Tag: mental health

Poetry

The Plague

TKG

It started on the right
Always on the right
Right in the middle
The middle of my back.

It spun around
Bigger and bigger
A black hole
In the middle of my back.

Then came the bump
A tiny, hard bump
Under the skin
And muscles in my neck.

It shot up
Like a bullet
Shocking and quick
Up to my skull
From that bump in my neck.

The bullet explodes
It becomes a bolt of lightening
Directly on the right
Right there in my skull
Behind the eyeball
On my right.

The bolt has arms
Its pulling and tugging
Its ripping through my brain
Sending waves of red
Spilling into my head.

The bump in my neck
Sends a message to my brain
Tells it to be sick
Vomit out the pain.
My brain responds back
Anxious and afraid
Accidentally telling my heart
To prepare for an attack.

The black hole in my back
Spins bigger with each throb
The throbbing subsides
And with that is born
A blade
Slicing downwards so fast
That it’s numb
Slicing the right
Into a spasm
Right down that notch
Sciatic nerve.

It started on the right
Never on the left
And it never left.

It’s black and endless
Sucking my soul
It’s red and murderous
Spilling over and under
Into wounds
Creating wounds
No one can see.

 

 

 

Poetry

Dark Dreams

TKG

Wish wish wish
Dream dream dream

But stuck in a cruel reality.

Real real real
But it feels like a reel
That’s played in the theatre
So is it really real or is it surreal
What truly is the deal
And who is truly spinning the wheel
Determining our fates
Making time a race
Or maybe erase
My face
From the mirror
So that its never clear
Or it could be the tears
Streaming, flowing, running
Out of my soul
Out of control
Defining my role
Prisoner to my mind
Victim to my crimes
Can’t cross the boundary line
Because its not mine
And never will be.

Wishing and dreaming and thinking and loving and hoping
Trapping taneet
She’s helpless and hopeless
No fight no strength
Look at her
Laugh at her
Struggling, crying, dying slowly
Watch her
Follow her
Running, hiding, dying slowly
Its a dead end
My end
At the end of the road
At the end of the rope
Trapped
Boxed in
Caged in
Like an animal
Cannibal
To my own heart
Strings like a puppet
I’m not myself
I look up to see who is responsible
The hand pushing my head in the water
Drowning me
Killing me
I’m looking
Searching
Why are they doing this
I see the tainted hand
I see the murderer
Its me
Looking down at me
Lips curled up
Crimson like the devil
l i v e d
D i e
V e i l
L i e
E v i l
Think about it
Taste it
Try it on for size
Surprised?
It doesn’t fit
The light is not lit
The shit did not hit
The fan
I ran but she caught me
Drowned me and forgot me
Left me there to rot me
Shot me
The bullet screams my name
The blood brings me to shame
The chase was all a game
Plan
It won’t work
Won’t make it better
Just write a letter
Since that’s all you know
Pathetic, never grow
Your sorrow is a show
That no one wants to watch
A blotch on a paper
The words don’t make sense
Try, but its dense
Spilled ink
Just think
Black streaks all down my face
Spilled ink spilled guts
Words everywhere
Is fear
Black blood
Drowning myself
The paper is wet
Soiled
Spoiled
Boiling brain
Draining me
Murderous, vicious
Take in the pain
Cry it out through the rain
In vain
Pulsing veins
Throbbing, beating, racing.

Open your eyes
Rise
Up from your demise
Try
Do it for them
Do it again and again
The game doesn’t end
Your heart will never mend
No friends
Just a paper and a pen
Do it again and again.

Writings

Mommy, my tummy hurts.

TKG

IMG_7993_1It wasn’t because I ate too much or too little.

It was sharp, severe, unforgiving, and in the center of my being. And it wasn’t going away.

I was just under 10 years old, and when I started to miss school because of the pain, my mom thought it was time to visit a doctor. Our family doctor set up an appointment at the hospital for me, where they would shove a long, thin tube with a little camera lens on the bottom of it, down my esophagus.

Awake through the whole procedure, scared, crying, cold from that backless hospital gown, gagging and calling out for my mom while two nurses stood above me. All I remember about them was their voices (“no, no dear, don’t do that”) and their heads floating above me, with a huge florescent light behind them. I just wanted it all to be over.

But this was just the beginning. Multiple ultrasounds followed, along with having to drink a disgusting thick goo of chalk, and finally being prescribed these large, white horse-pills for the pain.

“Reflux-esophagitis”, the doctor concluded, was the diagnosis.

I was given a booklet of all the foods and beverages I could no longer consume, and sent on my merry way.

The pain didn’t go away. It was always there. And eventually, I gave in to it and assented to it just being a part of me.

It took several years to realize and understand that the physical pain I experienced was not a result of acid reflux or poor diet. Unfortunately back then, parents and doctors were not too familiar with, nor spoke very fluidly of mental illness.

The stomach pain was a direct result of depression and anxiety.

If you had asked me to describe it when I was a child, I might have said something along the lines of, “feeling like a knife is stabbing me between my ribs.” If I ever had to guess what being stabbed felt like, perhaps this was it.

The sad thing is, that even today, twenty something years later, people still aren’t comfortable talking about depression, or any other mental illness. One of the reasons why is because not many people have been educated on it, unless they know someone they are close to who has suffered from it, or because of a relative, etc. Outside of extenuating circumstances, people just don’t talk about it or learn about it or educate on it.

I want to change that.

Starting now.

How’s your tummy feeling today?