of course i’m falling down
try to walk around
with this broken heart
of course i need time
to rest; to heal
carrying the weight
of my bruised & battered
i need my cocoon right now
but y’all know what happens
when this worn down
broken & struggling
creepy crawler gets a chance
i guess if i’m going to let dusty break my heart for nine or twelve years, i can go ahead and take a week–or however long i need, goddammit–to recover.
back in the last century, after seymour & i broke up, i was seeing a therapist who started pushing pills on me because i was depressed. i fired her saying, “of course i’m fucking depressed, i just broke up with my fiance.”
it’s like in this culture you aren’t allowed to suffer through anything. it’s weird to just suffer through. instead, here, take a pill.
suffering is part of healing. i don’t give a fuck what anyone says. i have to be sad right now. my second marriage (though it legally ended in 2010 & physically ended last year) just ended for me. i still had a little bit of hope for a happy ending hiding somewhere in my mind.
that hope just died.
of course i’m fucking depressed. of course i just want to sleep & do nothing else. and you know what i realized this morning? as much as possible, i should sleep & do nothing else. i should take care of myself. i should give myself time to heal.
so listen up world, i’m going to give myself time to heal. i’m not going to rush it or feel like i have to push through the pain or sedate** the pain.
i’m going to feel it.
feel the pain so i can feel how fucking good it feels when that pain goes away.
**(please note that i am not a medical professional, & i do not suffer from clinical depression or reference clinical depression when i do reference depression. also, i am being more metaphorical than literal…though i did have two unmedicated births, i cannot make it through a migraine without taking a tylenol.)
sometimes depression can help my art.
art helps with my depression.
and who better to embrace while severely depressed than my tragic alter-ego, moses jones: superstar.
doing this little bit of this page really helped. before i started working on it i was just listening to goyte tell me “your heart’s a mess” on loop (& i’m all like, “no shit, goyte…way to state the obvious….”)
so much crying.
i’m sure i will art journal about it…this feeling so fucking alone and of waiting for someone to throw me a line….
oh, wait, i guess i ended up throwing myself a line.
(threw myself a line/drew myself a line…you get it)
so this is where i will be if you need me.
drawing the line.
i used to think
as our song said
“i would trade all my tomorrows
for one single yesterday”
today i realized
as i proclaimed myself
free from my own
i want all of my tomorrows
all of them
i don’t want my
the past is gone
tomorrow is a new day
a new day
before i quit facebook, i had a male friend tell me, “you can do better” in regards to my obsession with seymour.
i don’t know if this friend knew my obsession was with seymour & disapproved of seymour (i knew them both in the same years & in the same town…but i didn’t know this friend very well at the time) or if he was just poo-pooing decades old obsessions in general.
said friend than went on to say, “but of course, janis joplin spent her entire career obsessed with one guy.”
what a coincidence. because it is janis joplin that sings the song that seymour & i would always call our song…”me & bobby mcgee.”
in the shower just now, singing that song, i was thinking…we should have picked a different song. but you know how it is when you are young and nothing can possibly go wrong with your enchanted romance.
later in our relationship, i picked a different song for us. one that felt like i felt when i was with seymour… like christmas.
and after we broke up…i stuck with the cyndi lauper to describe how i felt and this was the song that i related to seymour. (yes, i know it is actually a prince song…but my favorite version is the one cyndi lauper sings)
it was only recently–in the past handful of heartbreaking years with dusty–that i started feeling haunted by “me & bobby mcgee”…finding myself thinking that i actually would trade my tomorrows to have a day already gone just to be next to seymour again.
which is not a good way to feel…that kind of remorse & regret. it’s a dark place. a sad place.
i am pleased to report that i don’t want to trade my tomorrows anymore.
i want to keep my tomorrows.
i want to hold onto my hope & tell regret to fuck the fuck off already.
i started doodling and, for a change, it wasn’t me i was doodling
(that’s what she said)
but then it was me…i mean
i snuck into my art journal doodle after all.
then i wrote about it.
usually i start with the words…and then i draw a picture…
that’s all i got today.
but i kinda like my drawing
i’m severely depressed, dear reader. i am telling you, because i don’t really have anyone else to tell, but i feel the need to tell someone. and the funny part is, i only know how depressed i am by how difficult it is to get out of bed…and to stay out of bed. all i want to do is bury myself in blankets…a kind of non-committal death. a half-hearted suicide. i’m not sure i have ever been this depressed…but, having survived my sylvia plath phase, i have to guess that i have been this depressed before. it just caught me off-guard because i thought i was doing okay.
i thought i was getting better.
i keep expecting to pop back out of it. usually i just pop back out of these little funks (that sounds less scary than depression…deep blue funk? poetic even.)
i don’t usually stay depressed for more than a day or two. but it’s been five days now…& two of those days were very sun shiny. and i dug in the dirt which is one of my go-to ways to feel better…. yet, this sadness lingers and pulls at me and wraps itself around me in the most seductive way.
and i cry for no reason i know for the upteenth time.
i used to always wonder at those people who could get in bed & stay in bed for days no matter what. those people so depressed that they could not get out of bed for anything.
that seemed like the way to go.
but as a highly functional messed up person, i have to do things even if i don’t want to. like celebrate birthdays, have company over, go to the grocery store, plant potatoes.
i always joked that my anxiety would never let my depression totally sink me.
like, i could kill myself, but then who is taking care of my children???
i could stay in bed all day, but the fucking dishes will pile up…i have to get up to let the ducks out in the morning or they might peck each other to death…i have to get up to check on the goat to make sure his leg wound doesn’t get infected…my kids actually do okay when i am like this–they just crawl in bed with me or watch movies all day while i stare at a wall…but i still have to fix food…clean up messes…
& make sure the world doesn’t end–even if i secretly want it to.
i don’t have any love left in me
like watching a cyclone
of bath water
circling the drain
is how it feels inside
when i look to see
if i have any love
fuck. i just got another short story rejection. fuck. why does everything have to feel raw & calloused all at the same time?
i need to figure out, as always, how to make money. i am thinking…erotic comics? too bad i am so easily embarrassed by anything sexual. i’m going to go practice drawing penises now…circumcised or no?
it would definitely help if a certain someone actually paid child support so i could buy my minions socks & underwear…. but, you know, some people are too special to work & have responsibilities. why grow up when you have me to take up your slack?
my flavor of the day: extra bitter.
you were in my dreams last night
all of them
sweet dreams where i laid my head
on your chest
that i would always feel that way
as i stared
into your warm brown eyes
hoping that you would always
how am i supposed to live like this
how am i supposed to embrace
of a life
you are the ghost that haunts me
the haunting that leaves me
repenting my sins
you filled my dreams
i just want
to go back to sleep.