Blood in the Water
I am damned near delirious at this point from yet another night of all-too-brief, constantly-interrupted sleep, but I did write a quick poem/story this morning (it seems like a lot of my personal poems even are turning into stories. I still call them poems though because they're written in free-verse, but yeah. Interesting), so I guess my being awake didn't go completely to waste. This one's about the early evolution of my anxiety disorders & depression, targeted especially at the years between ten & twenty-two, and with a special emphasis on my social anxiety disorder.
Note: Before we jump in to my verbosity, I have a couple lines I need to cite. The first is "each smiling scene", which came from the song Rock, Paper, Scissors by Ani Difranco (which is very fitting since I used to listen to that song all the time back then), and the second are the final two lines in my piece, which were loosely inspired by the dialogue in this scene from the episode "My So-Called Angels" on My So-Called Life. And btw how old do I feel when I realize that show was on twenty years ago? VERY OLD. How is it possible that anything from my adolescence happened twenty years ago? What am I, in my thirties?!...oh, right.)
All right, ready? Let's get our read on:
---
It came on slowly,
then all at once
like a silent countdown
to a violent explosion.
Insidious cracks
spreading wide,
red flags frowning in the distance.
The signs were there;
of that there was no doubt.
It's just that no one told us where to look.
I always said that I was fine.
I perfected my facade so tirelessly --
people suspected, but had no idea.
They couldn't possibly know the depths
to which I would fall.
It started out with hidden compulsions
and all-encompassing panic,
inexplicable dread seeping into each smiling scene;
daydreams
of running away at ten years old,
not to live a brand new life,
but just to disappear in the hills somewhere
and inevitably fade away.
I had no concept of death or finality,
but I knew I already wanted
to be done.
To escape.
By the time I was in high school,
my secret self had become my shadow,
and I dragged it along with me wherever I went.
On the surface,
I was determined,
strong,
and outgoing.
The class clown
who made it okay to laugh at her
because she'd do it first.
Intimidating, if at times neurotic,
I had almost everyone fooled,
including myself.
(If you're willing to tell a little truth, people are more likely to believe the lie.)
But the chinks in my armor were beginning to show.
Sometimes I worry about you...your mom used to shake like that.
It's amazing how easily
a cliff can sneak up on you.
I was on the honor roll,
an easy straight-A student most of my life,
but I began missing school more & more.
For a good six months,
my teachers took me at my word
that I had it all under control.
They knew I wasn't a liar.
What they didn't know
was that it's easy to lie
if you believe it's the truth.
My childhood migraines had evolved from once-a-week
to once-a-day --
my own personal alarm clock.
(Wake up! You're running out of time!)
I was sleeping my life away
in more ways than one.
I could only get my homework done with headphones on,
music turned up as loud as I could stand it
to drown out the constant fighting upstairs.
Sometimes no one even noticed
if I was home.
My mom did try though,
as best she could.
She had her own nervous breakdown to wrangle.
But she noticed my gradual disintegration
and pressed me for details.
Did I want to talk to someone?
No.
The subject was closed
for the time being.
Meanwhile, I was thinking more & more
about death.
I was increasingly terrified --
of little things,
of big things,
of everything.
I went from being a lauded public speaker
to someone who couldn't raise her hand
if people were near.
Strangers,
friends,
family;
it didn't matter,
though strangers were the worst.
Why do you even care what strangers think of you?
My high school was my true home,
my port
in the storm.
When it came to an end,
the sharks began to close in.
There was blood in the water,
and I'd forgotten how to swim.
Crosswalks stretched for miles
in front of my eyes.
What if my legs trembled uncontrollably,
and I collapsed in front of all those cars?
I couldn't show up to half of my college classes on time
for fear of signing my name on the attendance sheet.
What if my hand shook, and people saw?
What would they think of me?
(weird)
(crazy)
(damaged goods)
It was all about control
& shame,
tiny details blown entirely out of proportion,
but the fear was all too real --
as visceral as a hurricane.
My mind had rendered me virtually immobile.
I was so afraid of being found out
for who and what I really was.
I took it for granted that I knew
my own worth,
or lack thereof.
One day my psychologist asked me why
I felt so inferior,
and I asked him why the sky was blue.
No one asks why the Earth is round.
It just is.
The only things I had going for me
had been taken away.
I didn't recognize myself anymore.
My life had become a senseless maze,
and I had little hope of ever being found.
I was too anxious & sad to go out,
too depressed & lonely to stay in.
I couldn't even smile properly --
my face felt frozen & crooked,
jittery
as if it were riding an electric current.
To this day, I struggle to pose comfortably for even the happiest of photos.
Open-mouthed smiles are impossibly awkward.
In time,
I began to believe my life had one of two destinations:
the hospital
or the grave.
As it would turn out,
I wasn't wrong.
(One down; one to go)
But what I couldn't imagine
was the life that would take place in between.
It hasn't been an easy journey --
three steps forward, two steps back.
Occasionally two steps forward & three steps back.
But all these years later,
I'm still here,
still fighting.
Still raising my hand
and crossing the street.
Such are the little triumphs
that others could never understand.
(Some days it's enough just to get out of bed)
I don't always have hope,
but I want to.
I try my very best
to at least hope
for hope.
Surely, that has to count for something.
If you look closely, you'll see
that the red flags fly at half-mast
for all those carried away by the tide.
There but for the grace of God...
Go I?
---
Fin
Note: Before we jump in to my verbosity, I have a couple lines I need to cite. The first is "each smiling scene", which came from the song Rock, Paper, Scissors by Ani Difranco (which is very fitting since I used to listen to that song all the time back then), and the second are the final two lines in my piece, which were loosely inspired by the dialogue in this scene from the episode "My So-Called Angels" on My So-Called Life. And btw how old do I feel when I realize that show was on twenty years ago? VERY OLD. How is it possible that anything from my adolescence happened twenty years ago? What am I, in my thirties?!...oh, right.)
All right, ready? Let's get our read on:
---
It came on slowly,
then all at once
like a silent countdown
to a violent explosion.
Insidious cracks
spreading wide,
red flags frowning in the distance.
The signs were there;
of that there was no doubt.
It's just that no one told us where to look.
I always said that I was fine.
I perfected my facade so tirelessly --
people suspected, but had no idea.
They couldn't possibly know the depths
to which I would fall.
It started out with hidden compulsions
and all-encompassing panic,
inexplicable dread seeping into each smiling scene;
daydreams
of running away at ten years old,
not to live a brand new life,
but just to disappear in the hills somewhere
and inevitably fade away.
I had no concept of death or finality,
but I knew I already wanted
to be done.
To escape.
By the time I was in high school,
my secret self had become my shadow,
and I dragged it along with me wherever I went.
On the surface,
I was determined,
strong,
and outgoing.
The class clown
who made it okay to laugh at her
because she'd do it first.
Intimidating, if at times neurotic,
I had almost everyone fooled,
including myself.
(If you're willing to tell a little truth, people are more likely to believe the lie.)
But the chinks in my armor were beginning to show.
Sometimes I worry about you...your mom used to shake like that.
It's amazing how easily
a cliff can sneak up on you.
I was on the honor roll,
an easy straight-A student most of my life,
but I began missing school more & more.
For a good six months,
my teachers took me at my word
that I had it all under control.
They knew I wasn't a liar.
What they didn't know
was that it's easy to lie
if you believe it's the truth.
My childhood migraines had evolved from once-a-week
to once-a-day --
my own personal alarm clock.
(Wake up! You're running out of time!)
I was sleeping my life away
in more ways than one.
I could only get my homework done with headphones on,
music turned up as loud as I could stand it
to drown out the constant fighting upstairs.
Sometimes no one even noticed
if I was home.
My mom did try though,
as best she could.
She had her own nervous breakdown to wrangle.
But she noticed my gradual disintegration
and pressed me for details.
Did I want to talk to someone?
No.
The subject was closed
for the time being.
Meanwhile, I was thinking more & more
about death.
I was increasingly terrified --
of little things,
of big things,
of everything.
I went from being a lauded public speaker
to someone who couldn't raise her hand
if people were near.
Strangers,
friends,
family;
it didn't matter,
though strangers were the worst.
Why do you even care what strangers think of you?
My high school was my true home,
my port
in the storm.
When it came to an end,
the sharks began to close in.
There was blood in the water,
and I'd forgotten how to swim.
Crosswalks stretched for miles
in front of my eyes.
What if my legs trembled uncontrollably,
and I collapsed in front of all those cars?
I couldn't show up to half of my college classes on time
for fear of signing my name on the attendance sheet.
What if my hand shook, and people saw?
What would they think of me?
(weird)
(crazy)
(damaged goods)
It was all about control
& shame,
tiny details blown entirely out of proportion,
but the fear was all too real --
as visceral as a hurricane.
My mind had rendered me virtually immobile.
I was so afraid of being found out
for who and what I really was.
I took it for granted that I knew
my own worth,
or lack thereof.
One day my psychologist asked me why
I felt so inferior,
and I asked him why the sky was blue.
No one asks why the Earth is round.
It just is.
The only things I had going for me
had been taken away.
I didn't recognize myself anymore.
My life had become a senseless maze,
and I had little hope of ever being found.
I was too anxious & sad to go out,
too depressed & lonely to stay in.
I couldn't even smile properly --
my face felt frozen & crooked,
jittery
as if it were riding an electric current.
To this day, I struggle to pose comfortably for even the happiest of photos.
Open-mouthed smiles are impossibly awkward.
In time,
I began to believe my life had one of two destinations:
the hospital
or the grave.
As it would turn out,
I wasn't wrong.
(One down; one to go)
But what I couldn't imagine
was the life that would take place in between.
It hasn't been an easy journey --
three steps forward, two steps back.
Occasionally two steps forward & three steps back.
But all these years later,
I'm still here,
still fighting.
Still raising my hand
and crossing the street.
Such are the little triumphs
that others could never understand.
(Some days it's enough just to get out of bed)
I don't always have hope,
but I want to.
I try my very best
to at least hope
for hope.
Surely, that has to count for something.
If you look closely, you'll see
that the red flags fly at half-mast
for all those carried away by the tide.
There but for the grace of God...
Go I?
---
Fin