Tag Archives: Sad

My Dearest Maria

As I wake up, I’m on the floor in my room. I can’t remember how I got there. There’s a slight pain in my back so maybe I fell somehow off my bed. Another panic-attack; no memory of what I did before, or during it. Somewhere in my mind I find I’m happy I’m alone. Fumbling for my bed for support I realize I can’t get up.

I quite enjoy the view from the floor. There’s frames to look at with the “kind-notes”, a piece of paper were people are supposed to write nice things about you. Even from here I can see the writings. “Always happy!”, “Spreads joy!”, “Beautiful smile!”, “I love your laugh!”, Absolutely wonderful!”

I laugh to myself.

My eyes travel to my medicine box. Anti-depressants, anxiolytic-pills, benzo-like pills for emergencies. I curse my ability to laugh easily. What’s the happy girl to do when she’s not spreading joy, but waking up from a panic attack?

Also, what is she to do when she has been isolating herself for the past months, losing a close friend because of it, because she can’t fulfill the requirements she has now set up for herself? Because when she’s not the happy, joy-spreading person she used to be (or she really is, she doesn’t know), she hides. She doesn’t answer the messages from the people she loves. She doesn’t answer when they call. She doesn’t do what she loves.
She writes in third person because it is painful to apply this to herself.

The wall to my right is the wall of important things; souvenirs from Romania, post-its I have gotten, flight-tickets. The picture of us. The one I received after Christmas and never thanked you for. We look happy. Actually happy. (I can’t tell whether you really were happy or not. We never talked about such things.) Somewhere inside my head it clicked. I do not understand “the concept of being happy”, but I remember I was happy there with you.

“Is there anybody in here who has someone they look up to?”
My hand is lifted up somehow.
The lecturer points at me. “Yes! You at the back! What is her or his name?”
I clear my throat. “Maria”
“And what makes her someone you look up to?”
“She’s real.”
He nods.
“She’s genuine. She’s caring. If she is mad at God, she is, and that’s okay. She’s one of my favorite people in this world.”

I guess what I am trying to say is that I am sorry for not writing you. And thank you for that picture. I called a friend when everything had clicked, and I asked for help. He got me stable, got me to sit on my bed. Talked to me until I was calm. Because apparently, I don’t always have to be happy, Maria. 

Just know that I still think about you a lot and that I love you.

All my love, Sara

As Long as You’re Happy

My hands won’t stop shaking.
I ask them to stop, but they refuse to listen
so I hide them underneath the table.
“It’s gonna be alright”, I tell them,

“Just don’t touch him”

He leaves eventually,
uncomfortable by my presence
and I beg my lungs to burst,
polite as one could be,
but they don’t.
Never do, these fuckers.
Where did we go wrong?
Come back, talk to me.
Please.

Too Often It Was Pain

I was told love was pure.
Love was kisses on the cheek,
hugs from behind when you didn’t expect them.
Love was not locking the door,
just if love wanted to see you.
Love was caring,
when no one else was.
Love was all there was sometimes.
Love was forgetting your friends,
but making sure your love was smiling.
Love was dreams sometimes,
waking up to the truth;
it didn’t exist anymore.
Love was not going to bed,
because you’re sickly in love with seeing their face every night.
Love was pure pain sometimes.

Runnin’ through town

Like a manic, like a clown
I was running for life all through town.

What the chaser did not know,
slithering throat here now is my fun.

Now he’s leaping, not worth keeping,
shame he messed ’round with someone like me.

And he’s screaming, he is crying
did he actually think I was lying?

Now he’s dead, no more dread,
let’s go running through town all again.

Not my responsibility, but

“It’s not your responsibility.”, my mother tells me as I talk to him at one o’clock in the morning, trying to calm him down in an anxiety attack.

“We’re just talking”, I say.

“Do you feel responsible?” my grandfather asks, watching me tap my fingers repeatedly on the table after hanging up.
“I’m just making sure he gets his medicine.”, I say.

Am I doing something wrong? Am I missing something? Isn’t our job in this world to see one another, take care of one another?

I just don’t know.

It is not my responsibility, but if I don’t do it, I am not sure he will survive.

 

And Closer Still

They really got to you, didn’t they?

Pushing you on towards the edges

tore apart your broken mind.

Now all you hear is chaos,

a beating drum within the ground.

Step in here, darling,

come in close, and closer still.

In you there is a fire,

and I won’t let this one be still.

Come on now, stand before me,

stretch your arms towards the sky.

I’ll stay here, yes, right behind you.

Take the step, you’ll be alright.

Just Lack of Light

It was dark yesterday. Maybe that’s something to be expected on a Saturday in the city. The sun wasn’t shining. It was past midnight when you went out for the round.

But listen to me, please. It was dark.
Dead.
They were dead.
There was no life.

What?

I have read somewhere that darkness is just a lack of light, so I turned around and looked for light.
Made eye-contact with the security guard outside the bar.
Dead.
He raised his eyebrows at me.
I shook my head.
I smiled.
Shy.

I kept on walking, drunken laughter behind me.
“I don’t miss it”, I thought, I turned up the volume to my headphones.
Rounded a corner, past a couple of teenagers. Made sure I didn’t made eye-contact with them, too. I don’t want to know of their liveliness, or lack thereof.

Passed by an empty police car outside the station. It was ready to go, but empty. Ready to save people. Maybe there had been a robbery. Maybe someone had been hurt. Maybe someone had been too angry. Maybe someone was dead. But I can guarantee you they wouldn’t take care of the dead eyes just round the corner.
Ready to save people.
But not quite.
I shook my head. Said Jesus a couple of times because that’s all I was getting out.

Across the street was a church.
Also dark.
So I stopped, looked at it.
My grandfather tells me it’s lovely there, the best one yet. Lovely lights, lovely preacher, lovely people who will sit by your table when you drink your coffee. Who am I to argue with a seventy year old man who has gone to church his whole life?
But why is it so dark?

Darkness is just a lack of light.

Jesus.
Jesus?
JESUS?!

I shouted it, but quietly. In my head. There are certain things you don’t shout past midnight, now a Sunday. This I’ve been told.

Where are you?

                                                     

“What are you doing?”

“I’m writing, Mom.”

“What are you writing?”

“I – I don’t know.”