Therapeutic Balances

On Friday October 17th, I had a consultation with a new therapist because recently I’ve decided that I need help with my mental health in general because I’ve put it off for many years and I just keep thinking that quick fixes get me places.

Quick fixes in my experience, really are just quick. They aren’t fixes, but that term just seems to follow the work “quick” sometimes.

Whether it be alcohol, antidepressants or even both of those mixed together. Longboarding, writing, singing, taking walks only soothes the soul so much when you’re burying the things that need to be worked on, pushed through.

For me, I’ve been struggling with dysphoria, with staying at jobs even through the hard times and just other things that have seem to have grown.

At first, I wasn’t sure how my appointment was going to go, because I get really nervous with Psychiatrists and Therapists, professionals in a whole. I got there early, which I wasn’t sure was going to happen seeing as I had to take two transit busses and then a subway to get there and so I waited for a bit.

While I was in the appointment, I felt so free… I’m used to telling complete strangers almost my entire life in stories and poems and whatever, but with therapists, it’s a hit and miss type situation for me. I either hide many details of my life, or I spill almost way too much. This time, I spilt enough information to help me feel great about it.

One minute I want therapy, the next I don’t, but this time I have a great feeling that I’m going to finally allow myself to get the help that I need. I realize that I may never end up being okay without therapy, but I’ll never know unless I try.

Advertisements

Decaying Pathogens

My eyes are glazing over with the blossoming of the sunlight                                                                                                             Clear my gaze with the extended clarity that embarks your every move

My heart is growing weaker underneath the sweaty beating rays by the sun                                                                                        Water my slowly disintegrating stringed-together breed

My soul just keeps absorbing everything in its path amongst the destructive pathogens                                                                    Make way for the decaying bumps stemming from the root of my entire existence

My lungs want to fill up with plants instead of the oxygen that they shower the world with                                                                 Tear down the barriers that are preventing my chest from becoming lightened beneath the glowing canopies

Stringed Mind

I can’t stand straight
See forward
Breathe softly
The alcohol is calling me
But tonight, I’m answering
Only the things that don’t
Scream my name
Or cry onto me
Here I am
Attempting to
Ignore the overwhelming
Emotion
Not only is it dark
Because at some point
Even the darkness had some
Light to it
This is different
It’s never seen the sun
It’s been sitting
Cradled
Nestled within my very rib cage
Heart you guess, no
Alive you ask, no
Dead you assume, no
Existent you ponder, no
It’s not a heart
It isn’t alive
is not dead
Nor does it exist
For it is something made up
To define one’s inner self
Numb to the core, it is

Dying to come back to life
But it was never alive
Never even breathing

Yet it still somehow
Yearns for my touch
My reply
My everything

Almost giving in
I reach my fingers across
The strings
Strumming
Harder and harder
Against the guitar
Faster and faster
The more I hold it in

I’m bursting, I say
Continue to play me, it said
I’m deeply saddened, I stuttered
Have faith in me, it replied
I just want to be loved, I cried
You’ve given up on me, but I’m still here, it answered

Still I sit here, trying to think of
Something clever to tell you
To sing to you
But all of my words
Come out as jumbled as my brain

Never try to pick through all
Of the layers of anyone
For even if you do
You will wish you never had
For the secrets that lie within
Are so scarily disturbing
That even the person
Withholding this
Information
These patterns
Can’t figure out
What’s going on
Nor do they know how to
Control it

Every fear
Every diagnosis
Every label
Every disease
It somehow allows us
To stick
To define
To mould to it
Like a shape shifter

This time it’s broken
There is no liquid
To turn solid into
A blasphemous shape