Searching for a meaning
Why can’t it just be
Or maybe I appreciate
What others can’t see
A dream attached
Warming from within
A pulse a glow
Tingling on my skin
The knowing of these pleasures
A sadness when they’re gone
The waiting for a time
When darkness turns to dawn
Searching for a meaning
Why can’t it just be
Or maybe I am grieving for
What others can’t see
I stand on the jetty
assume it is sturdy
protected from the tides.
The rhythm belies me
the ebb and flow of years
despite feeling frozen inside.
This temporary footpath
I wander on
longing for fertile soil.
From a distance I covet
a trail well travelled
the ordinary turmoil.
Wistful what ifs
such imaginings
desperate bids to be.
Windows like mirrors
frame warm incandescence
reflecting another me.
I stand on the jetty
eroded by hauntings
hoping to be transformed.
And reckoning with
another hard swallow
to avoid being swept by the storm.
I lived on the Jetty for almost 20 years. Next week marks my first full year of therapy. Thanks to a combination of my visits and medication I have officially relocated to solid ground. At times, I visit the Jetty, but with awareness and support I am better prepared for the waves as I recover and allow myself to grieve out loud.
Mental quivers magnify
the nothingness
empty-handed I enter
over and over
spaces filled with action conversation intention
but I am a ghost
floating through life
of hollow purpose
my paltry presence stirs shame
reinforcing my desire to remain unseen
except
wisdom espies some place inside
where I keep showing up
crossing that threshold
a weary but resolute warrior
An old journal entry inspired this poetry. Infertility is a constant battle between the will to give up and the will to go on, in every sense. Mental health matters. I came into this experience with a history of anxiety and OCD that followed me from childhood. Still, I have come to learn that even healthy women who experience miscarriage or infertility are at significant risk for developing mental health conditions such as anxiety and depression. One study found that 25% of women satisfied the criteria for PTSD in the months immediately following early pregnancy loss. Left untreated, such conditions negatively impact overall health and quality of life. Another alarming correlation: anxiety and depression may decrease the effectiveness of assistive reproductive technology. Given research highlighting the link in both directions, mental health should be an absolute priority in ongoing and aftercare. In sharing my story, I hope to campaign for others.
I woke later than usual due to a round with physical pain in the early morning hours. Since childhood, I have experienced random waves of excruciating cramps lasting anywhere from five minutes to an hour. While it was likely not my first experience, in my first memory of the pain I am lying in the hospital, too young to describe what I felt. To date, there is no official medical diagnosis. These spells attack, seemingly from nowhere, and leave me completely exhausted.
The physical pain is gone. Nonetheless, I am wiped. When pain arrives in tandem with a depressive bout the coming hours are challenging, such is my story today.
CONTINUE READING
To My Anxiety and Depression,
I acknowledge you and all of your dreadful wares. From physical exhaustion to mental fatigue, you make me feel weak and powerless. Thanks to you, I question my every decision. The resulting guilt ravages my brain until I believe I have failed, at life, entirely.
Living with you keeps me in a constant state of fight or flight. Sometimes, my mind spins until I am dizzy. Other times, my tears threaten to drown me. Then comes the rage from utter self-loathing that makes me want to rip at my own skin. I am exhausted, but I can’t sleep. When I finally put head to pillow, rest is a mirage teasing me from afar.
CONTINUE READING
“It’s just hair,” my wife insisted. She couldn’t understand why I was paralyzed with indecision when the cut was something I clearly wanted. But it wasn’t just hair; it was a landmark decision. It called upon my past, put me on the stand, and highlighted many trials where I settled instead of taking risks. This decision was tied up in years of caring too much about the opinion of others. What’s worse, it stoked my anxiety and depression. After decades of self-loathing, I worried that, if this went wrong, I could find another level of hatred for my reflection.
CONTINUE READING
Trapped in an Air Pocket 