I miss you (poem)

How time keeps traveling
while life keeps altering
until the worlds in my mind
erase my absence, in movie
reels to guide me back

moments before I left.


Running out of stories

Most times, I write my own meaning. Turn feelings into thoughts into words into art. Document how I move, to know that I am. I don’t know how else to make sense of me and I don’t know how else to carry the weight of life. I write in my head and I write on paper and I write in my dreams; as long as I narrate my life, I am safe. But some times, I run out of stories to tell myself. Some times I tumble down where even my stories cannot protect me; some times I feel as if I will stop existing – but I won’t.

Without my words, I ache. The world feels ugly and raw. But some times, with my every nerve, all that I am – I just feel.

And, live, until I can write again,

Why bother?
“Because I breathe.”

– Bernard Malamud

I feel empty

Such a typical Borderline thing. Sometimes my moods just plummet through the floor, deeper; all I can do is watch. Or, is it a mood if all I can think of to describe it is: the absence of mood. I cannot pinpoint a specific reason. I am a hollow shell. I am non-existent. I am a human phantom.

I want to go away.

I am none of these things but I feel: I feel the whole world I feel nothing.

My emotions feel like seas in which to float or almost drown. Intertwine and move away again. Now I wander through dried-up plains, non-moving. I can shape the water but I cannot shape the drought.

My moods creeps through the cracks of my skull until they are everywhere. Fill me with absence. I drip invisibly out of myself; I am worthless, I am no one.

But: I am, I feel

And: If my destiny is written in the stars, I will draw my universe.

How recovery feels for me

Summary: I’m recovering, it takes forever, I thought it would be Grand but it isn’t, it’s very weird, pretty fascinating, and also quite boring.

When my mind finally collapsed on me, I didn’t believe that things would (or could) ever get better. I saw ‘recovery’ as some blissful turning point after which all my Issues would be Dealt With, and then I would collect my Certificate of Normalcy and go on my merry way, being Recovered for the rest of my life. I didn’t ever see that happening. Now, some nine years later, well, that didn’t happen indeed. Something else has happened though, something that comes a little bit closer to the actual meaning of recovery:

It’s kinda frightening and kinda exciting and very strange. I used to dance and dangle on the edge of death having to do all kinds of stuff merely to stay alive. It was very grand and very exhausting. I never had to think – and so I never thought – about why I was there because I was always very busy simply staying there, not falling of. Now I’m just, I don’t know, in some field. I still have no idea why I’m here or what I’m doing, but I’m just rolling with it I suppose. Something that I find pretty hard to come to terms with: it’s kinda boring. Being alive is just my state of being now (which, incidentally, is also what being alive means, I might add). In general, I think, people dislike and mostly try to avoid boredom because it makes them feel things; recovery is some kind of existential boredom that makes me feel all these feelings (pleasant and not) that is life, and it can no longer be avoided. Nothing happens when I let go. Sometimes I let go expecting some Grand Epic Scene to ensue, and there I am. In my field. Well, then.

The constant adrenaline of growing up in a disruptive environment and/or of spending your time in your own exciting little life-and-death world is addicting, and it feels very empty when that falls away. I felt as if there was nothing left of me, as if I was evaporating into thin air. Of course, 1,5 years later, I am still here, which is to say that there was, in fact, something left of me. I just didn’t feel it. Life, when you just let it happen, is pretty mundane, and so recovery is too. It’s a process during which your symptoms just gradually diminish. There is no nice, wrapped-up ending to which one can point and say, ‘There, all better now’. To me, now, recovering feels more like a journey of learning – or trying to learn – to know and understand myself, my actions, my wishes and longings, my fears; the world and my place in it, how to deal with its crippling injustice, my cumbersome powerlessness therein; the why’s and how’s of life – in other words, something that everyone is (or should be) engaged in, some more than others. Your wrestle yourself free from whatever monsters were living in your mind and then suddenly you are stuck with these never-ending existential questions, and finding your way feels even harder than before. My mental illness has never been a solely internal discomfort; it and I are irrevocably tied to the state of our world, and it’s not a small thing that we are running from. But that’s life, and I’m tired of running.

Recovering is both the hardest and the most mundane thing I have ever engaged myself in. It’s like a place in between places. I feel as if I’ve grown up in a different world, and now I’m in this place where nothing makes sense to me, nothing is predictable and everything just does whatever the hell it wants. I can still see that other world, whenever I look in the mirror, whenever my hand makes its old-familiar way along my collarbones, whenever my gaze brushes over the blueish-white strokes on my lower left arm. Sometimes I feel a homesickness for it so overwhelming I can barely breathe. Every day, still, I have to be careful not to step back into that other world, where everything is safely organized and deadly bright. It’s getting easier, though; never easy, but easier as I slowly find my way along.  And getting used to the lack of adrenaline, it’s also getting less boring. There are a lot of small, beautiful things in my field. I just had to learn how to look.

Aletheia (poem)

My thoughts sharpen, drop entangled
to the floor and shatter
A hushed snap ringing in my ears for days
I collect fortresses of subconscious lies
to keep me warm, protect me
I do not need to feel you near me
And sometimes my poems grow so loud
I drown in their sound – but now it’s quiet,
borderline silent, and all I hear is
the wish-wash of my blood
I do not need

Today tip-toes to its nest,
to roll on its back and sleep
Mind darkens as the sun recedes
My life-long hooded companion,
divert your hollow eyes, don’t stir
I fell for you as if you were home
but you are not even you, no body
covered in black – I can’t live to believe
there is you welcoming me in death
Even when I feel your embrace

Quiet mind mumbles, covered in silence
Motion stutters and slows, suspended
I’m afraid, life: I’ll take your hand
And trust you

…with my own eyes I saw her, at Cumae,
hanging up in a jar; and whenever
the boys would say to her
‘Sibyl, Sibyl, what would you?’
she would answer, ‘I would die.’

(Petronius’ Satyricon)

Dream fragment

Howl page 46

– wading through the waters of sleep in this medial place

and time, thinking I am lucid feeling everything in reverse,

inhaling bubbles of air and absence and exhaling

everything but the words I need the most, falling through

the cracks and wrong turns I imagined and executed myself,

tumbling deformed hallways of ghosts and don’t leave me’s

and dreams are only dreams but if that is common knowledge

why don’t I feel you anymore since you left me in the night.

*illustration from Allen Ginsberg & Eric Drooker’s Howl