She was another face in the crowd; a girl, not very different from yourself. She attended her classes, received decent grades, worked hard. She lived life as normally as anyone else. Except…something was different.
There was something growing deep inside her. It used to accompany her every waking and sleeping moment for years - but then, through the hand of a Power higher than herself, she was released from it. And that was a miracle.
And then that moment occurred. A moment she had never thought she would experience so soon, so close, so personally. It shattered her life. Grief came. That’s when it returned.
She had grown used to her life without it. But when it came back in a time of the harsh newness of reality, she welcomed it; a return of something familiar at last.
Crimson red.
It had only been with her for a few months…but as before, months - days, even - seemed like years. Now she could barely recall what life was like without it.
So many things ceased to exist in its presence. Genuine laughter. Emotions. Life. Instead, there was a void; a black canvas of sadness, lifelessness, apathy. She was alive, but she wasn't.
Tears of glass.
That was it then. Nothing in her life had any significance. Wake up, trudge through the day, toss and turn at night, repeat. And such was her life.
She was another face in the crowd; a girl, not very different from yourself. She attended her classes, received decent grades, worked hard. She lived live as normally as anyone else. Except…everything was different.
Tuesday 23 October 2012
Saturday 13 October 2012
Life Hasn't Been Easy
It's past three in the morning, and I'm writing because it's been too long. I still haven't determined if it's tip-toeing on the line of danger that I write my thoughts down in the still hours of the morning. I am all at once (and yet not at all) monitoring what exactly it is that I put down, yet am recording every little thing.
Where to start? There have been numerous times when I have wanted to sit down and type out my exact emotions and thoughts at an exact moment in time to discuss a reoccurring issue in my life. But in the moment it comes up, I never rush to my keyboard to begin typing. I hope it's because I'm prudent enough to wait until my emotions have settled down. Then again, it could just be the cause of not having enough energy to type it all up.
As almost always, there are so many thoughts swirling around inside my head. Being extremely tired makes it highly improbable that I'll actually write anything worth reading this time around. But for the sake of just writing again, here I am.
Life hasn't been easy. That is to say, it hasn't gotten any easier since my last significant post...back on August 15th. In fact, I suppose you could say it's gotten worse. Not that anyone would know...or notice, for that matter.
When I struggled with depression the first time, I wondered if I would ever live my life without it. I wondered what life might be like without it. And then I was delivered from it. And soon the memories of waking up with it right there with me in the morning faded. I began trying to remember what life was like with it, if only for the sake to remind myself of how I might help others who struggle with it in the future.
But ever since she left, it's come back. As I've said before, it's different. But because I haven't really done anything, it has continued to grow stronger. I suppose I ignored it, because, in a way, it was like welcoming the return of an old friend. Something I was familiar with. And I needed something familiar, in such a time of drastic change in my life.
Now, here I am. Waking up, and it's there. I've begun to despise it again. I don't feel hopeless, in the sense of never getting rid of it. To be rid of it would be a matter of choice. And I just haven't made the choice to do anything. In a way, I don't want to.
It's mixed with a deep sadness that consumes me. My heart that is permanently broken keeps me awake every night. Tossing, turning, internally restless, unable to fall asleep until at least after 2 a.m. Unable to speak of any of it to anyone.
So often people say, "My heart was broken." But they don't really mean it. Perhaps they think they do, but the phrase is overused so often. I would say it's a much smaller number of people who know what it's truly like to have a broken heart. It doesn't always have to be broken in the sense of romantic relationships, though.
Mine broke because of grief. And loss.
It is broken. There's no doubt about that. It'll never heal. Not fully, anyways. But it's there, scattered in a million pieces like a thousand ripples across a pond upset by pebbles being thrown in by children. I don't bring it up though. People wouldn't believe me, or understand, if I were to tell them I have a broken heart. Even my own parents wouldn't understand. Which is why I keep it quiet, and feel frustrated so often from them not understanding why it's so difficult for me to fall asleep. They think it's because of my sleeping habits, but it's not. It's because of a broken heart.
It's easy to write about all of this. But to talk about it is entirely different. In the past, I would occasionally talk with others about cutting (not really depression), but it wasn't very often. And it was never for very long. I've still yet to understand how I can express my thoughts so easily on paper, yet stumble over them and ending up being misunderstood when I speak them.
And it's not something that's easy to talk about anyways. I can't even talk about it with my best friend. I either have to writer her a letter, or hope she reads what I blog.
Anyways, talk won't get me anywhere. It won't help me, and it won't help the person listening. Me, stuck in this place, always bring up the same issue every time I see a friend, because nothing has changed.
I remember back when I was in high school, and there were a few people that came along every so often that I told about cutting. But I didn't talk about it often. I feel like I did, but I think that's because I either wrote or thought about it every day. And the thing is, the more you talk about something - as serious as it may be - the less people begin to listen to you. Over-talking something kills the purpose and the power behind what exactly it is you may be speaking. I suppose that's why I've decided I don't like to talk very much. Not only because words hold power, but I want people to listen to me when I open my mouth.
I suppose that's it for this time. Be warned, though, there will most likely be much repetition in future posts. If only to try and explain myself in a different way. There's so much more to say, but I want to get something out there for people to read. To possibly understand if they can. But the limitation of our experiences keep us from being able to completely understand a specific individual's position, much less even a large part of it, if we haven't gone through what they have.
Right. Enough rambling.
Where to start? There have been numerous times when I have wanted to sit down and type out my exact emotions and thoughts at an exact moment in time to discuss a reoccurring issue in my life. But in the moment it comes up, I never rush to my keyboard to begin typing. I hope it's because I'm prudent enough to wait until my emotions have settled down. Then again, it could just be the cause of not having enough energy to type it all up.
As almost always, there are so many thoughts swirling around inside my head. Being extremely tired makes it highly improbable that I'll actually write anything worth reading this time around. But for the sake of just writing again, here I am.
Life hasn't been easy. That is to say, it hasn't gotten any easier since my last significant post...back on August 15th. In fact, I suppose you could say it's gotten worse. Not that anyone would know...or notice, for that matter.
When I struggled with depression the first time, I wondered if I would ever live my life without it. I wondered what life might be like without it. And then I was delivered from it. And soon the memories of waking up with it right there with me in the morning faded. I began trying to remember what life was like with it, if only for the sake to remind myself of how I might help others who struggle with it in the future.
But ever since she left, it's come back. As I've said before, it's different. But because I haven't really done anything, it has continued to grow stronger. I suppose I ignored it, because, in a way, it was like welcoming the return of an old friend. Something I was familiar with. And I needed something familiar, in such a time of drastic change in my life.
Now, here I am. Waking up, and it's there. I've begun to despise it again. I don't feel hopeless, in the sense of never getting rid of it. To be rid of it would be a matter of choice. And I just haven't made the choice to do anything. In a way, I don't want to.
It's mixed with a deep sadness that consumes me. My heart that is permanently broken keeps me awake every night. Tossing, turning, internally restless, unable to fall asleep until at least after 2 a.m. Unable to speak of any of it to anyone.
So often people say, "My heart was broken." But they don't really mean it. Perhaps they think they do, but the phrase is overused so often. I would say it's a much smaller number of people who know what it's truly like to have a broken heart. It doesn't always have to be broken in the sense of romantic relationships, though.
Mine broke because of grief. And loss.
It is broken. There's no doubt about that. It'll never heal. Not fully, anyways. But it's there, scattered in a million pieces like a thousand ripples across a pond upset by pebbles being thrown in by children. I don't bring it up though. People wouldn't believe me, or understand, if I were to tell them I have a broken heart. Even my own parents wouldn't understand. Which is why I keep it quiet, and feel frustrated so often from them not understanding why it's so difficult for me to fall asleep. They think it's because of my sleeping habits, but it's not. It's because of a broken heart.
It's easy to write about all of this. But to talk about it is entirely different. In the past, I would occasionally talk with others about cutting (not really depression), but it wasn't very often. And it was never for very long. I've still yet to understand how I can express my thoughts so easily on paper, yet stumble over them and ending up being misunderstood when I speak them.
And it's not something that's easy to talk about anyways. I can't even talk about it with my best friend. I either have to writer her a letter, or hope she reads what I blog.
Anyways, talk won't get me anywhere. It won't help me, and it won't help the person listening. Me, stuck in this place, always bring up the same issue every time I see a friend, because nothing has changed.
I remember back when I was in high school, and there were a few people that came along every so often that I told about cutting. But I didn't talk about it often. I feel like I did, but I think that's because I either wrote or thought about it every day. And the thing is, the more you talk about something - as serious as it may be - the less people begin to listen to you. Over-talking something kills the purpose and the power behind what exactly it is you may be speaking. I suppose that's why I've decided I don't like to talk very much. Not only because words hold power, but I want people to listen to me when I open my mouth.
I suppose that's it for this time. Be warned, though, there will most likely be much repetition in future posts. If only to try and explain myself in a different way. There's so much more to say, but I want to get something out there for people to read. To possibly understand if they can. But the limitation of our experiences keep us from being able to completely understand a specific individual's position, much less even a large part of it, if we haven't gone through what they have.
Right. Enough rambling.
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