it has to get better

you are the crash. and you are the burn. you are hypnotic blankets, you are the monochrome sun, watching as the world burns.

you are the snap, and the crackle, and the pop. you’re fine one moment and the next… you’re not.

your heart pounds. and you think you’re giving up. you have wanted nothing more in your life than for this. to. stop.

***

i will wake up to the drone of my alarm. and i will lie in bed, for what could be a few minutes. or what could be hours on end.

i will crawl out onto the floor. scroll through my phone, and always leave wanting more.

i will stare in the mirror, maybe just a little dizzy. i will make a mental list, of all the parts of myself i should probably fix. but i’m busy, busy, busy…

so i will put on a nice dress. i will ignore the dying tulips; the wilting rosemary out back. i will stare out the window on the ride to school. and i will do my best not to notice the crack of lighting down my skull. like a discount heart attack.

but it won’t last forever. right? i mean, it has to it has to it has to get better


This piece is very experimental, and maybe a bit weird, but I was in a pretty weird place when I wrote it. (Around mid-September, I think.) I was going through withdrawal symptoms, as I very poorly went off my meds. (Because apparently you shouldn’t just go cold turkey on a medication you’ve been taking for over a year, after halving your dose for two days. Who would have thought?!)

I’ve never experienced side effects, or any kind of withdrawal from medication. So although I knew it was technically a possibility, I didn’t think it would happen to me. But it did. The symptoms lasted about two weeks, but it was one of the hardest, longest, strangest two weeks I’ve ever had.

It plunged me into depression, for most of that time period. I got dizzy whenever I stood up, my mind was slow and sluggish–which absolutely drove me insane–and about every five seconds, these weird zaps went through my whole body–a bit like shivering, but if you shivered in your brain too, and your heart started pounding. Honestly, the scariest thing was that I couldn’t find good information from a medical professional on what I was supposed to do, or when this would stop–and for a while, I didn’t even realize what it was. Even once I did, I was too ashamed to tell anyone for a bit.

I had no idea when it was going to end, if this was messing up my brain long term, and I just felt so out of control. Eventually, I owned up to the fact I had gone off my meds wrong, and asked my mom to talk to a pharmacist, and a few days after that, I started to feel a little bit better.

So, in conclusion kids: do lots of research, talk to your pharmacist before you go off your meds, not just your family doctor on a phone appointment, in which his cell reception was so bad you could only make out every fifth word. (Although, to be safe, you should probably do that too.)

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

be patient with me, will you?

i fucked it up. didn’t i?

i threw my last chance away. i let arrogance get the best of me. because i’m tired, and messy, and i never mean what i say. because i make mountains from molehills. because i didn’t exactly… give it my all, today.

because today, i ripped myself to shreds for entertainment. since there wasn’t anything else on the menu. i watched tv until 2am. because that’s what normal, happy people do.

and i set my alarm anyway. i woke up feeling like shit. and so i made myself a coffee. and i cried, a little bit. because i think the world is ending. because i still can’t bring myself to admit… that i’m not your poster child. not your hero.

that i’m tired of playing the adult; when i’m the youngest in the room. i’m tired of overcompensating for other people’s mistakes, i’m tired of staying up late. i’m tired of telling them what to do.

and for all the times these words have been twisted from my throat; clawed hands and messed up jokes, i’m so fucking sorry. from every square inch of my tattered, ragdoll body.

i’m sorry i hurt you. i’m sorry i’m awkward, and confused. i’m sorry, because i’m still learning. how to cradle myself like a little fucking baby. and sing myself to sleep, like my mom used to. it just doesn’t come naturally. but i’m a good learner.

so just… be patient with me, will you?

i lie down in the bathtub while the shower’s still running

trigger warning: depictions of depression


you can’t do it. steam chokes my lungs. an endless stack of spiral notebooks, all filled up with half-baked dreams, and ideas, and things i must become. i kill a plant, and find a crack in my favourite coffee cup.

oh come on. you’re being pathetic. i scroll through my phone for hours; and black out at 2am. i can’t stop comparing myself, and i push away my friends.

but… it’s not like they wanted to see you anyway. i’ve been wearing this same outfit for days now. and i wish i could tear my skin out like old carpet, but i don’t know how. so instead, i chug yet another caffeinated beverage. i electrocute this wayward body into place. and i will work myself out of the abyss; i’ll do whatever it takes.

but i’m too tired to give a shit right now. so i cry when i lose my keys. i forget to make lunch, until my stomach screams; too busy drowning out my thoughts in ripped-up sheets of paper, and furious journal entries.

so i lie down in the bathtub while the shower’s still running. because i don’t think i have it in me to stand up.

i grab a hammer from the shed. and smash my favourite coffee cup.

bonfire girl

i hope you gather my cinderblock bones. strike the match, and set them all alight.

and it’s fine. it’s all right. i was going to burn eventually; my kindling lips sending sparks up into night. but i hope that you blaze with me. i hope you wonder why.

i hope you know, how you’ve hurt me. how you’ve sucked me dry. i hope you know, that i still see you in the corner of my vision; sometimes.

i hope the dreary neighbourhood grinds your soul to dust. i hope you spend years relearning what it means to trust. i hope you know that you broke me.

and i hope you give a damn. hope you learn someday, that love is not a battering ram. i hope you’re angry. because i sure am.

and i hope you lie awake at night. as the autumn leaves slowly bury you alive. and maybe then, you’ll understand what it feels like to be paralyzed. i hope you miss your shot. i hope the basement floods this winter.

i hope you rot.

i make a home between the warning signs

the apple tree leaves sway in the breeze. and i want to cry, because it’s been a week since i’ve actually fucking let myself sleep. because i forgot what happy people are supposed to do.

so yeah. maybe i let them get under my skin. let them grovel, and pray. let them barter, and pursue. maybe i did it for the money, but… wouldn’t you?

maybe i let them pull the wool over my eyes; turned over a thousand leaves in my mind. wondering why none of them felt new.

maybe i find myself between the lines. chart it all out in rhythm, and rhyme. i make a home between the warning signs. because… i have to.

close my eyes, and crash into the hillside; a mess of battle wounds. and i beg the sun, in all its might, to make me anew.


I’m sure this poem could be better, but this is all the editing I have time for right now. It’s been a long day–it’s been a long month, honestly. With work, and school, and writing, and basic hygiene/cooking/cleaning, and maintaining a very minimalist social life, there just isn’t much time left over. Some days, I like that–because I thrive off of work. Without something to focus on, my mind just kind of short-circuits.

But at the same time, I get tired, after a while.

And at first, that’s all it is. Tired. It’s lethargy; lying around in bed for half an hour longer than I needed to. It’s sleeping through twelve alarms. It’s crying when I burn onions, or lose the keys or what have you. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, that mild state of depression is all it is ever amounts to. But more often than not, I find myself just feeling… empty. And hopeless. I cry when I read the news, and I think about death all the time. I try to keep up, with the neverending list of things to do, but I just can’t. And without something to focus on, I spiral further and further, until at some point, I panic; because I’ve just spent the past seven hours watching TV, Youtube, or generally frittering my time away, it’s 9pm, and I have a whole day’s worth of work to get through. Which undoubtedly leads into the frenetic typing, the constant working from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed; always biting off more than I can chew, and freaking out every time something goes the slightest bit wrong. In this state, I constantly feel guilty; take responsibility for things I didn’t even do. And eventually, I burn out; repeating the cycle all over again.

Every two days, to two weeks, I get maybe at least an hour an at most a day of buffer time. Time, when I’m just okay; when the chemicals in my brain aren’t making everything a struggle. And it’s nice. But it’s not enough.

Sometimes, I see what other people are up to. And, not gonna lie, I get jealous. Because how is it fair, that they can just do these amazing things, that I want so desperately, without this level of fallout as a result? If I didn’t have to spend so much of my life panicking because of a slightly awkward conversation, or crying because it feels like my life is hopeless, what would I be doing right now?

But it’s just hypothetical. Just a fantasy in my head. The reality is–at least for now–this is my life.

I have made a home between the warning signs. Not because I want to–but because right now, I don’t have any other options.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings