If I’m taking it one day at a time, I’d say Friday, September 29th was awesome. Without thinking too much about tomorrow or next week or next year, I’d even say the anniversary celebration event for The Definitive Soap Box was super fantastic.
In the midst of running around preparing for my boy’s birthday party with his friends, I was able to iron the draft of a poem that I eventually tried out and recited at The Soap Box. It was received well and many came up to me to commend my courage. With nearly 100 people in attendance, I owned the moment. I owned my depression. I owned…me.
Shut the hell up!
Because I’m actually happy today.
Look at me.
I’m ridiculously roused that I actually got out
of bed this morning.
And, yes, this is me being happy.
But if I’m being honest,
on days like this,
I still long to see the bottom of a shot glass.
sometimes aren’t even enough to lessen the blow
of your piercing criticism.
it’s your fermented fuse
that fuels the shrapnel
that I seem to flirt with every single day.
I’ve wishfully wanted to taste you,
but I’m always afraid of trying new things.
You intoxicatingly whisper sweet nothings
that I seem to always fall for.
And your cunning wit seems to be a lot more sharper these days.
Yesterday, you said goodbye with your silence.
And even though you never actually walked away
I begged to never see you again.
It’s your silence that gets me.
Creepy like clowns,
but charming like chocolate.
Decedent and deranged
all at the same time.
Sickening like social media,
but comforting like the crackle of last night’s fireplace.
You can say nothing,
but it’s what you don’t say that bothers me.
well, loneliness seems to have the exact same address
as her silent sister.
She’s always home when you need her to be.
I knock on her door when I need to escape,
but I’m also overwhelmed by her presence
when the doorbell rings
and life is waiting on the other side.
And even though I know
depression is a demented lie
drunk on our sour self esteem who
salivates on the first opportunity
of getting me alone,
I still flirt with his wily way of
convincing me that he’s all I’ll ever need.
And maybe he is.
Maybe he’s the only one
reminding me that I’m actually worth fighting for.
Maybe he’s the only one who cares enough
to keep me awake when I’m asleep.
just maybe he’s the only one
who thinks I truly matter.
Maybe I’m him.
And maybe I’m ok with that…
At least…for now.