Collapsing & Crumbling

For a star to be born,
there is one thing that
must happen: a gaseous
nebula must collapse.

So collapse.
Crumble.
This is not your
destruction.

This is your birth.

(Written by Noor Tagouri)

——————————————————–

I am collapsing and crumbling in all sorts of ways lately. Despair and angst and anger and depression have taken over most of my waking hours. But I am still holding on to the belief that this is all leading to a new birth, just as this poem says.

I moved to a new place by myself, separated from my husband. I knew this wouldn’t solve all my problems, but living together had become toxic for us both. If I narrow it down to the basics, not have my husband to blame, how do I live my life? What do I do with it? This is what I want to see.

The beginning was wonderful. I was optimistic, happy, ready to start this new chapter. But now, inertia and procrastination have taken over.

I am not ready to end this life though. This is my karma, and I am ready to face it.

Not. My. Destruction.

A. New. Birth.

A return to writing

I want to write again. To journal again. Vent out my random musings, thoughts, ideas, attempts at poetry and other such nonsense.

One thing depression is good for: a burst of creativity.

At least, that’s how my depressions begin. Sleepless nights, anger, despair, and a desire to be more active.

 

It’s madness, this life, this chaotic life.

 

Has anyone ever learned to stop wanting approval from their parents? To love and to not seek love in return? This is my current struggle.

Humanity i love you by E. E. Cummings

I was always interested in poetry, but didn’t read e. e. cummings’ work until recently. Love it! He’s eccentric, unique, authentic, to-the-point, lyrical. “Humanity, i love you”, for example, shows his genius. Changing paragraphs in the middle of a sentence. Imagining a “soul” “dangling from a watch-chain”. Yes, we do pawn our intelligence. Yes, we do make poems in the lap of death. And cummings is the only one who sees the truth of our existence as it is.

Poets are the ultimate saviors of humanity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shops and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you

Cold feet

You don’t have to tuck in your cold feet into your husband’s warm ones at night.

There are other options.

Wear warm socks.

Place a furry cat on top of your feet, make him comfortable, and wait till he curls up to take a nap.

Squeeze your toes into that fold behind your knee.

Entangle your feet in your blanket.

Heat a water bottle, and place it at the foot of the bed.

Turn on a vaporizer in the room.

Don’t ever think that you have only one choice.

Art

I am playing around with SoulCollage lately – as art therapy.

Will post some creations soon.

 

Back-&-Forth

Day treatment again?

Spiraling downward at home.

Depression.

Panic attacks.

Morning insomnia.

Sleep all day.

No showers.

No shampooes.

No cooking.

No leaving the house.

Two tears fell today.

Gettin worse worse worse.

Feelin shitty shitty shitty.

Trying homeopathy.

New therapist.

Cymbalta continues.

Lies lies lies.

Job?

How?

Gettin fat.

Husband frustrated & angry.

Hide under the blanket,

Let me sleep, forever.

Baby sleeps

Baby sleeps on my chest

whiskers brush my nose

his nose is half-buried on my cheek

he whistles as he breathes

he twitches, in his dreams?

I try not to move

he’s curled, tucked, covered, secure

Baby sleeps on my chest

Which self?

Embracing my angry self

I scream

I yell

I retort

I explain

I argue

Embracing my depressed self

I cry

I sleep

I hide

I die

I shiver

Embracing my Buddha self

I witness

I observe

I feel

I meditate

I forgive

Embracing my non-self

I exist

discovery

Discovered today: Helping someone else, helps me. Doing something for a friend, helping her find a job, deal with some complicated issues, made me feel better too. It was a baby step out of my cocoon for me. And, after all, I am studying to be a counselor, so it was good practice.

Kind of a duh moment!

anhedonia

what do the experts call i t, anhedonia? yes, that’s how i feel (or don’t feel rather).

flat mood.

i do nothing.

but it’s another matter, that i have no desire to do anything either.

i am not severely depressed, not in the well. generally ok, laugh a little, sleep a lot, eat some, take care of myself some, of the house some. (the laughs are starting to feel made up more & more).

i am not normal, by any means, normal said with all the endnotes it needs. i am not efficient, i am not productive, i am not satisfied, i am not tired from work, i am not doing.

i am between those two. and yes, have been here before. familiar territory.

after lifelong depression, it starts to feel like a familiar coat or pair of pants that one knows every crease, touch, feel, fit, size, smell of too well.

there is a huge lack of desire to get out of this flat affect i am fighting, to take just one itty bitty tiny baby step in any direction is taking up more than i seem to be able to muster right now.

i could melt. just end. life, living, everything. and be fine. not out of any intense depression, no not out of wanting to die, just so tired of living.

if you, dear reader, have any advice, do comment.

Anicca

Curled up

at my feet

in a ball

of grey

you sleep.

There was that time

when she did, too.

If there is a Truth

in this life

it is anicca.

She left that body

and left an imprint

of her presence

on my heart.

Will you?

Note: ‘Anicca’ is the Pali language word for ‘impermanence’.

Buddha & orange flower

Serene

*This photo taken by my mom. Click to view the full image.

Planning to live

(Been so long, forgot you were here, forgot myself, but I was found.)

I live

vicariously

through you.

You paint, I plan to

You exercise, I jot it in my calendar

You apply, I bookmark

You do, I create to-dos

You cook, I survive

You clean, I manage

You are awake.

I sleep.

You live your life.

I strive to pause it,

for a moment,

to make sense of it all,

after which,

to begin

Living.

No more

I can feel your hold lifting off of me
I crave you no more

Words still pierce my heart.
Truth.

You preach and preach
Ego flourishing
Imagine yourself raised up higher than the rest of us

I look into your eyes
All I see is
a lost boy

This is the end, for me
for my attachment
for you.

Depression hurts

Two words, one phrase, one reality, one life in those two little words.

Here, in the city I live in, someone I knew well, was found shot, dead at her home two nights ago. A murder-suicide they call it. Husband/dad shot and killed wife/mother and son, nine years old. He was depressed. Maybe hopeless, hurting, and in financial trouble with no job for a year.

My dad is depressed, so lonely, talks incessantly, his thoughts confused, his mind leaping with connections that are starting to not make sense, and unable to sleep. Oh so sad to watch him in such pain.

I am depressed. My chest hurts (not metaphorically) as I breathe.

What some people had said to me as a way of cursing me or with disgust or with anger, is what I have become.

I have become my dad.

If I drown

I re-surface.

Stuck/UnStuck

Move! Get up, go, forward, just do it.

Mulling, analyzing, caught in my story, attached to my bed.

If there was a mood monitor, like those heart rate monitors next to hospital beds, mine would be a flat line right now.

Stuck. Can’t. Get. Un Stuck.

Two days and nights sleeping then one staying awake all day and all night, then two days and nights sleeping, and so on.

Housework has made me sore like I ran a half marathon. Pathetic.

I still dream of you S, but much, much less than before. When you complain about your new wife, it re-affirms for me that you didn’t make the right choice. If you are happy with her, content, I may be able to let you go completely.

A singular emotion at the bottom of it all, Fear is running my life.

Over

There is no I anymore.

This birth is ready to dissolve into nothingness.

Shut.

Bahadur Shah Zafar & his poetry

The original:

naa kisii kii aaNkh kaa nuur huuN, naa kisii ke dil kaa qaraar huuN
jo kisii ke kaam na aa sake, maiN vo ek musht-e-gubaar huuN

main nahin huun naghma-e-jaaN feza, koii sun ke mujh ko karega kya
main baRe birog ki huuN sada, maiN baRe dukhoN ki pukaar huun

meraa rang ruup bigaR gayaa, meraa yaar mujh se bichaR gayaa
jo chaman khizaaN se ujaR gayaa, main usi ki fasl-e-bahaar huun

naa to maiN kisii kaa habiib huuN, naa to maiN kisii kaa raqiib huuN,
jo bigaR gayaa vo nasiib huun, jo ujaR gayaa vo dayaar huun.

pae faatihaa koi aae kyuuN, koi chaar phuul chaRhaae kyuuN?
koi aake shamaa jalaae kyuuN, maiN vo bekasi kaa mazaar huuN

An English translation:

I’m the light of no one’s eye,
The rest of no one’s heart am I.

That which can be of use to none
-Just a handful of dust am I.

Why should they come to visit my grave
And waste upon my dust a wreath?

Why should they light a lamp at night?
The grave of helplessness am I.

I am not a soulful tune,
Why should anyone listen to it?

I’m the cry of a stricken soul,
The pain of a broken heart am I.

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