Being (calm)

Part 8 of a 9 part poem.

This is the eighth part of a poem I began writing while starting medication for the first time, treating depression and anxiety. The first try was not the right fit for me and drove me deeper into the dark. It's not until later on that things began looking up.

The compellation of these nine poems I've titled, Becoming (Me).

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Maybe this is for the best

Not having a direction

For once in my life.

Adrift.

Able to find a new path.

A new me.

But the old me still drags me down.

Not often.

Weakly.

But enough to make me stall.

I want to let go.

But she’s all I’ve known.

Familiar.

Comfortable.

Safe.

Not really safe.

She was a cage.

A mask.

A coffin.

But familiar feels safe.

I need to find a new normal.

But before normal is normal

It’s strange.

This is strange.

I’m searching for the end of this poem.

I want to find home.

But another step always appears.

Something constantly blocking me

From home.

I have a home.

I have love.

I have a family.

So why don’t I feel like I’m home?

Why do I feel adrift.

Unable to find purpose.

Meaningless.

But that’s not how I feel!

Not really.

That’s the old me.

My old words still echoing in my head.

Holding me back.

Unable to be silenced.

A constant weight to fight against.

Maybe that’s why I’m so tired.

Exhausted.

Weak.

I just want sleep.

Maybe that will magically cure me.

I want to work.

Maybe that will exhaust me enough to sleep.

Distract me enough to forget.

Old words.

Old me.

Again.

And again.

Infiltrating my mind.

Tricking me.

Dragging me to the past.

But I don’t want this anymore.

I want to move forward.

I want to find peace.

I want to find home.

I grasp for a lifeline.

Something to keep me afloat.

But nothing lasts for very long.

I need to find something.

Something to help bring me out.

All the way out.

Away from this.

Away from her.

I feel quiet.

Empty.

Maybe a bit lost.

But no longer in the dark.

That’s good right?

A small success.

Partial success.

But not enough to make me triumph.

Can I ever triumph over this?

A constant battle?

Maybe not.

But maybe I can at least feel like I have the upper hand.

To not feel so weak.

So helpless.

So hopeless.

To not let small, insignificant things hurt me.

To be stronger.

More sure.

To be happy for more than a few moments.

Always stopped when I realize I’m happy.

That’s something I need to re-learn.

How to be happy.

What it feels like.

I can’t tell anymore what’s genuine and fake.

I faked so much it feels genuine now.

But I know it’s not.

I question everything I feel.

If it’s real or not.

I shouldn’t.

Because it is real.

But I still do.

And it hurts.

I don’t want it to hurt anymore.