It’s been a while, I know. I have major depression which comes and goes for me and it has come again.
I have not been able to do much of anything for a month, though I have learned over the years to overcome eventually. At first it was too hard to think, or write, or be coherent. I have been afraid to put words down for weeks. This time, it has been really bad. Worse than I have experienced in years. I’ve been so frightened by it that I haven’t wanted to try to write – one – word.
But then the truth, it sits inside me stewing and I have to try to get it out of me. This poem is truthful, but now I believe I am starting to come out of it. But if you’re the praying type please do. I don’t really think this poem is finished but I needed it out.
a thousand conspirators
The devil with his fist is pressing on my soul
while a thousand conspirators chant in my head.
Deceit is their only aim.
They laugh at my impotence.
They dance away with my heart.
I cannot breath.
I cannot clear my mind.
I can only listen to their lies. And surrender.
I do not understand this affliction.
Or fathom why it chooses me.
With my heart constantly racing. Jolts of fear come, and come again.
This is what depression brings.
It comes when I am least expecting it. When I imagine I am good. When life is safe.
When I am well.
I fear it is me. That I can not heal.
That my head and heart have learned
only this path.
That isolation will always be my companion.
When I am depressed I feel inept, frantic. Heavy as sand.
When I am depressed
I can’t think or do what needs doing.
I no longer pray. There is no universal truth. No god.
I have lost my sense of wonder.
I am tired. Frequently angry, disoriented.
Dizzy with feelings of defeat.
Disappointed in myself, because depression always returns. Wondering if it will ever end?
Will this hell ever end?
For a moment this cry becomes a lifted prayer, every detail of the noise in my head.
With the utmost of my attention and effort
momentarily, I believe.
I surrender the fear. The disbelief. The weakness. My Doubts.
I loosen the two-fisted grip I have on my sanity. I hope.
But How? How does letting go of my frailty
do that? I have no answer.
I grasp for healing
because there is no cure.
This affliction of mine
is pure misery.
If I could give it away would I? Not to anyone that I know, not even an enemy.
If I cannot bear it how could anyone else? Not that I am better, but
in all of it, for reasons unknowable to me, it is mine. I accept this.
I no longer wish, or cry, or pray it away from me.
And in a moment, in a miracle,
a glimmer of faith returns. I do not feel
quite so alone. Nor do I sense
the devil with his fist pressing on my soul.