This Is A Story About Depression....
Here I am. I sit here in the dark, curtains drawn together tightly with the edges tacked with clear plastic pins shoved almost horizontally into the drywall. I run to lock my door and in a panic, I tuck a blanket into the tiny gap under the door. No light is to breakthrough. The pain is coming. Sitting on the floor isn't enough. I must be more hidden, more isolated. I need to crawl into the closet and shut the door behind me. My back is against the wall and my head in my hands. This is where the pain comes. This is where the pain lives.... here in my hands. I remember the first time I thought about taking my own life. I was 8 years old and under my bed, at the bottom of the heavy bedpost, I carved 'I want to die.' the words were simplistic, the writing was primitive, and mostly, the statement was powerful. I had no concept of death and dying, of beating hearts or failing organs. I had no conceptual ideas of heaven and hell. I didn't realize the extreme permanence of making my words into actions. what I did know is that dying meant disappearing. and above all, I wanted to vanish. I can’t remember the first time I was insulted or the first time I was hit. but I do know where ugly begins. I know where ugly lives, right here in the palms of my hands. I used to feel heartbroken until I realized that my heart is fine. It's my mind that's broken. In this closet, in this darkness, I begin to release the victim inside of me. victim. victim. victim. victim. ugly. ugly. ugly. The words must be said to begin letting go. say the words with me--victim. ugly. Repeat the word, write the word, stare at the word. the more you say it, the more you see it, the more foreign it begins to feel. cradling back and forth, I can think. I'm unable to hear or see. All is numb except for the intense pain in the pit of my gut. the pain crawls from the center of me, up through my aching heart and erupts out through my eyes. The pain carries my memories through this well-worn path. The wave of emotion knocks me down and washes over me. This closet is like the ocean. I'm drowning in this salty, polluted water while the broken, sandy ground below me does little to help. My body is aching, and my soul is crying out to return to dry land. I can do this: I can save myself. I can stand up and save myself from drowning. Then, I manage to pull myself up and gasp for air.
Breathe. Focus. Walk three steps. Collapse. Falling onto the wooden floor grasping at splinters and following the worn-in, destructive path of hard times. This is who I am. A broken person, sick with some sort of mental pain. Violently drunk with desperation, my eyelids crush together to force out tears and mildly ease my blurred vision. I see a glass atop my desk. In a reversed-crippled fashion, I stumble upwards to tower over my cluttered belongings. In one massive sweep, I clear all from my sight, revealing an ivory desktop smeared with ink and makeup stains
I needed to hear the crash. I took a breath of relief as I feel some anxiety waning. With the tears still streaming, I flash over to the mess below, neighboring my bare feet. With zero hesitation, I fall to my knees and dig my palms into the millions of shards of glass. My hands and mind all ache with relief. The sight of blood soothes my mental state as if I tricked myself into believing this was why I was flooding myself in tears in the first place. With trembling fingers, I scoop the salty puddles from between my lips. I prop my limp bag of blood and bones against the wall and begin to feel peace. It's as if I was at war with my imaginary self and reluctantly I won. I curl my blood-soaked fingers together and tighten my closed fist. It'll soon be time for my hands to open wide and expose this pain once again.
Kristi Jeansonne is a mother of two, a two time cancer survivor, and no-nonsense kind of gal from Lafayette, Louisiana. She is an avid coffee drinker, counts frequent eye rolling as cardio, and loves a comfy cardigan. She also loves to write about deeply personal experiences and uses writing as therapy. If you’d like to read more writing, you can check out her Instagram page Yellow House Art and Poetry.