Work Text:
The Air Below My Feet
A person’s issues aren’t always visible.
A poem on mental health from my own experiences.
“It’ll get better.”
A phrase I’ve heard so many times.
A phrase I'm almost certain no one truly believes.
Will anything get better?
Ever?
Hard to say.
But that doesn’t excuse the pain.
You can’t shove off the weights of poor mental health for a stupid hope of a better life,
a hope that people who don't understand nor relate nor remember,
present to you.
The pain is now.
An unchangeable fact.
Wishing for the future only distracts you as you live less and less in the present.
Yet, that’s all we want.
We beg and beg for help,
but it’s so internalyzed no one can hear your screams.
And so, the mask stays,
a fake ,
a wall blocking everything.
Mental health is a huge part of what shapes us,
our identities , our cores.
Yet, most of the time it is ignored,
internalized to a place where no one can see it’s true form.
You see, the issues of a person aren’t always visible.
The happiest people might actually be in the worst place,
and you’ll never know.
Never, never, know .
No one can really see the truth unless you let a bit out.
Imagine you could see the true shapes of other’s well being.
Would they be distinct shapes or mere ideas?
Would they have colour or weight?
The truth is,
for everyone it’s different.
Like our beliefs, our worldviews, our identities,
it’s a different experience for all.
Depression
is like an ear infection,
a dark, painful, spot on your body.
You might want to have earrings and wear them proudly,
but you can't.
You see everyone else with the one thing you want,
but cant have.
But you forget.
You forget how common it is for others to be the same.
Depression ranges from a deep blue to an inky black,
slowly sucking the joy from life.
It stands as a dark looking being,
sapping one’s strength.
Being around it feels like drowning, but calm,
calmly drowning while no one notices.
Like you can't breathe, but you've accepted that fact,
your lungs numb to the pain of the water filling their area.
Anxiety
is like a sea urchin.
Prickly,
an ever present threat that most people forget is there,
or simply choose to ignore.
Sometimes, it likes to expand as a slimy substance,
infecting people with a sudden unsettling feeling.
It's wrong,
everything is wrong,
but you can’t do anything except live through it.
Self harm
is like a thunderstorm.
For some it is calming,
strangely so,
as the lighting cuts through the air,
the rain a constant ambient.
To others it is terrifying or unsettling,
and hard to understand.
Though self harm is a bright red,
sometimes it hides under a faded guise,
hiding from view but not out of mind.
Hiding as “accidents”,
barbed wire, pet scratches, clumsiness.
Insecurity
is like anxiety, but a bit different,
like twins so in sync people forget they are different beings.
It is an ever present fog.
A ball of dark energy whispering illusions into the ears of others,
tricking them to see something different from what is right in front of them.
“It’s only an excuse, stop lying”
I am a fish drowning on land,
an outcast to myself.
Disconnected from the world.
The walls close in,
pushing my soul farther into myself.
The weight
weighs heavily on my chest,
even when I relax.
I am speaking,
but not heard.
“You’re overreacting”
I resort to short term happiness.
Substances, reliance on “friends”,
bad habits at home, technology .
At least my mind is gone from the pain,
right?
Pain?
Is it really pain?
It’s more of a numbness.
The world is painfully numb,
painted in greys and blacks,
while everyone else’s are colourful.
“It’s not that bad”
I get pushed further and further down.
Farther and farther away.
Yet, I am still here,
still “me” on the outside.
Here, but not present.
A mask adorns my face,
for all to see,
but it is not the real me.
“You’re just a bit different is all”
I am a White-Faced plover in a world of Kentish plovers.
Similar in appearance,
yet different in genes.
I am like a spotted hare
in a world of hares of singular hue.
Small areas of corruption cover my skin,
myself,
my vision.
“You’re just sad”
Sad.
Eternally sad.
I can't just woo my sadness away.
I hate it,
yet, it is what defines me.
It is what wastes my time,
in both good and bad ways.
I wonder
who I'd be without it?
Would I be annoying?
Obnoxious?
Or just plain boring?
Would I be more accepted,
or more rejected?
“It’s not real”
If it weren't,
it wouldn't be displayed
for keen eyes to see.
My sleep is disrupted
and my time managed poorly.
Eye bags covered by concealer,
grades only good by luck.
At home “laziness” is assigned to my image,
when in reality,
everything “normal” is a struggle.
Every day is a struggle.
Like Sisyphus
slowly pushing that boulder up the hill,
only for it to roll back down when he nears the top.
“It’ll get better”
Depression .
A problem, yet a part of me.
Pain .
A huge problem, yet ignored.
Numbness .
The air.
The air below my feet
as they leave the roof.
Smooth, soft .
Sharp, rough .
Existing, unacknowledged .
The flight down calming,
true freedom sets in,
the instinctual panic ignored.
The ground becomes spotted,
contaminated,
just like me.
But I no longer have a care in the world.
Free, free, free.
Gone with the wind.
It never got better.
One word,
left behind.
A soft whisper.
Goodbye .