Woke Up to the Thought of Progress…

…and thought, “What’s the point?”

Yeah, I’m in a shitty mood. Very shitty. This fuckin’ relapse period needs to end soon. I’m sick of it, been sick of it, been done being sick of it. I’m trying to hold on but the thread feels so thin. And I’m not a spider.

So I wrote a poem.

Progress came to mind in a large scale but also in a small scale–inner and outer, yours and mine. And I think, “fuck it!”

I thought about how much I used to be involved in activist organizations and how even though that helped, I would eventually crash. And I’ve realized how I long for the involvement but how crippled I feel and how trapped in myself I’ve been after everything that’s hit me this year (guys this mental crippling is far worse than the bone condition that has me using a wheelchair).

I don’t care to know what’s going on in the world when I’m depressed (am I depressed?), much of it is because the world can be so depressing and I don’t want to set off my piss-o-meter. But know it’s a perspective. What I know and what I feel and think to know can be so, uhhh, dissociated? Everything seems so foreign, unreal. I’ve been living in a dream again.

I feel like crying but my well is dry.

The more hopeless you feel, the less you think you can do something to change anything. False beliefs. What is reality but what’s in you? As Anais Nin said, “the world is not how it is but how we see it” or something like that. I have the full quote in my Shenanigans page.

It’s a cycle for me, a circle–to jump into the spotlight with others, to embrace this world, to help others, then run away and hide in myself, my womb, not allowing myself to be helped. I am in my own utero, a baby, only allowing myself to be nourished there. Problem is, I don’t have enough to nourish myself. I need more nourishment. I need the nourishment of this Earth, of others. And what of others? You don’t want others. That’s what the Pretty Little Demons (PLDs) say.

Once again, months ago, I become hallow into myself. I’m hollower still.

A need for self-destruction… A ridiculous mind game those PLD’s play.

I must be a cocoon ready to kill the worm inside of that which I am, rebirth the self, re-invent, recreate, reopen.

I’m tightly sealed. There is no drawbridge, only walls. Am I in a cocoon?

I hope so, better than a bricked dungeon, better than steel chains.

I can only hope.

Then, as usual these days, I had the breathtaking, heart-curdling anxiety and the stomach churns when I got out of bed. My chest hurts and I feel like vomiting.

I ate breakfast and still feel like vomiting. Every morning it’s been like this.

****

Off I go to make some more calls in search for a therapist. At this very moment, THAT is progress.

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Here’s another woman, like Anais Nin, another woman I admire: Camila Vallejo.

addendum: Today is Memorial Day. Realized that after the third call was picked up by an answering machine. Ooops. Silly mouse. In that case, I’ll dedicate my last poem to those who’s lost their lives, been wounded (physically and mentally) and who’ve survived senseless battles.

And as far as finding a therapist, well shit, I’ll have to try tomorrow dammit!