For me, as long as I could remember, I’ve always avoided mental health. I felt ashamed. I feel this is the main reason for a ton of people out there- nobody wants to feel like a burden.
To feel less than, or to feel like they need help in their head. Help in your head is synonymous to a crazy person, and crazy persons aren’t you, are they?!
(they’re all of us)
So, when I first ventured out into writing, divulging my emotions and the very cusp of my being onto pen and paper… it would always be, vague. Supremely vague. So fucking vague you wouldn’t even know it was a fucking poem, rather a bunch of words that may or may not have been a crazy persons’ journal.
But they (poems) were (poems) I remember, my first time, to all intents and purposes, writing about something close to my heart, and actually using words to recount what was close to my heart WITHOUT meticulously dancing around the very real, transparent, bona fide, topic with unrealistic scenarios, pretty words, and daunting metaphors that warmly wrapped around the true meaning, confident in not giving out any detail that would expose me. That would give others a reason to even suspect that I’m weak, or troubled. I knew I couldn’t seem weak, or troubled or anything negative in-front of my friends, (NOT INFRONT OF MY FRIENDS MOM YOURE EMBARRASSING ME! —in this metaphor my mom is mental health.) because I’m a fucking tank. I’m tough and fuck you I don’t need help. Right? I was socrates with my shit,
i know that i know nothing, except i don’t want to be seen as a weak little bitch
or even worse
(i just used an emoji, yes)
I don’t know exactly where that feeling went to waste. But, I’m glad that it did. Somewhere in between wanting to not exist, and/or sleep forever. And the support of my friends, my dog, family, and most importantly myself – I think i got comfortable with the fact that I don’t give a shit about how I’m helping myself, and how whatever that may be, looks to others. I just knew I didn’t want to feel the way that I did. I guess awareness was the first step, and with it, I leaped onto more freely talking about my feelings.
One of my favorite lines came from a verse where I dealt with one of the most difficult times in my life.
I may have disguised it a little bit, because I was deathly terrified at the reception I might receive, from friends, family, or anybody that read it and knew who I was, even if it was just on the internet. With that being said, and my entire existence at the tip of my pen, I talked about an instance where I called the suicide hotline, in a drunken stupor, and they (i guess the suicide hotline people?) didn’t answer for hours. When they finally did, (moreso, told me someone was coming: spoiler, they didn’t) I hung up and proceeded to talk to the *other* person on the other side of the bathroom door, who ironically, was the primary cause of this phone call that went awry in the first place. Other things took place like, melancholic showers in the cold, white-boyedly punching a hole in the wall, and chugging an entire bottle of whiskey. These things, were so real, so very intense for me, that writing out a poetic version of it years later was one of the most nirvana feelings ever. ( i use nirvana feelings as an adjective to outline the douchebaggery I felt)
the iconic (ha!) scene I talk about is right here. The ambiguous nature I give off is reminiscent to my ‘younger’ writing. Where, I would purposely give the story a narrator that wasn’t me. I lied, though. It was always me. I would just carefully curate pronouns and other literary items alike to give off the feel that it wasn’t. It was me protecting myself, but still giving me the freedom to be expressive, as if telling a story from another persons POV. Well, without further delay, here it is! This golden branded piece gives me a nostalgic buzz that still gives me chills and brings these little tears to my eyes!
showered with my clothes on, alone in the stall
emptied the heaven hill, and put a hole in the wall
called the dont do it lifeline and was put on hold for an hour
wrote a letter to my parents, and choked on the vowels
bit on my tongue til the blood diluted the taste of the bourbon
put a slit through my bandage. put a blade to my churches
said a prayer so nervous. layed still for eternity
the shower ran through 6am. i heard knocks on the door
answered with an imaginary gun that held me hostage. its more
than what i made it out to be. told them i fell and i slipped
told a joke and laughed it off. told her hell is a bitch
denim has a subtle smell when drenched in whiskey and slaughter
waded as anonymous caller. speakerphone the rain of the water
looked to the sky, dissolute, dissuaded, demise
cried, laughed and told the operator i had already died
asked me if i was alright. i know id be never the same
desolate rage. i wonder where my crucifix lays.
if they could talk, what would these broken walls say
you only remember me when i start to walk away
I honestly don’t know what my goal is with this page. (but, now that I’m editing this, I do!) Whether it is to help people reconnect with themselves, help myself, eventually monetize, or just have a site where people can sift through one of my many journals while meeting some pretty cool folks along the way- I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know. But, what I do know is, that I love writing. So much. At this point I don’t even “write” I just fucking do a thing and people call it a writing. It’s not something I do. It’s just in me, like breathing. Or eating. Or kissing someone I really want to kiss. I don’t know.
I just know, I want to help.