Unzipped #1 – Worn Out Words

After another stretch of silence – for reasons unknown – I've begun writing again; pouring my soul's anguish onto both physical and online spaces.

While I don't always feel called to publish these decidedly personal missives, this one is asking to be shared.

This is the unguarded truth of my depression – the everyday reality of it.

I'm feeling just bold enough to let it be heard.

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Written yesterday, 12 February 2019:

I'm running out of metaphors – reaching for ever more accurate ways to describe the same old afflictions; terribly worn out stories of pain and struggle.

I've exhausted every simile...over-used and regurgitated each and every word. The one that rests at the center of each is simply...'sad'. Yet that's too small a term for a thing so central and significant – too...gentle and vague to house the breadth of my plaintive emotions.

Perhaps I've run out of words – maybe I've lost the sensitivity for finding new ones. Or... maybe my reach is diminished, shrunken and tired, lacking the will to stretch beyond all these spent expressions.

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Same old sorrow – same old despondence – only...it feels less and less like a 'place' I often return to and more and more like the space in which I always reside.

This feeling of 'stuckness' is nothing new, but my increasing resignation to it IS. Whatever thread I retain of 'self-preservation' is worn so thin it threatens to snap any second.

Fighting feels pointless, anyhow.

Who I am feels rather inescapable. I cannot banish a darkness that is so much a part of me.

And so....increasingly – I seem to be settling deeper into it – letting it draw me ever further in – observing a dimming of light, as though I'm slowly....closing.....my.......eyes.

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I'm as exhausted as ever. More than, really.

I have to talk myself through every task, both menial and important. I feel strangely proud when I actually make a proper meal – when I go to sleep and wake up at a decent hour...when I manage to feed myself and shower before noon.

I notice my pride and recoil in unobserved embarrassment; ashamed to witness my seemingly ceaseless adolescence – as though I'm still a naive teenager who doesn't yet know how to properly care for herself – like the most basic of tasks deserves some kind of recognition or 'pat-on-the-back' in acknowledgment of my 'good adulting'.

Even this – taking time to sit and write – seemed like a good idea, yet here I am...dragging myself through it, like a 'sad' rag-doll with limp, lifeless arms, half-heartedly pressing the requisite keys.

My mind feels slow and 'foggy'; as though my head is stuffed with cotton, muffling the sound of my own voice.

Cotton...filling the space where thoughts should be. And sand...heavy and damp...resting at the base of my skull – lining the edges of my eyelids – settling in my fingertips...sinking into the soles of my feet – making them hard to lift.

I feel so...tattered – so...worn out and broken – so....sadly....beyond repair.

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It doesn't matter how many times I try to mend my repeated unraveling – always.... ALWAYS...life finds my vulnerabilities and undoes my delicate darning, leaving me weaker and weaker each time, mocking my futile attempts at becoming 'whole'.

Perhaps saddest of all; just as surely as life tugs at those fragile threads, I obsessively pull at them from the inside – worrying them with anxious fingers – finding the knots that secure each stitch; those tiny balls of strength, determined to hold me together – running fingernails beneath their edges and slowly....stubbornly...loosening their life-preserving grip.

I participate in my own subversion, then curse myself and the universe while trying to revive and restore – wielding both weapon and remedy – forever caught in the crossfire between that diminishing part of me that clings still to LIFE, and a prevailing acquiescence; a silent sort of defeat...the brow-beaten, broken-down self who's lost the will to fight.

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It feels as though my systems are shutting down – like...my defeated self is making her way through and throwing switches, without any fanfare or drama – just a quiet, methodical 'turning off' of life-supporting 'programs'.

And that once stubbornly determined survivor – her resilience is faltering...not quite gone entirely, but becoming so faint I can scarcely perceive it.

Sometimes, however....sometimes I can almost hear her.

Sometimes, she tries to turn my head – to draw me away from the destructive autopilot and its self-sabotaging impulses.

Sometimes she gently whispers – in just the right tone...at just the right volume – softly reminding and suggesting – nudging me to pick up my guitar...or pen and paper – quietly encouraging me to open my mouth and let the pain out.

Sometimes, I remember how to listen.

I believe my ultimate survival rests in that remembering. Perhaps it's rare and not so easily come-by, but – as long as those tiny sparks occasionally flicker – I have to believe some trace of hope remains.

However faint and feeble...there's still the tiniest glimmer of light. Somewhere in there; the muted murmur of a tender rag-doll's heart keeps a certain, unmistakable rhythm – steady beating and.....ALIVE.

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