The Turning Wheel

I want his brain so bad. John Mayer might have let a lot of shit erupt from his mouth, but he’s also the creator of so many beautiful things. Words, songs, thoughts – his mind is incredibly attractive.

I haven’t binged on his stuff in a very long time. Now, as I’m going through this period of grieving I find myself back here and I’m incredibly nostalgic, but also content.

I miss her, and yeah I walked through the door today and expected to see her waiting there for me. Sure, upon that realisation I was filled with an intense sorrow and longing, but part of me is glad in knowing that she’s no longer in pain. I don’t know whether there’s a life after this, or a place that we go to meet again. Nor do I know whether living things have souls or not. All I know is that she’s no longer here with me any more. I have a hope that there will be a time where I will be able to see her again. There’s a lot that I know now that’s she’s gone and it sucks, and if I had my chance I’d go back and make sure she received the care that she needed. Whether that was a premature end to her suffering, I don’t know. Things like this happen for a reason I believe. At least I was there when it was her time to go. Surely if it was not now it would have been in 5 years. The thought of losing her at a time in which I could not be there troubles me more than the current fact. I was there for her, I held her, and the bond that we had was still there even at the very end. She may have just been a cat but to me she was much more. Goodnight, my old friend; you will be dearly missed.

“You can find me, if you ever want again
I’ll be around the bend, I’ll be around the bend
I’ll be around, I’ll be around
And if you never stop when you wave goodbye
You just might find if you give it time
You will wave hello again
You just might wave hello again”

I am proud of myself in this though. I am proud in my determination and my resilience. I’m proud of myself for admitting this and admitting my grief, no matter how silly I feel. I am amazed by the maturity that has come in just four years. I remember reflecting very early in 2014, on my grandmothers death. Her death was a catalyst for all that happened, the good and the bad. All that is happening and what will happen. Her death has shaped the way my life has turned out, and will turn out. It’s in the small instances in which one pair of lungs stops breathing, that another breathes it’s very first breath. I find comfort in that. It took me years of ignoring my faults. I spent years in recluse, thinking about what I wanted to be. I created fantasies of grandeur and lived to dream. I avoided my selfishness and the amount of disrespect and disregard that my grandmother was dealt with by my own hand. I was never there for her. I ran away.

I feel like I have come full circle, but this time I have the maturity, the love and the strength to truly say goodbye. I am not 250% better than I was this time 4 years ago, but I have grown and whilst I still may hold the same faults and failures, they like scars have very much filled in, however completely, and faded as I have grown and adjusted to my life.

I thank life, whatever that means, for giving me the chance to have crossed paths with so many souls and to have been loved by them and in turn, been given the chance to love them. There mightn’t be more to life than this, but I wouldn’t take any thing or any of it back.

So now, I wave goodbye to one, and await eagerly to greet another. I will not get her back and I do not want a replacement. Whom or what I may now be greeting I do not know, but if it’s anything like what I’ve now left behind, it will be well worth my while. I will hold no regrets or stop my movement. Truly, that’s just the way that this wheel keeps working now.

Advertisements

No Tumblr, That’s Not OCD

No. OCD is ritualistic behaviours and habits that are created in order to soothe one’s certain persisting anxieties and or fear. For example: a person who has a cleanliness based OCD who is afraid of something being contaminated with germs; they will come up with ways in order to avoid that from happening as much as possible. For example they will not touch dirty laundry, railings or doorknobs with their hands. They might meticulously and constantly wash their hands to the point where the skin becomes raw and in a very poor and unprotected state. These behaviours are compulsive and can lead to a very large portion of the person’s life being swallowed up by those habits. Take another example of a manifestation of OCD nicknamed ‘the checker’: these people will check and recheck and make sure everything is okay and will not go about whatever they were doing until they have done so. It stems from an irrational and debilitating fear that something bad might happen if this isn’t done or they don’t do this. For example: when I was a kid, probably as young as 5, I had to say goodnight to my parents. Every night. If I did not, I was not be able to sleep whatsoever because if I didn’t I was convinced that something disastrous would happen and I would deeply regret it. It sounds incredibly idiotic now and definitely embarrassed me (and continues to do so), when I’d reflect on those years when I got a little older. At the time the fear was very real. OCD is not just some ‘clean person thing’ it is a very serious mental illness that has the ability to destroy people’s lives and even possibly end them in worst case scenarios. Sometimes it can manifest in small ways and is relatively easy to control like mine was and is. Other times it does get to the point where a person’s life is completely devastated by it. It’s not something to take lightly or misidentify.
So for all the confused 15 year old girls on Tumblr: no that’s not OCD that’s just a really mild case of OCPD. 

Dear Stigma:

I have depression, general anxiety disorder and a whole other buffet of various anxieties. But my depression’s always been the one that embarrassed me most. There was a reason why I was always afraid to even utter the word ‘depression’ let alone admit to my own depression that it did in fact exist.

About a year ago now, I was eerily close to suicide. I was prepared and willing to swallow boxes of all the various prescription only medications I had at my disposal. Sure, I know, I know, overdoses are the most common form of suicide, yet wield the least ‘successful’ results. That’s right, I did my research. But you see, I had an ace up my sleeve. I’d been diagnosed with ADD as a kid and still take the medication when needed. With the anti depressants I had already owned, the ADD medications, sleeping tablets and various pain killers I was sure I was at an advantage when compared to my adversaries. I, funnily enough was not strong enough to follow through. I went to sleep that night giving myself an ultimatum and left it all to chance. It takes a certain strength to willingly end your life. It’s strange to say given the stigma, but it’s true. To put the gun to your head is on thing, but to pull the trigger is another. 

I spent the next couple of months weaving in and out of psychiatrist appointments and psychologist, the lot and in secret taking my frustrations out on my arm with various items. One desperate attempt included a pen lid.

I often hide my arm under a sleeve. I am ashamed still that I had come to that. Every so often with a liberal and forgetful, tantalisingly human movement of my arm in which my sleeve falls down to wherever it may. Whenever I catch someone glancing at my arm. Whenever I feel vulnerable I feel ashamed at myself.

I however have chosen to push past the embarrassment. Every time I feel a situation calls for it I bring out the obligatory speech which explains my history and eventually extends the hand to those who need it. To those I suspect might be in a similar boat to what I had been. The stigma itself is terrifying. 

It is the stigma associated with it that made me feel so weak for succumbing to it, in bowing down and bending to it’s will. It is the reason why I fell so far. The stigma must go. I refuse to stop being open about my experiences until all are comfortable in having the conversation. 

The Last Letter – A Poem

 Once I loved
A soul I hated
For my heart he painted
The colour of gold

The crows they grew
Walking along the creases
Bordering those ageing, emerald eyes

His thin lips they smiled
Showing the years of laughter
Forming those obvious little lines
However, smothered by his salty stubble

His calloused hands
Clutching mine all those years ago
In painful silence we witnessed
The landslide as it fell

His coffee stained hair
Cut short and fluffy to touch
Forever only dusted with hints of silver
Which he had always wanted

Pity, how his eyes would quickly darken
And his hair turn to grease
His hands turn to bones
Only held up by the veins

I watched as the man I loved slowly turn to dust
Aching to be cradled in the comforting arms of God
And; It was all my fault

I remember the day he acted
Upon those tempting thoughts of hatred
Staining that old library door

His green eyes shone no more
His thin lips showed no expression
His face was cold and numb
He hung from the ceiling
As he welcomed Death’s greedy grip

I crumpled to that cursed floor
Waves of sorrow flooded through the inconsolable bellows
Those salty tears forever stained on my lips

I looked up, to the broken man before me
The man with the laughter lines hidden behind his bushy beard
I leaned in for one last kiss
A loud sob in every breath
I had never wanted this

I look over past his shoulder
To his well-loved mahogany desk
A glance of white, a note I see
In his writing, addressed to me:

“Once I loved
A soul I hated
For my heart she painted
The colour of gold”