3 single tears

I remember when I was younger and I would feel this way. An overwhelming sadness due to an accumulation of things. I never knew what it was exactly that brought it on or exactly what to focus on while I was sad. Rather it was like my heart was just tired and heavy from all the crap I had absorbed. 

Back then I would lay in bed and just sob. Body heaving, snot inducing sobs. Racking my body, feeling myself shudder and shake. 

Tonight that feeling came back, welcome old friend I said to myself. I was momentarily happy as I thought about how long it’s been since I felt this way and then suddenly a sad song came on my random playlist and I sank back. 

 I laid here quietly and three tears ran from my right eye. I felt them stream down my face and felt as though I could hear them dropping onto my pillow. And that was it. 

I don’t know if I should be worried that it’s come to this. Or maybe I should be happy that I’m not as distraught as I use to be, or maybe I’m just handling things better now that I’m older. The poetic me wants to say that maybe I ran out of tears and the silly me says maybe I have to start rationing. 

Anxiety monster

Whenever I’m tired, drained physically and mentally from too much work I tend to break down in tears at the slightest provocation. They don’t have my favorite candy that I’ve been craving? Tears instantly. I wake up late for work, torrential downpour of tears. The worst part about it though is I then beat myself up for being weak. My inner voice tells me how pathetic I am and all this regret and anxiety attacks me. 
And I know all I need is a good rest and probably something to eat but I just can’t. The voice beats me down and so I can’t sleep. The depression makes me not want to get out of bed. So I’m trapped. The only thing that makes it slightly bearable is smoking weed. It makes the anxiety lessen and dulls the voice of anxiety but it’s only a quick fix and doesn’t last long. Sooner or later it comes back. All I can do is keep running. 

Anxiety

Writing keeps me level

Right now I need to be level. My heartbeat is high. My anxiety feels like a pot of water ready to boil over. When this feeling hits the only way I can let go is by hurting myself. So I cut, I punch, I bang my head against things. In the past I’ve broken a hairbrush against my head, leaving a big bump that I would touch for days afterwords. The pain being like a memory to let go. Cutting myself helped too. The sting during and after made it easier to breath, as though the tiny cuts in my arm were a tracheotomy.

Can someone convulse with stress? Is that possible. Am I overrescting. Why is it I can’t kill myself like my father. I wonder if he ever felt this way.

My mother, myself.

Most of the time I’m conscious of movements that remind me of my mother. At those moments I try to stop, isolate myself and regroup because if there is one thing I’d like not to resemble it’s my mother. It’s been a goal of mine for several years and especially in the last 4. You see I think she’s borderline bipolar. I won’t say off the bat she is because I don’t think I’m qualified to, but most people would agree.

Sometimes I wonder how she became this person and I dive into her past. Trying to explain how each shattered piece of glass that is her psyche came to be. You can blame it on a horrid childhood or a selfish withholding greedy mother. I can try to excuse her mood swings, irrationality,  paranoia and micro management on being misused, abused and generally spit on by her family and the people she’s encountered in life.

The thing that keeps me from becoming depressed about it all is the one majorly significant difference between us and that is, I won’t let the way people treat me become the reason I change. I cannot assume people will all be the same. That one jerk is interchangeable with the next. I will not let bitterness and anger slowly poison my soul like it has hers.

The heaviness of being sad

Something happened tonight. Something that made me liken myself to a balloon. I’m half filled with helium struggling to climb ever higher, but hindered by the many strings tied to the people I love. Some of those strings express things like love, contempt, guilt and sadness.

 

I sometimes wonder as a balloon if it is me and my lack of helium that keeps me from reaching the atmosphere of my desires. Or is it the people that I’ve tied myself to. I’ve tried lifting these people up with me only to be thwarted by their incessant drama.

 

So what is this lonely balloon to do? I sometimes dream that I could find someone strong enough to snip the strings and let me climb, but maybe that is a disillusion in of itself. I also dream of snipping the strings myself by way of death and so I might pop under the suns hot gaze. Guilt and hope keep me from that dream though.

That is all.

 

Goodnight from this balloon to you.