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

Nostalgia

Weathered arm outstretched.
He reaches out. His wrinkled hand holds, a desperate grasp, on the joyful age of youth. 

The vanity and the irony of his actions, he has no clue.

He wears his rose coloured glasses always; turning merry moments into quixotic memories of euphoria.

Slowly it slips away. The bitter old man seeks again for a link to yesterday. So Bittersweet.  

A lowly drug addict, he searches, looking for his high, his ecstasy; inevitably to fall, each time deeper into the pit of despair.

He spirals into an incurable depression, a nagging melancholy, the fault of his never moving on. 

He is stubborn, he is ignorant.

He is clueless, he is lost.  

He is nostalgia.

A Tangent On Love

Love isn’t like it is in the movies; as much as we wish it was. Disney lied when he said the spell could be broken only by true love’s kiss. Love, real love. Meaningful love. Love with grit and love with power, requires hard work; It requires acceptance also that nothing will be perfect. They won’t be perfect and that you won’t be perfect, and that there’s no need for perfection. Love is not something to look at through rose coloured glasses. If you want it to be right you have to accept from the start that it won’t be pretty. Once you have that clarity you can find the love that you so desire.

My Heroine – Poem

Kiss me softly love, with your metal lips. Run your teeth along my arm and bite me. Your tongue is sharp and it stings me. But, oh! How I love the sweet, sweet taste of you as you enter my veins. You make this old, broken soul rise again. My cold, dead heart feels alive again. With every pump, another wave of you surges within me. You know; I would be dead without you dear. My heroine, my heroine. My love, my love. My one and my only. Oh my heroin.

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. 

Only Sixteen

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Only Sixteen.”

I was only 16. By that time of my life I’d already learnt one of the biggest lessons of my lifetime: trust no one but yourself. 

I was alone. I’d walk the streets of the heavily graffitied city and maybe even leave a mark of my own. I was alone and I was angry. Really angry.

To my arrogance I had blamed my loneliness on my parents; with whom I had become increasingly hostile with as of late. Argument after argument. I got tired of it all so I left. Thinking I could do it all on my own. 

Ha! Pure arrogance right there. I couldn’t survive a week on the streets without turning to questionable means of survival.

You name it I can guarantee you I have done it. It was a desperate couple of months. You’d have done the same.

About a month after, on the eve of my 16th birthday I met a boy. A man it seemed. But how can one call him a man given the cowardice that was his very soul? I thought he was kind. I thought he meant all he said. Ignorance. It was all ignorance. 

I gave him comfort, food and shelter all that he needed in exchange for one thing: he’d soothe my loneliness. 

I won’t lie, he did. However momentarily. Then it all came crashing down upon me when I stumbled to the morning and reached my hand over to feel his brown hair. Nothing. There was nothing there. The bastard left. I searched around the home I had made for myself to find that a large amount of the belongings I had scoured from around town had been taken. He not only stole my trust and in turn my faith in all, but the things that I had worked so hard for.

I was sixteen. Only sixteen.

The Tale of a Serotonin Junkie – A Short Story

Ever since I was a child I’d always loved the feeling of the warm sun hitting my skin. As a teenager I’d sink my feet right into the sand as I’d wait for my skin to tan. Years later I’d always return to that same beach. A sort of pilgrimage if you will. It was a nice reminder of the beautiful earth that lay sprawled amongst the chaos of humanity’s own creation. It seems we are constantly running away from ourselves. We go to work, lead boring lives just to escape it one day. Life was made to be lived and all we seem to do is slave over it. Die before we’ve even gotten the chance to live. I guess you could say I’m still just the same free spirit that I was in my youth. Some people never change. Some realise and mature, accept their role in the world and work 9 to 5, 5 days a week. Some die young; crash and burn before they get the chance to turn 30. Others never loose that spark but remain part of the community. Then there’s me: I’ve always just been a serotonin junkie. 

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. 

Writer’s Block

Get out! Get out!
Infernal mist that shrouds my mind in confusion.
Leave me now! You pesky puck of sorts.
Writer’s block holds my pencil and pen.
It hides my paper and restrains my hands from typing.
I want to write see; but I don’t know what to write.
Even now I can feel my interest fading.
Damn you writer’s block. Damn you.

The Unwritten Rules Of Social Media #1

I just so happened to be scrolling through my Instagram last night and liked a few posts by the ‘obligatory follows’ A.K.A that one weird friend you have to follow because they followed you or that cousin you have to talk to every holiday. In doing so I realised something: there’s a sort of etiquette with social media that you have to follow or you’ll look like an ass.

Rule #1: You Must Like Even The Worst Of Photos

You must like the photo they just posted of a cheesy quote (or worse! A cheesy quote which titles a selfie *shudders*) that had more work done on it than¬†Jocelyn Wildenstein and was attacked by a barrage of crappy Instagram filters playing tag team. Regardless of whether you truly like the photo or not you must like it. I was once scrolling through Instagram and up popped a weirdly angled black and white filtered selfie captioned by the lyrics of ‘Say Something’ by A Great Big World featuring Christina Aguilera followed by a blushing emoji. Now I have no idea what the actual fuck they meant by posting that. I figure it was some ambiguous hint to friends or possible ex-boyfriend, but honestly your guess is as good as mine. Now what did I do? I liked that photo. Why did I like that photo? Because I had to. Thank you, internet. I can barely handle a social situation in real life. Now I have to abide by rules that make me feel like a moron on the Internet too? Thanks. I appreciate it.