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.

 

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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

Inner Demons

**Trigger Warning** This story has graphic and disturbing content and discusses severe depression.

 

“I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.” Josh rocked back and forth, digging his fists into his sandy blond hair.

I felt my back pocket vibrate and took my phone out. “Ryan? Yeah, I found him.”

“Oh, thank God! Is he alright?” Ryan asked.

I looked back to Josh. He was still shaking and rocking, still saying, “I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.”

“He’s alive,” I said.

“Where are you guys?” Ryan asked.

I took a deep breath. I shivered as I saw my breath turn into a puff of condensation because of the frigid winter air. I turned around and tried to make out what I could with the moon as my only flashlight. “I don’t know. It’s hard to see. We’re outside. I think I can make out a swing set in the distance. There is a playground right next to it…” I twirled around. “We’re in some clearing. I think. There are trees all around us…”

“That could be anywhere. Okay, hold on. I might be able to track your location from your phone.”

I shook my head. “Ryan, how the hell―”

“Don’t ask. I have my ways. Just sit tight and stay with him. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. I’ll be there soon.”

Creative Pieces dear hope

Familiarity

Familiarity

 

sadness is like a cold hug.

familiar,

yet uncomfortable.

 

it is tears running down your face

and you haven’t been able to smile in 24 hours.

 

it is laying in bed until you have to get out

and even then,

maybe you don’t get up.

 

it is wearing sweatpants because you don’t care enough

to look nicer.

 

it is listening to sad music on repeat

it is the only thing you can relate to.

 

it is feeling like you are alone

in a room full of people who love you

 

it is feeling lonely

at 10:30 in the morning

because the only thing that has hugged you in the past 24 hours

is your blanket.

 

R.E.

 

 

Thank you to community member R.E. for sharing poetry with us once again. You can read R.E.’s previous piece here. You can also find R.E. on Tumblr.

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 grew in the most unexpected of places

I grew in the most unexpected of places,
In the winter,
Underneath the silky frost,
Or at the bottom of black oceans,
I grew amongst the side of freeways,
Underneath headlights,
I grew amongst blood splatters,
that ran like oil paint,
I grew in tired houses,
And on pieces of paper,
Under a 2am moon,
That cast down a spotlight,
I grew in elastic thunder,
In midnight-coloured nights,
And starving deserts,
You see,
No matter where your fist sprinkles my seeds,
My crumbs,
My leftovers,
I will still
Bloom,
Like bruised freesias,
maybe I’m not the prettiest bouquet you’ve ever clapped your eyes on,
But I’m indefinitely,
The most durable.
// TPT

This poem was submitted by the wonderful Skye, also known as The Paper Trail (TPT). You can find more of Skye’s work on her Tumblr and her Instagram. Give Skye 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 poetry

Questions as Daggers, Questions as Saviors

But you seem fine.
You look like you’ve been doing well!
You don’t seem depressed on social media.
Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling bad?

Don’t assume. You know what they say. I’ve gotten so good at hiding how I feel, shoving the emotions down so far I seem to misplace them altogether, that even those closest to me don’t see a thing.

I’m sneaky. I’m clever. I know the right things to say and do and wear. I know how to hide the scars, internal and external, and pretend like they’re not even there (are they even there?)

I’m sneaky. I’m clever. This gets me in trouble.
I’m often in trouble.

I don’t want you to take it personally. Really, I don’t. It’s not you, it’s me (really, it is).

The facade I maintain is one I’ve been perfecting for years, my fears of vulnerability stemming from a long list of disappointments and misplaced trust.

I don’t like to worry anyone,
don’t like to be the center of attention,
don’t like to be the one to drag the party down.

So, if I ask you for help, know that it’s taking every ounce of me to do so,
every last fiber of my being to muster up the courage to let my guard down and stand before you with my heart in a box of doubt, tied together neatly with my greatest insecurities and nightmare-inducing thoughts.

And I’m sorry if I haven’t.
Don’t be offended if I never do.

But you have a great life.
People have it much worse than you do.

I know. Really, I do. Guilt is my middle name. It seeps into my bones and erodes my body from the inside out. What’s left is nothing more than a pile of skin cells and disappointment.

People are starving.
Homeless.
Sick.
Dying (why do I wish I was dying?).

I’m sorry. I am. That’s all I can say (that’s all I know how to say).
I’m sorry I feel this way.

I wish I could change it. I wish I could fix the world’s problems with a swish of a wand, with a big bandaid stuck across its oceans and continents, one that heals the hurt across the globe.

I wish I could do the same for my own mind, for my own heart,
for the hurt I endlessly feel as the days stretch on and the months stretch on and this life stretches on and on
and on
and on
and on.

I wish I could fix my problems as easily as magic or medicine.

Maybe that’s selfish.

Maybe that’s survival.

You can’t love anyone else until you learn to love yourself.

But you see, I don’t think I’ll ever really,
truly,
honestly,
love myself.

I don’t think I know how (do I know how?).

Will I ever really learn, as easily as I learned how to write my name or tie my shoes or ride my bike across the pavement?

Will I get an eviction notice plastered to the door of my heart, a “Do Not Enter” sign stapled to the aorta?

Will it whisper softly,
“Beware,
Beware,
Beware,”
As it beats,
beats,
beats
to keep me alive?

Will I just be lonely forever?

Why are you on so many medications?
Why don’t you try exercising or eating healthier?
What about deep breathing or meditation?

You see, I know all of that, too. I lose track of the pills in my medicine cabinet,
all the dosages and names and bottles,
all of it blurring in my vision as I count the tiny circles and oblong ovals in my palm each morning and afternoon and night.

But, you see, it’s taken two years to figure out just the right combination of ovals to make the dark things less dark, the bad thoughts less bad.

Two years is a long time and sometimes I worry if it was time wasted (I worry that most of my time is wasted).

And sometimes the dark things are just as dark, the bad thoughts just as bad, anyway.

Sometimes my only exercise for the day is running away from my problems. This kind of running allows me to stay under the covers. Most days dragging myself out of bed feels like a marathon.

Panicking makes breathing difficult. Meditation seems unrealistic for my clouded mind.

I appreciate the advice, really, but I can’t emphasize enough how difficult it is to hear all of it day in and day out,
and day in and day out,
and day in and day out,
always constructing some combination of excuses to make them stop talking at me like I am a child.

It’s just not that simple, as much as I wish it was (I wish it was).

It’s not that big of a deal.
Stop overreacting.
You’re being dramatic.

But, you see, it is that big of a deal. Making mountains out of mole hills is my specialty and crying over spilled milk is part of my morning routine.

I know I’m overreacting. Trust me, I do. I know more than anyone that my thoughts are out of control and my actions are beyond what they should be. I know.

I know.

I know.

Dramatic used to have a positive connotation for me. I put my extroverted personality onto the stage rather than in my personal life, but here I am panicking under the showerhead because I’ve got six assignments due at the end of the week and my friend hasn’t replied to my text in two hours and 13 minutes but they’ve already opened my SnapChat and I watched a group of girls walk by me and laugh and I’m positive it was because I didn’t wear makeup that morning because it took me over an hour to convince myself to get out of bed and I ran out of time after pulling my limbs into the shower and I nearly died walking to class because I didn’t look both ways before I crossed the street and I haven’t told anyone that I did it on purpose (I did it on purpose).

That stage is now my life and I am constantly putting on a show where people leave at intermission.

Maybe it’s not that big of a deal.
Maybe I’m overreacting.
Maybe I’m being dramatic.

Maybe I’m me.

Maybe I don’t like any of those things (I don’t).

Are you okay?
How are you doing?
Do you need to talk?

Keep asking. Keep asking.
Keep asking.
Keep asking.

Because I may say,
“Yes, I’m okay.”
“I’m good, how are you?”
“No, I don’t need to, thanks.”
And I just might be lying to you (I am probably lying to you).

But one day I may get the courage to say,
“No, I’m not.”
“Not so good, actually.”
“Yes, I do, please.”

One day I might find the courage to ask for help even though it’s taking every ounce of effort not to run the other way,
not to shove the feelings down like I’ve done so many times before,
not to plaster that signature smile across my face like wallpaper, a sickening slap of paste across my lips that seals the sadness in tight.

So don’t be offended if I lie. It’s not you, it’s me (really, I mean it).

So keep asking. Keep asking.
Keep asking.
Keep asking.
Please keep asking.
Please don’t stop asking.


This piece comes from our community member Sandra Mercer. You can find her other powerful entry in our Coping series here.

Image-7

Feel free to leave a comment for Sandra below.

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

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

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Creative Pieces dear hope

Windshield

Go ahead
and ask for help
Or confuse your pride
with strength again.

Progress is perspective.
And now the flames are close
as you ran
all the way inward.

Preaching about hope,
While letting ice
grow thick on windshields.
Driving through the night
with the defrost set on zero.

You feel welcome in the cold
As if you were born in it
It’s the extremes that you feel
It’s not the small talk conversation

It’s the knowledge and the worth
You fought to have and threw away
Locked the key and dug your grave
In a cemetery unmarked

When it could have been vandalized with art
But you refuse to acknowledge that
Your brain that used to flourish
Is now a maze you can’t figure out

But walls are only meaningful
if you know what’s inside.
And rusted gears will turn
Until there’s nothing left to try.

PF

Want to submit to Dear Hope 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