Gloomy Writing on a Depressing Day

I wrote this last week when I was having an incredibly bad day. And though the subject matter is a little dark, depressing and in need of a giant sized happy pill, I do tend to write from the heart when it's my heart that's hurting...

Therefore subject matter aside, it belongs here. Regardless of whether or not I think it might be too much for some to read, too disjointed to understand, or too much of me coming through.

If there is a deep end of the ocean, I am on the bottom of it.

Sitting with my legs crossed out in front of me, holding my breath and turning blue. The urge to breathe, to fill my straining lungs for air overwhelms me.

I open my mouth and the water pours in, helpless as I am to stop it, I welcome it.

This avalanche of everything far beyond my control, this current that swells itself around me and inside me, brings peace amidst its pain.

Too many times I have said or done the wrong thing.

Acted rashly without considering the consequences. Lived for years really with nothing but regrets.

I act sometimes like it doesn’t matter. That this doesn’t matter. But I am a liar, sometimes even to myself. Instead I bleed with the intensity of my emotions. Tears scorch my skin like little fires left carelessly to burn.

I cannot say that I am sorry enough.

I have apologized to myself so many times.

I cannot ask you to hear me. Or to understand this underwater world in which I live. Floating and floundering. Gasping for air.

Drowning.

Drawing back to the surface to breathe. A rhythm that beats as relentlessly as the ocean to its shore. That builds its foundation on shifting sands.

I am washed away.

Depleted.

With nothing left to give and an arsenal of words to say. A masterful manipulator.

Bending them.

Abusing them.

Withholding them when nothing hurts just as much as something more. Both blessed and cursed to feel them as if to carry them in my hand.

I can hide this well.

This side of me that says too much to empty space.

The real behind the fake. A plastic red shovel digging deeply drawing up earth. The ugliness of the insides spilling out and over.

Weakness should be destroyed if it cannot be controlled, if it refuses to be contained.

And I am always fighting darkness.

I do not give in.

Not easily. There is always fight inside me to slay the dragons. Dragons in whatever form they choose to take, taking their pound of flesh, scratching outside my door. Breaking me into bite sized pieces, leaving me huddled over and feeling helpless.

There is no forgetting.

Just remembering.

Over and over again. Looking down from above as the scene replays, every shadowed angle in slow motion in contrast to the words I say.

I cringe from these thoughts. Shaken. Wanting to cast them away. To throw my nets back into the darkness of the sea and let them sink to the bottom of its floor.

Still there is light, and I am always seeking it. Looking ahead as best as I can, believing. Believing everything of what I have and still have hope to find.

A better world.

An emotional distance.

A peace that radiates out from me.