I Understand Now…

We all have our love languages.  For me it’s physical touch.  And I don’t know why I was wired that way but I can’t do anything about it.  It’s there, written in my DNA.

I can understand why some people choose to sleep around.  Not all cases are like this, but for some, physical touch is such a healing thing to them that they literally wither away without it for too long.

Now I don’t wana sleep around, but I definitely understand the strong desire to be wanted, even if it’s for a short time, because it’s been such a huge void inside my very gut for so long it seems.

I’m also a firm believer that, you know, you don’t need a man to make it in life, and same goes for the other way around!  But in my life, and in my circumstances, I know I won’t make it long without a partner…someone to call my better half…someone who will fight for and with me against this demon called MDD that wants to fully consume me one day.  I need someone who will be loyal to me, who will take care of me and let me take care of him…who will rub my back whenever he feels like it…who will kiss me like his life depended on it…who will hold me while the waves of pain come that I have to ride out…who will fight to keep me alive so I know that there’s a reason to fight.

Touch is more than healing to me.  It’s lifesaving.

And I wish more than anything that I could start sharing life with someone.

With each passing day, I feel myself growing more and more lost.  I crave for someone to be willing to take me into their heart once they find me; I need a home.  I want a home…


Just Being Human

Sometimes you just wish that someone will reach into your heart, inhale all your aches and pains and anger and desires and regrets and shame, just so they know what you feel.  Not to gain any ounce of pity but to gain understanding from them.

Just a thought that I frequently have, and for human beings in general, I’m sure many do too.

The Now ( an Homage )

I heard a whisper
Nothing more
High above me
Eyes don’t drift, nor
Can I pinpoint
Words gone ashore
Leafless branches
Whisper doors
Cracking open seeds
That fall to the floor
Around my feet
That fall to my core
That startle me.

I tremble so slightly
For the warning set before
The sinking sun soothes
Yet there hang the graveyard clothes I once wore
The whispers are coming
Afraid I can be, no more
Here come the ice cold breaths seen in air
Cold, as old as ancient lore.

Photo by Yann Mabille


When the door opens

and the wind from your stare takes me heeled back

an enclosure

a reckoning

of the moments ahead

of the moment I dread

when I wake

until then, however,

we feed off each other

each other’s vibrating breaths

each other’s vibrating essence

because it’s all we know

because we’re dying,

and we pant

and we hunger

for more than this,

for more than the stare,

for more than the wish,

we pant for a life-saving warmth

from the linger, from the tips.

The door opened and you saved me,

with one caring embrace

that endured for too short a time

and all that I’m left with

is a joker

and an empty room that is mine.



The Quiet Room Isn’t So Quiet

Recently I’ve been reading The Quiet Room by Lori Schiller and Amanda Bennett, a memoir of sorts about Lori’s personal battle with schizophrenia.  I’m only on chapter 10 but it already has gotten my heartstrings pulled in all different directions, particularly due to my own experience with mental illness.

This afternoon, however, the book sparked a thought in me.  Maybe not an original thought since I have thought this thought many times, but I received a different viewpoint on it–my worry of being a good mother.

Now I know in my current circumstances, I have all the time in the world (scoff) to think about my future family.  I am not pregnant, nor do I even have a boyfriend, but on many occasions I find myself fearing the thought of my clinical depression making me unfit to have children of my own someday.

Why am I even worrying about this?  Why is this even in my mind when I have undergrad to finish and focus on?

Being a psychology student, there are many areas of worry that I look into when thinking about my own mental illness and possible future offspring.  At times, Lori Schiller’s book covers the topic of genetics playing a huge role in her development of her illness.  Made me think of my own family and how depression has a strong genetic factor on my father’s side.  Would my children receive it??  Of course there’s always that chance.

But what really plagues my mind when I think about having kids, is the fact that (more likely than not) I will experience post-partum depression if I were to birth a child.  And based on my history, it would be severe.  God forbid any psychotic features would be added to the mix, because that has been known to happen in some women.

I would have to be under constant supervision if I had my own children.  I haven’t even mentioned the fact that my anti-depressant medication would have to have been stopped as soon as I found out about my pregnancy, and what then would become of my already ill mind?  How could I put my husband through that?  He certainly doesn’t deserve being put under the burden of an ill-minded wife along with the responsibility of a new-born baby (assuming I don’t have twins or more 0_0).

If I birth children, I will literally be putting everyone’s lives in danger.  My children’s lives, my husband’s life by driving him utterly insane, and my life.  How could I do that to them?

If my husband were to be heartbroken by the thought of me not birthing any of his children, then I would make sure he knew the risks we would be taking by actually getting me pregnant.  Otherwise, the only other alternatives I see are either adoption or no kids at all.  At least with adoption, we’d be helping a child gain a loving family, plus my hormones and neurotransmitters would be able to remain stable.  Or stable enough.

Alright, I know that absolutely all of this is hypothetical.  I know that my mind can go to the worst possible scenario.  But let’s get this straight:  this is reality.  We’re living in a place where innocent and loving people get complete shit handed to them.  I can’t help it if I start thinking of a possible truth I’d rather be blind to.

Rant over.