Write About It

....”so what would you tell them?” She asked me.
Without a thought I said, “I’d tell them to write”.
“Do THAT!” She said.

And with that I went completely flat. Void of anything more to say.
The lump in my throat rose up as the tears started to pool. My mind repelled the whole thought that I was in any state to write. That I even deserved to write. Who was I? I heard my peanut gallery say. 

And there it was as clear as day. In my asking out loud for help, I had willingly allowed the black hole of depression I’d been allowing myself get sucked into, quietly envelope me. And I now realized I was comfortable there. It was safe. It was familiar. It separated me from the noise of the world outside my door. No coping needed here. Despite my knowing this was not a good place to be, I went without a fight. I was to tired in my mind, body & soul to do anything different. I could care less that it would take from me, my curiosity. Take away my desire to appreciate the love of things yet to happen. The present. Movement. Intention. Inspiration. Desire to even want, let alone need anything. Sexual desire. Intimacy. It would provide me with mental paralysis. Insatiable hunger. Overwhelming exhaustion. Relief from exertion. Contemplation of existence. And the drowningsounds of my peanut gallery of worthless thoughts that were reinforced by every failure & shortcoming I’ve held onto, for times like these.

None of these are excuses. They are my truths. My reality of living with depression, PTSD & the always unpredictable, anxiety storms. Most of all, I hate, hate, hate anxiety. It’s like a tightening rope around your neck you can’t loosen up. You CAN’T BREATH.

“Write about it,” she says.

I couldn’t think, so I couldn’t speak clearly.
And since I couldn’t speak clearly, how could I write?
Sleeping. NO thinking, speaking or writing about it.
With the desperately needed silence, I tried to read. But instead slept. “It’s ok” my therapist said. So, I allowed the silence and slept some more. I let the black hole continue to blanket me. I simply wanted to be there. But “there” meant a complete disconnect from living. From doing. From being the life force that normally sprinkles my creative chaos everywhere I go. Then, in a brief moment, there was a sliver of light and gasp of air. The peanut gallery in my head was drowned out by a voice saying, “tell somebody”. So, somehow, I reached out to tell somebody.

“Write about it” she says.

I thought, “I just want to sleep”.  All I want to do is sleep, snuggled in with my favorite blanket, a cat behind my knees. The kind of warm & comfortable position you don’t ever want to move from kind of sleep. The kind of sleep that isn’t just a long nap, but days & weeks kind of sleep. I don’t want to think, let alone speak. Forget the words, as my pronunciation can be more like slurring cursive at times. I just want to sleep....so that’s what I’ve been doing, sleeping. And sleeping. And more sleeping. 

“Write about it” she says.

Maybe I’ll just write about this. The sleeping. The black hole. The fact that I don’t care if I miss anything. How the more I sleep, the less sad I am. Maybe this is the beginning of being rested? Healing? Recovering from trauma? Leaving the black hole?
Back to sleep.

“Write about it” she says.

It woke me up. I thought I heard her say it plain as day. I looked around. I was clearly disorientated. Which brings me to here.....writing about it. The not-so-pretty-can’t-really-find-the-right-words, I just want to sleep “writing about it”. My own words were handed back to me, repeatedly. Does this mean I’m emerging from the hole? I would like to think so, but not holding my breath, nor in any rush to get out of bed. BUT, completing a cohesive sentence and possibly a paragraph is positive energy. I am feeling curious. Dare I say a itty-bit creative? My genetic makeup. My saving grace. My fortitude and resilience that doesn’t squash or extinguish, only endures. The blankets have been thrown off.

“Write about it” she said.

It’s been over two months now. 

These are the words, the bits & pieces I’ve attempted to string together. They are how I’ve been living. My own free will given over to being drug into a personal hell. They are also the words that have also disturbed me ever so slightly from my need to sleep. My wanting the dark and quiet. My utter willingness to not participate in living. By somehow starting to peck out words, I’ve written about it. 

Is it cohesive? 

Doesn’t matter. 

Is it vivid, transparent, brutally raw and candid? 

Doesn’t matter. 

What matters is, as she said, was to “write about it”. 

Because of those three words, a shift happened and another circle in my life had connected. That its not a dark ending, but a small part in a journey of being. I have come to believe that no matter how I end up in such a state, that there’s something greater in me that keeps me in breath. Keeps me pushing back to be my with the living. To be w Arartith the light. To be with me, then to write about it.

“Write about it” she said.......