How anxiety feels like

He gave me this load to carry

it weighed heavy and left me winded

in my ribcage, my heart ached and slowed

all the while robbing me of my speech

It was several rough hands grappling at my neck

A reality that costed me my libido, my stamina, my cash

doubt was running down my face like sticky mascara

in the face of adversary, I pretend to be everything I’m not

It’s like my shadow was polluting the street

and my hymn was that of a debby downer

on one side life was handing out subtle coloured roses

on my end, I had sunk deep into dung

Cock. Screw. Trigger

eagerly waiting for a mail that ends it all

soon I realise, I can’t serve two masters

I’m left roaming like a wild cat

Today ends and tomorrow begins

but my anxiety stayed constant variable

realising how expensive joy is

even though I answer to it’s call

They said it’ll get easier, it hasn’t but i’m still here

how do you know when you’ve hit rock bottom?

when you can’t estimate the well’s depth?

It’s like a deaf married to a deaf and birthing a deaf child—– no really

That day will come, some day

I’ll forgot the worry lines that creased my brow

the tightening grip on my neck will vanish

the road i chose will become more familiar

Then I will be willing to speak.

A Painful Soul

“Scars

from battles hurt

as It should”

 

 

Way back when waking up every morning was a struggle (honestly not too long ago), I used to write into  my Journals aka my ugly notebook. I sometimes browse through them when I feel stuck.

My first journal is actually really depressing, I can’t believe the state of mind I was in back then, but there are some OK memories in there too.

This week I decided to reedit one of my poetry from it to prove to my readers who battle mental illness, and to myself that life can indeed get better. It is a journey, I still struggle and flop. However,  I am no longer that person, yet it is my story of which I’m proud 😀

Happy Friday!


 

Eyes

like alabaster

reaching into the darkness

of my soul,

I gasp.

 

Aroused

Inside me

A faux without doubt

Another life I’ve lived

stringing cords of distrust,

 

Or paranoia

the  definition of toxic

screaming out someone else’s pain

sliding through impressionable doom

unwillingly

 

The taste

like kolanut lingers

on my tongue

masking the chamomiley one

the ones before left

 

Scars

from battles hurt

as It should

yet I must separate the truth

from fallacy

 

Staggering

dysmorphia is crippling

oodles of bubbles ripple

through a heavy

fragile heart

 

let the  legs sink farther

quaking in unison as they bite dust

again and again

my soul will find your

darker soul.

 

Help.

friend, help!

For in solitude, I live

In solitude

I will dine.


 

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Know Thy Worse Self

We’ve all heard it. We’ve watered it. And it’s grown, and it’s growing faster than innovation. It is the voice of destruction. The one who wants to kill you. The one who will stifle you, and choke you to death without justice.

I’ve listened to it whine, all my life. It’s told me how senseless I am. That I’m too dumb to ever be taken seriously. I am too weird to ever have a meaningful connection. I am too abnormal, no body could care less if I spoke or not. It said, I might as well blend in with the bland wall and disappear. Worse still, no one would notice if I’m gone.

For a long time I committed to it, it’s presence was seethingly stark in my earlier works.

Most days, I tried to reason with it, I accepted it, then I pleaded with it. Then, I  just disappeared like it told me to.

For a very very very long time, loneliness was in the air I breath, it was all I wrote about.

 

It wasn’t up to me, it wasn’t in my power. I began to realise how innovative I could be, then how fierce I am.

It’s okay if no one understands what my poetry is about. It’s gibberish, but even gibberish has added meaning to the heart. It’s fine that I’m not a jaunty influencer that everyone can connect with.

I’m weird, I know and nothing can take that away.

Nothing, not even you, the darkest side of my psyche can conquer me. I fight everyday to know my worse self, for only then can I truly destroy the bitch.

Once I had my wings broken, now I’m clawing my way out of darkness.

Letting myself know that I’m stronger for being weak.


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Image: pinterest

Strangers on A bridge

After the rain, the town bell chimed on that cold morning

Susie stumbled across the street in a drunken daze.

Last night was just one in several that she had collapsed at the tavern.

An ambiguous fog loomed in the street

Her heels clicked on grubby cobblestone

There were  no body in them

No  birds in the sky

no wind in the air

she could barely see ahead.

But then she saw him. A figure sitting on the bridge

when she got closer she saw the fear and loss in his face

He leaned back against the air, and released one hand from the rails

“Don’t!” she yelled

He acknowledged  her presence by reaching for the rails,  like his life depended on it, and it did. “If I do it, every thing will go back to normal”

“No!” Susie who had fully snapped out of her high now and was hyper alert said, “Nothing is worth this”

The man began to cackle which led Susie to conclude that he maybe relapsing from paranoid schizophrenia

She got closer, she noted that he was middle-aged. He was handsome in an eccentric way. “What’s so funny?” she demanded

“Birds don’t know what to do when you have no need for them”, he said, “you won’t understand why I have to do this….”

“What is it? Susie interrupted ,”dead beat dad? or was your mum a pill hoarder? did she hang herself in the middle of your one room flat and left you with starving mouths to feed? No wait! that’s me! so I’d be damned if you tell me I don’t understand.”

Susie was seething with ire, how dare this ruggedly quaint idiot act like his life was hard, enough to fall to his doom when she hadn’t slept on her bed in seven years. Her warm soft bed felt grubby and lonely. If any body should be sitting on the bridge counting down to meet the grim ripper, it should be her.

She rushed towards the bridge and hoisted herself to seat beside him

“Whoo oo there!, the stranger stuttered, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“Talking with you reminded me of how much  simpler life would be if I just disappeared.

“Hey,  I was teasing. Ha ha. I wasn’t really going to do it”, he said jumping down “see, give me your hand. please”

“No! you said it yourself, if I feel this worthless, I probably am”

“look at yourself”, the stranger started, “you  courageous woman, I can’t pull the value from within you, but I can promise you  that it is there, you feel culpable and clearly we’ve got a ton of similar problems that Dr. Jekyll couldn’t fix, So let’s head to the tavern and share a cheroot”.

Susie was both impressed and  hesitant by his aphoristic banter

If you feel no different afterwards, I will personally hoist you up there” , he  vowed

“I guess you’re right”, Susie conceded grabbing his wrist.

He placed his jacket over her shoulders, “the name’s Vickram”

“Susie”, she said staring into his cinereous eyes, risking a smile, “there’s something about you”, she admitted.

“That, dear Susie is called hope”, he said as they disappeared into the fog, towards the direction of  Dean’s tavern

Transcension

“Be whatever you want to be”, they say, although what they really mean is, “You can be whatever you want as long as it is what I want you to.”

My sister told me this two years ago.  Now she’s eighteen and in the first year in the same school I just graduated from, medical programme. The truth is, I acceded to the decision to study medicine, It was more like a psychological attunement, people would say; “You like to read, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, you should be a Dr”. Uyai, on the other hand chose medicine.

Her struggles now give me flashbacks to when I was  naive and in first year. She had a bout of clinical depression that landed her in psychiatry outpatient, I suffered depression in between 1st and 2nd year as well, though it never occurred to me to me to visit the hospital, I turned to writing, drawing, and lots of crying. By then I hadn’t discovered the therapeutic values of exercise, nature walks and yoga, so I bottled it all in, no one knew.

I was praised for being strong, but matter-of-factly, Uyai-abasi showed admirable bravery for realising she had a problem and dealing with it. Our school system, unfortunately, is rigged for majority to fail, or at the very least, lose hope.  Now, my parents parenting style is absolutely contentious, in fact I’m probably scared for life because of their so called “African mentality”, but one thing our dad taught us was to stand our ground and never give up.  So the trials ensued, and boy did it rain down in full force, but I was too stubborn, and I know how resilient my sister is.

It took eight years of arduous training to become a Doctor, that day almost didn’t want to come, but as one of my favourite bloggers isaiahministry, noted, on their blog; “when God is working, he does so extraordinarily so the world knows that it is he”. I continue thanking him for honouring me in the way he has,  it took a lot of humbling experiences for me to finally succumb to his will,  I know he will bequeath his favour to Uyai-abasi. Because I’ve lived through them , I am now her biggest supporter.

 

A Haiku:

Pitter-patter of our DNA footprints

Juxtaposing faith’s light on grace

Attuned with signals of transcension

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alien

What would it feel like
if I stand on the edge
If I happen to be in close proximity to it,
then what?

what if I could walk
maybe I am lighter than oxygen
or maybe I’d get a concussion
either way, I have to know.

but baby girl, you don’t float.
beyond sea level,
everything must tumble

Gravity.

Round and round
it’s all fun and games
once, forgotten
twice, twirling

Stop.

My hands look strange,
like tentacles
attached to an alien being.

I wonder,
what is the single greatest distraction
from self-love.

 

Understanding Psychosis

Shut the doors behind you

what I’m about to say,  no one else can hear.

These are not my memories, it is just my subconscious

showing me the deep and twisted projections

I fear, yet hold onto.

The farther it is in time, the less I seem to recall the darkness,

that all too familiar darkness.

However, that doesn’t affect me,

it is the drowning fear that creeps in with it that does.

 

 

I was suddenly in a place that smelled strange, a large hall with concrete walls and high ceiling, tho, I didn’t feel safe.

I could recall the girl’s face, Tina—that was her name.

We sprinted through the endless corridors, past the serpentine marble columns, 300m past the cooling room.I stopped! huffing hard with both hands on my knees.

Tina was breathing heavily too.I reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders.

” Where are the rooms?”

“You don’t know? silence,  “Alex, are you ok? 100m eastbound. ”

so we continued into the room. I locked the doors.

Tina spun around, “what are you doing?

“we need to be safe” I retorted

“From who?” no words.

She started for the door, “this isn’t my room”,  then paused

“Alex, I dunno what happened today”, fixing her gaze on mine, she continued, “are you ok?”

“what is it with you and that question?”

“I”m heading to my room” she grabbed the door handle

“Be safe,” I whispered

“This whole place is safe, just get some sleep,” the door slammed behind her.

********

 

For the first time since we got in, I carefully observed the room around me, the windows were slightly opened, a beaded curtain draped from above the windowpane, shimmering in the night light, a floor lamp divided the room into two halves but the most intriguing was a painting, it was a child’s face, eyes rotated upwards with parted lips, in the middle of his forehead, he had a unicorn’s horn and  bright rainbow illuminated around him. At the bottom right corner of the frame was inscribed: “fuck your psychedelic”, signed Alexander.

I stood there, mesmerized by the painting, having no recollection of when I made it. I didn’t hear the door close behind me

“What’s the problem, Alex?” I jumped when I heard the voice and turned swiftly

I jumped when I heard the voice and turned swiftly,”who are you?’

“Your roommate, Bianca”, she grinned.

I noticed she had green eyes which sent chills running down my spines

” who are you, really? ” I demanded again and I heard a loud thumping noise resonate through my ear canal

“you should go to sleep now”  was the last thing that echoed

*******

who am I? where am I? is this real?

A buzzing noise filled the air and I came to realize that I was sitting on a bench in the courtyard. Beside me was Christopher, my occasional buddy chattering away on a conversation I may or may not have instigated. My head was rocking side to side.The sun-dial was pointing south, which meant it was 4 pm.

I stopped moving when I heard a slow crackling sound.I  stood up, blinking severally, I began to walk, following the direction of the sound to a room known simply as ‘the ephylis”. A sphynx cat lay on its hind leg in the center of the room, it’s body stretched out across the room with its rump towards me. I tip-toed into the room, as slow as I could until it’s full body was within my field of vision. It had green eyes. Sweat was beading across my forehead and my breaths had become heavier and rapid.

“What are you doing?”

I lifted my head up to see Christopher standing at the doorway and when I returned my gaze to the center of the room, the sphynx cat was gone.

I sighed, ” somehow, I feel I may be drifting between reality and an alternative dream land”

“Can’t you tell what’s real and what’s not?”

“Can you?”

 

Thin Line

There’s a thin line between genius and depression…..

Many a night, my mind wanders to these thoughts while I toss and turn around the edge of my bed, fluffing and re-fluffing my pillow and tapping my device in every hour.

Perhaps, there is some sort of correlation between owning your truth and the lack of acceptance which is more than a coincidence. We, humans, hold our social ethics so dearly; it has everything to do with fitting it and concomitantly becomes the source to which most attach their happiness. To be an outsider would mean to reject these norms imposed on one. To be an outsider would mean suicide.

Sigmund Freud was the psychoanalyst who created a theory widely accepted recently in psychology. This theory states that human is composed of 3 components: ID, the most primitive, uncompromising and self-centered. The Super ego which deals with society’s norms and morals. Ego creates a balance between ID and ego. Freud went on to describe five phases humans must go through in life to achieve psychological maturity. Interestingly, neither Freud nor his theories were accepted at the time.He died by suicide after he was diagnosed with an inoperable tumor.

There’s a thin line between genius and suicide. We’ve all seen the movie, the enigma code, which was centered around the life of Alan Turing. By inventing the computer that deciphered the coded transmissions between the Germans, he contributed immensely in the victory against Hitler’s armies in world war II. Unfortunately, instead of being appraised by the Britains, he was rejected for his sexuality.

One lesson the Holocaust taught the world is that not all genius is good. In profound chatter, I dwelled a little on the evil genius that is Adolf Hitler, and Hitler was a man who faced loss and rejection in his early years; leaving him vulnerable to be molded by the people around him. I associate his disregard for human life to the death of his brother from measles. He grieved deeply and his outgoing personality was overshadowed by a detached and rebellious exterior. We know where the story continues from there, up until he poisoned himself with cyanide.

Creatives have also had their fair dose of lows. Virginia Woolfe a feminist and writer invented a theory that entailed the communication with oneself through inner conversations, an art I’m all too familiar with.She was also gravely plagued by depression. One day, she headed down a lake, her pockets filled with rocks and the brilliance that was Virginia Woolfe never walked out again. Her last note read: “I feel certain I am going mad again”.

This draft wouldn’t be complete without shading a light on the relationship between dark-skinned and depression. Like most illnesses, major depression isn’t easily diagnosed in black people because they see it as a plague for the feeble mind and. They focus on fine tuning strength. The story of Albert Alyer, a self-taught Jazz prodigy is indeed a sad one. Alyer was better than good at what he did, but in his time, being a person of color was a disadvantage. His jazz concerts didn’t receive any media coverage and when they did, it was never aired so his art did not get the recognition it deserved so depression took a toll on him, leading him to end it all when he plunged into New York east river.

So, having insight it seems torments even the best, and my mind cross-examines and debates it until I drift into slumber land.