Today’s guest post comes from Grace, who shares some of her poetry inspired by her battle with mental illness.
“I have suffered from depression and anxiety since I was about 15 years old and I struggled quite a bit with self-harming. Poetry was my way of getting the emotions out of me in a healthy way. I was bullied during school, sexually and emotionally abused by my first proper boyfriend at 16, and home life was stressful. Whilst I struggled for so long, I refused to go to the doctor until I was about 20 because I didn’t believe my trauma was ‘that bad’. I am now on antidepressants, in a healthy relationship and haven’t self-harmed in a while. I still enjoy writing my poetry and I even have my own book published on Amazon called Letters to my Past*, which was published the summer of 2017. If you enjoy reading my poetry, you should pick up my book.”
I want love. I yearn for unstable. I need to be up at three in the morning. I hunger to be able to need someone. I love objects and materials. Because that’s easy. But I want someone to make me feel sick with love. Nauseous of the thought of losing them. I desire a purpose. I don’t want to be able to walk away from the situation. With barely a tear on my face. I need to feel. How can I expect anyone to love me? If I can’t love them? I want to be completely on top of the world. As well as being so close to hell. I want to get so fixated with another individual. That I remember the exact shape of their eyes. And the colour they glow. I want to feel butterflies. I want to get anxious. I want to have a reason to impress someone. I want pain. A fire burning throughout my heart and veins. Rather than being stone cold constantly. Candles rather than ice cubes. I want to feel alive. I want a fucking reason to feel happiness. I want dopamine. Instead of a zombified soul.
Just because I survived doesn’t mean I want to be a survivor.
All you witness is the strong outer layer I put up for people.
You don’t suspect any tear-stained cheeks.
You don’t assume I’m screaming,
Pulling my hair,
Punching the walls,
Cutting my arms,
Wanting it all to stop.
Why won’t it bloody stop?
If there is some white guy up there who believes he’s God then why does he make me go through the same torture over and over again.
But you all think I’m strong.
I don’t feel very strong,
Wishing I was dead.
Don’t fall in love with me,
You’ll be falling in love with a dead girl.
I’m a fraud.
Can’t you see that?
I’m sorry to have led you into thinking I was something I’m not.
Take Your Medication
This little pill.
The little white powdered mess in my hands.
Holds my happiness.
My shield against the world.
It’s not working.
It’s not fucking working.
I scream at the four walls surrounding me.
What am I meant to do now?
I’m sleeping beauty.
But with short hair.
And a desire never to wake up again.
It’s not just about feeling numb and empty.
It’s not just about feeling lonely and invisible in a crowd full of people.
It’s the waking up wishing you were dead.
And it’s not about what all the insecure pretty girls are saying,
About sleeping forever.
It’s about wishing you didn’t exist.
It’s about being in so much pain.
That each day drags on,
Like you’re carrying a boulder everywhere you go.
Inhale and exhale.
It’s okay for the tears to stream down your face.
It’s okay for no one to see.
It’s okay for everyone to see.
It’s okay to not be okay.
You poor angel of a human being.
Who did this to you?
They asked you where he hurt you,
And you point to the head of the doll.
Maybe he only touched me once,
But he’s fucked me for life.
Thank you to Grace for sharing some of her poetry.
You can find Grace elsewhere by following the links below:
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