My recovery from depression

Countless times I’ve decided to start fresh and change who I used to be and failed. So many times that I almost thought it was impossible. I was mistaken. Change isn’t impossible. It just takes a lot of effort.

After struggling with depression for 4 years, I finally decided to seek professional help. In Feb of 2016, I started taking medication and therapy which brought all the change.

Being a pessimist that I am, I didn’t believe medication could be of much help. But it worked. With the help of medication and therapy, I managed to turn my life around.

Obviously, I still have bad days. Medication or therapy doesn’t cure depression. It just makes it easier to live with it.

And so it is, life goes easy on me now.


– Explaining my depression to my Mother –

– Explaining my depression to my Mother –

Mom, my depression is a shapeshifter
One day it’s as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear
The next it’s the bear.
On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone
I call the bad days, “the Dark Days”

Mom says try lighting candles.
But when I see a candle I see the flicker of a flame.
Sparks of a memory younger than noon.
I am standing beside her open casket
It is the moment that I learn everyone I will ever come to know will someday die
Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark, perhaps that’s part of the problem.

Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed”.
I can’t, anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head
Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from ?”
Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out of town that depression felt obligated to invite to the party.
Mom, I am the party, only I’m a party I don’t want to be at.

Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?”
Sure I make plans, I make plans I don’t want to go to
I make plans because I know I should want to go I know sometimes I would have wanted to go.
It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom.
You see Mom each night Insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light
Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.

Mom says try counting sheep
But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake
So I go for walks, but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists
They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me that I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness that I cannot baptize myself in.

Mom says happy is a decision
But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg
My happy is a high fever that will break.

Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat out asks me if I am afraid of dying.
No Mom, I am afraid of living
Mom, I am lonely
I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely the lonely into busy
So when I say I’ve been super busy lately I mean I’ve been falling asleep on the couch watching SportsCenter
To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed.

But my depression always drags me back to my bed.
Until my bones are forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city.
My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves.
The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with the echoes of a heartbeat
But I am just a careless tourist here.

I will never truly know where I have been
Mom still doesn’t understand
Mom, can’t you see
That neither can I ?

by Sabrina Benaim

Loving you is the most exquisite form of self-destruction

Today I saw my cousin bitch about her ex and his family and it got me thinking it must be easier to hate the ones not meant for you.

You rejected me but I don’t hate you. I’m not even mad at you. I want to be. I want to be bitter about you. I want to not care about you anymore. I want to be able to say I deserve better. But I know that’s just a lie. You’re the best and you’re not mine. I want the all the bitterness, resentment and the hatred.  That would be so much easier than this.

But here I am praying for your happiness, hating myself for not being good enough.

So much for my happy ending!

I wanted to say so much. There is so much I can’t tell you because it would hurt you so I don’t say it. But I have to get it out my system. “There’s gotta be a way to say whats on my mind without leaving scars.”

So much pain that I wanted to share with him but he’s the reason behind it. I don’t know what to do or where to go. I’m stuck. My best friend is in an another city. The man I love has a heart too fragile to handle what I want to say. I tried to reach out to a therapist, that didn’t work either.

Today someone said that they fear they’ll end up alone and it got me thinking. From where I see it that’s not at all a bad thing. Ending up alone is the best case scenario for me now. I lost my ‘happy ending’. There is no more happily ever after to my story. I loved a man and I wasn’t good enough for him. Now even if by some miracle he changes his mind there won’t be a happy ending because my bubble is already burst and I know I’m not good enough. And isn’t that the story of my life? The one I was so desperately trying to run away from? Isn’t this my worst nightmare come true? Not only have I lost the man I love I have lost a chance to have a happy ending, the one where I was enough for once.

I know I’ll survive this. I’ve lost people before. I know the drill. I’ll get over it. But will this feeling of ‘not being good enough’ will ever stop haunting me? I don’t think so!



No Regrets!

It’s been almost 10 days. I’ve been wondering what could I have done differently that would have made this a little less painful. But now I’m beginning to realize that this pain was necessary for me. I had to fall for you. I had to love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. And I had to tell you that. You had to reject me. This is the way it was meant to be.

We weren’t meant to be. I get it. It all makes sense. All of it. You were right. You’ll always be in my heart but you weren’t meant to be in my life. I would have never been able to make you happy. And I would have hated myself for that. I did love you but love is not enough for a ‘happily ever after’. Love is overrated.

I’m a stronger believer of “whatever happens is for the best”. And I can see it very clearly that it is for the best, not just you rejecting me but also me loving you. You’ll always have a very special place in my heart. And I hope that you find whatever you’re looking for. And I hope one day I can say your name without this excruciating pain that comes every time I think of you.

You know even though it all really does makes sense, if you had given me a chance I could have loved you my whole life. I could have been your home where you’d put your tired self to rest.


Nice girl

Swallowing glass chips to stay interesting. Keeping my insides cut so at least something comes out when I open my mouth. Spitting up blood. Calling it poetry. Calling it a performance. Calling it everything but what it is. Self-deprecation for the sake of humility. Self-dissolution to keep them guessing. Playing the same game until it stops becoming one. Turning tricks until they become habit. Here are some jokes I’ve made so many times they’ve lost their punchline: Texting late at night, check. Bleeding dirty thoughts and regret. Throwing up and forgetting the mess. Getting thin out of pure neglect. Check. Check. Check. This isn’t a way to grow up, but what else is there? Nice house? Nice car? Nice mouth? Nice girl? Wait. Didn’t you used to be such a nice girl? (I stole that line right out of the mouth of the concerned aunt who gave me a once-over last Christmas.) Let’s try this again. Nice girl. Nice girls don’t stay out late. They don’t forget their friends. They don’t drop everything and move for the sake of adventure. Nice girls don’t lie in the middle of the street and call it therapy. They don’t know how to become ghosts in two seconds flat. Nice girl. What happened to her? Killed her. Cursed her. Kept her hungry in the basement for so long that she gave up and went home. Pushed her aside and cared for poetry, coffee, and burnt curtains instead. Nice girl. Why don’t you call her up again? Ask her where she’s been? Ah, but where’s the fun in that?
The Self-Portrait | Lora Mathis