by Janae Gamaraor, trying to explain my depression to my parents—again do you remember when it was fall? i tried to tell you that i have depression, that i’m not eating, that i feel nothing, and you brushed me off. told me i was being dramatic. told me i needed to make some friends. right now -- i just need you to listen. in the era of the unbecoming, i am not myself. i am in my bed, always. i am in my room and never leave; the thought of meeting someone new is so unbearable that i'd rather just confront nothing except my own face staring back at me in the mirror. i can’t recognize who i have become. mom, my depression is a bear, only i don't know what kind of bear it is and i can't remember if you're supposed to play dead or run away so some days i do both. it's always the wrong choice. my depression is not the type of bear that hibernates. it is always hungry, always yearning for something i cannot give. it is always snarling, angry and larger than me. it never rests. it turns my body into a battle, me against bear, me against animal. it is winter and i want to claw my way out of my skin. no, papa, you're not getting it: if my life is a circus, then my depression is a tightrope act, except i'm not a professional tightrope walker. so most days i'm low. i mean -- i’m falling. i am falling into myself and i don't know how to stop and sometimes i don't even want to. it is spring and i am tired of putting in work and work and work and becoming smoke, all this impossible escape trapped inside a body. you're not listening to me. what about this? my depression is a drain. my depression is a drain and i am an earring, lost in its vastness, always falling, always trying to fight against the current and make my way back up. it is an exhausting battle and i can't even remember who i was without this. it is summer and i’m still here, existing in the yuck of it. i want so badly to want to be alive, and i want to be someone you’ll be proud of but i don’t know how. i need you to understand what i mean when i talk about my depression because i can't keep fighting this battle alone. i want you to know what i mean when i say i couldn't make it to class or i can't get a job. i need your understanding. i need your patience. please, i need your help.
0 Comments
by Lydia WeinbergerContent warning: mentions of self harm Dear Anthony Bourdain, The day you died I sobbed in front of my boyfriend’s family. He pulled me aside and I thought he must be lying: You were this immortal sex god in my eyes, One of the reasons I tried weed and still feed myself on a semi-regular basis. The reason I applied to CIA, and the reason I knew I wouldn’t go. My parents and I watched every single one of your shows, Up until when you killed yourself. CNN put the last ones out as tribute but I have enough ghosts following me already. Sometimes I make poor life decisions and feel like you would be proud-- I joined a non-denominational coven. I got so drunk on Simchat Torah I danced in the middle of the street with an ultra-Orthodox rabbi. Dear Anthony Bourdain, In an interview you said that you quit smoking so you could “Live longer for your daughter.” Most people would say that was bullshit. I know that wasn’t bullshit. I know staying alive for other people is the flimsiest thing in the world, And you truly believed your love for your daughter was the exception to that. I used to lie awake at night and cry, thinking about my parents finding my body. But it didn’t make me less suicidal-- It made me feel guilty. Dear Anthony Bourdain, When older people kill themselves it scares me, Like I might spend my whole life fighting and cycling through, Only to find myself with the same inevitable ending. In the weeks after you killed yourself I threw away my shaving razors; My boyfriend asked me if he should take me to the hospital. But two days ago he saw me first and told me my eyes light up when I see him. I want them to keep lighting up, more than I want to stay alive “for” him. Dear Anthony Bourdain, On my upper thigh I have a space reserved for one of your quotes. “As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly; you leave marks behind, however small.” Dear Anthony Bourdain, Thank you. |
AuthorAll our submissions are by different authors. They chose to submit their artwork, but please do not re-post artwork without the permission of the creator. ArchivesCategories
All
|