Freshman year of high school.”

“What caused it then? Do you know?”

I didn’t want to look at him. I knew it was rude. I didn’t want to be rude. I never want to be rude. But I couldn’t look him in the eye. I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look down. I looked at the door, both of them in my peripheral.

“Yes. I umm…I had a lot of body image issues.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t like the way I look. I’ve never liked the way I looked.”

“Do you have suicidal thoughts?”

“Back then? Yeah. I wanted to kill myself.”

Carried away.

It’s almost like the voice that answered wasn’t mine. I quickly glanced over at her. I didn’t want her to hear it this way. I was going to tell her, but not like this. I didn’t want to surprise her in the middle of a doctor’s office. I could see her face began to twist and twitch. Her eyes started to blink fast, trying to push back the tears, or at least make them small enough so that I wouldn’t notice.

“That’s why I’m here. I can feel it getting to that point again. And I don’t want that,” I finished.

I could see her eyes starting to squint, synchronized with the twitch of her lip, moving her hands under her thighs. She was trying to stop the magnetic pull they felt to cover her mouth, clenching a sob in her jaw.

At that moment, the little voice in my head said: “See? It didn’t matter. You still hurt her. You should have just gone through with it.”

Still, most of me is glad I didn’t.  

 

 

This lovely piece is from community member Morgan Stabile, a talented writer who has shared this beautiful excerpt from her larger book project. You can find Morgan on Instagram and on her blog. Please send some kind words & lots of love to Morgan in the comments!

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram.

Creative Pieces dear hope