I am much more-

I am much more-

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To all the friends
I pushed aside-
Sent every call,
To voice message .

Somedays my dark
Empowers me,
I blink, I breathe,
That’s all I can be.

To all the friends,
Who stood by me,
From dawn to dusk
And the dark in between.

When sorrow wipes
Aside my joy,
Your thoughts, remind me,
I am much more.

Much more than pain
Much more than tears
Much more than another,
Sad ending.

Because of you-
I am much more.

V- Victory

V- Victory

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There will be days,
When you’ll think that you can’t;
You’ll gaze all around you,
Not a kind eye you’ll find;
You may wish that the ground,
Should split into two,
Pulling you into an abyss,
Where you’ll be understood.

There will be days,
When you’ll think to the past;
And the memories locked up
Would surface to light,
You’d search for solace,
In the arms of your kind,
Not a shoulder would hold You,
While you wither inside.

There will be days,
When you’ll think that you can’t,
But you will; don’t you give up,
victory is at hand.

The truth about…

The truth about…

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No,
it’s not pretty like
the poems written about it,
it is sad and lonely
and loves solitude.
It feeds on silence and
screams the loudest.
It comes at dusk and doesn’t
depart at dawn-
it’s a sticker.

It whispers,
In tunes- entrancing,
Into its clutches;
It doesn’t let go,
Makes the cracked, feel
Broken; and the broken,
Feel damaged, and the damaged
Unfixable-
It’s a downward spiral.

Yes,
It’s defeat-able,
No,
It’s not like the switch
on a wall
To be turned,
Off at choice.
A journey it is,
With more bumps than
Most.
It is called depression,
Yes- it is real.

The above picture is courtesy of Bbc.co.uk

Mother, I am depressed-

Mother, I am depressed-

 

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I told my mother I was depressed,
And she said- baby, it’s just the blues,
Just like every song has an ending,
This one would waltz right through.
It’s been three years- I’m still “blue”

I told my father I was depressed,
And watched the tears stream down his cheeks,
With a heart heavy with guilt, I said-
Daddy, I will make it through.
I was depressed, yet the one to show strength.

I told my friends I was depressed,
They said- girl! You just need a man;
How could I handle another human soul,
When I could barely deal with mine.
I was depressed, not in need of a man.

I told my brother I was depressed,
He asked if I was bleeding then?
He’s heard girls can go a tad bit off,
When their time of the month appeared.
I said- I’m not bleeding… He didn’t hear.

Dear God…. I am depressed.


Day 2: About me. This poem is in response to December poetry challenge. 31 poems in 31 days.

A conversation with Depression-

A conversation with Depression-

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Depression knocked on my door,
And I told it,
Have a seat,
It wasn’t even dawn,
At least let me have a cup of coffee,
In peace, at least-
I said to my depression.

Depression knocked on my door,
And I welcomed it
With open arms,
We’ve been together
For so long now,
We might as well be friends,
Right?
Depression knocked and I welcomed it.

Depression knocked on my door,
And we had a one sided-
Conversation,
While the sky turned golden behind us,
I said-
You’ve had your stay
And I have entertained you,
Now- it’s time to take your leave,
I said to my depression.

Depression knocked on my door,
Like an unwanted guest,
Which tends to overstay it’s welcome.
But the birds sung a melodious,
Tune In the background,
And I turned the door knob
To a lock,
With a passion I didn’t think,
Existed within me,
I said to my depression-
We are done!

The above image is courtesy of Our heat is gospel.tumblr

The Girl on The Street

The Girl on The Street

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It came as a curveball,
The news that they met;
A girl on their street,
Had succumbed to death;
But I thought she was happy,
They chorused all day;
And saw flashbacks of her,
With burgers and a grin;
But the truth of the darkness,
Which hovered her being,
Was placed on the status,
Of her various dps;
It was written in the poems,
Which she shared with her friends,
Who described it, “beautiful”,
And ignored its depth;
It was displayed in the redness
Of her eyes after meals,
When she came out of restrooms,
Appearing fatigued.
It was drawn on collarbones,
Poking through her skin,
And the clothes she resized,
For the waists were too big.

It came as a curveball-
News, The illness took her;
Her weight was too downscale,
She couldn’t survive;
But I thought she was happy
Was all they could say,
But for the girl on the street,
It was too late.

Pretty-

Pretty-

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All that you are,
Isn’t reflected in the mirror;
And the face looking back,
Is but a twinkle of a star;
The scales that you mount,
They measure lipos and calories;
But the worth of your heart,
Can’t be measured and priced.

When your clavicle pokes up,
Passers-by call you pretty;
So you run extra kilometers,
Spending hours in the gymnasium;
You eat at the brink of starvation,
Feeling dizzy and lightheaded;
But my God, you think it is worth it
Passers-by would call you pretty.

All that you are girl,
Can’t be reflected in the mirror;
It shows you face worth,
Not the reality your soul captures;
And the words passersby throw,
Is but a drop in the ocean;
So you say it ain’t so,
I’m always pretty regardless

The above image is courtesy of Visualize.com

Mental Health Friday #22

Mental Health Friday #22

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Hi. I’m Angela and I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar 2, borderline personality disorder, binge eating, and general anxiety. I can’t remember how old I was when I realized I had a mental illness. I know I’ve always been suicidal. I think my mind uses it as a coping mechanism. I know I was at least fifteen. It wasn’t until I turned seventeen that I sought help. The catalyst was I went from being suicidal to homicidal. I wanted to stab a kid in my class and it terrified me. I went to the counselor at school and started therapy. Still no one recognized my true diagnosis.

It took me twenty two years to finally get diagnosed properly. I had to get a psychological evaluation for myself. After being treated for depression off and on and then general anxiety with meds that didn’t help, I now have a good mix of medication and therapy. Most days I’m good and for those off days… Well I take one moment at a time.

One final thought… Always self advocate. I wish I had sooner. It took me almost being imploding to realize I need to be picky in my doctors and to get second opinions. We need to take care of ourselves before we can others.


This week’s submission is by Angela who blogs at I am my own island , do pop by and say hello. She writes about life in general, living and improving despite mental issues.

As always, The goal of Mental Health Friday is to break the silence, talk about mental illness with the aim of blurring out the stigma one story at a time. If you’d like to share your story, I’d love to have you. You can contact me at my email: mykahani@yahoo.com . For more information, visit HERE.

Mental Health Friday #21

Mental Health Friday #21

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I never thought I needed help, even during my darkest moments. To me, it was no one else’s business and I could take care of myself as I saw fit. The problem is, when you’re cutting up your body and someone finds out, it soon becomes everyone’s business.

I started feeling depressed and harming myself when I was 10 years old (I’m 22 now) and although I didn’t have any real identification for what I was feeling, I knew it wasn’t something that everyone dealt with. I kept it a secret until I got to high school but as my stress levels rose, so did the frequency of my cutting. It was both a freeing and a damning sensation but I couldn’t get enough of it. I had my reasons, depending on the day. Sometimes it was because I felt completely numb and other times I felt that I needed to be punished for some trivial matter which really wasn’t my fault at all. It was a release of all my anger, frustration, and pain. It gave me something tangible to focus on and to be involved with.

Eventually a friend that I trusted pressured me into admitting what was going on but I figured life would continue on as normal, at least my version of it, and it did… Until the day I got called into the counseling office. I knew immediately what had happened and my worst fear had been confirmed. The school knew about my cutting and called my parents. From that day on it became an even more difficult battle with my depression. My parents didn’t understand, my friends didn’t really understand, and eventually it became too much and I gave into the blackness inside my soul. That’s how I ended up in the hospital the first time.

Once I got out about a week later, it seemed that everyone in school had some sort of theory and the bullying I had previously experienced soon doubled based upon the idea that I was the “crazy” girl. My cutting got even worse, to the point where I tried hurting myself underneath the cafeteria table at lunch time. How desperate… How addicted do you have to be for that? I was in a dangerous place and soon enough, I was admitted to the hospital again for 2 weeks this time. Luckily, I had some friends who stuck by me and that’s what kept me sane and safe once I got back to school where the bullying tripled.

High school was extremely hard for me and I constantly felt as though I was at the bottom of a deep black hole that just kept slowly crumbling down around me, bringing me further and further into darkness. Once I got into college, things improved for a little but I soon stopped going to classes and couldn’t bring myself to care that I was failing. After multiple panic attacks and one really bad cut, I knew I needed to move back home andwork harder on my wellbeing. The feeling of utter hopelessness is something that cannot even be described. I was lucky to have found a therapist I adored and was put into group therapy with two leaders I absolutely loved. My parents took the time to learn more about my conditions and began to understand me more and work with me in more helpful ways.

Recovery hasn’t been easy. It took years for me to have more good days than bad, and I even managed to quit cutting for 2 and ½ years (I did mess up once a couple months ago during a horrible fight with my boyfriend but no one is perfect). It is a battle still. I won’t say that everything is peachy all the time, but I know now that things can be okay and that they can get better. I try to look at the little things because they are always there, you just need to find them. The darkness still hovers around me sometimes and I know that I may fight this for the rest of my life, but I know the good outweighs the bad, now. If I had ended my life when I tried to those times, there is so much I never would have experienced and I always remind myself of that. You can do it too. If I can and many others can make it through, then I know you can too. There is always a reason and there is always hope. You just need to find it.
With hope and love,
Clare


This week’s story was submitted by Clare of DestroyedRazors.com. She was diagnosed with Major Depression, Panic Disorder, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder while simultaneously fighting an addiction to self-harm. As her tag line says, Her blog is For fighters, survivors, addicts, loners, the hopeless, the hopeful and all those in between.

If you’d love to contribute and share your story on Mental health Friday, I’d love to have you. You can contact me on My email address: mykahani@yahoo.com. Image credit: HealthyPlace.com

Mental Health Friday #20

Mental Health Friday #20

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How I made it to eleven years clean despite having a nervous breakdown and thinking terrorists had poisoned all the blueberries in my local supermarket.

When I went into rehab at the beginning of 2005, my seriousness and dedication to my treatment can be deduced from the essential items I packed:
12 pairs of Agent Provocateur lingerie (in case I got lucky)
A vibrator (in case I didn’t)
Enough benzos and diet pills to get me through the first week.
17 pairs of designer shoes (later smuggled up to 70)
36 handbags.

My therapist said I looked like I’d escaped from the set of TV Sitcom “Absolutely Fabulous.” I sincerely believed this was a compliment. I had chosen St Chillin’s, Britain’s most exclusive rehab, as I felt it would look best on my C.V. and hoped to bump into a celebrity. Despite having been arrested at Heathrow airport, as sundry dogs, passengers and tea ladies detected that my passport and all my possessions were heavily (and visibly) coated in cocaine, I considered myself to be a party girl who had simply partied a bit hard. Quite what party I was attending when I was scoring drugs in a Jamaican ghetto at midnight, thinking I was likely to be gang raped and have my throat cut, is still a mystery. Other adventures I’d got up to included being seduced by a (female) teenage stripper in Jamaica, who’d killed someone the week before (and then stole my car). And deciding that the best medication for a cocaine induced heart attack, was (naturally) to take more cocaine.

Only a few days after the benzos I’d taken into rehab ran out, (which caused major panic attacks as well as a serious problem with imaginary insects that kept on biting me) I was forced to do “Step 1” of the AA 12 Step programme “We admitted we were powerless over our addiction, that our lives had become unmanageable.” The reaction from my therapy group to what I’d been getting up to in Jamaica was, instead of the laughter and applause I’d been expecting, shocked silence and a recommendation “to write it all down as a public leaflet to warn people not to take drugs.” That Step 1 changed my life, reducing my denial from the size of the Titanic to a one person canoe. Instead of just having a break from my using, I now decided I was going to get clean.

After relating a catalogue of disasters with my mental health, the psychiatrist at St Chillin’s diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder and said I had “too many problems” to be treated in the private sector as I would “bankrupt my family.” This diagnosis came after previous diagnoses of clinical depression and bulimia in my early twenties. The psychiatrist said I needed to move to a state rehab. I decided I’d better listen, as my decisions had ended me up in rehab, totally broke. The only place my local council would fund that had a bed, was a tough rehab in South London, bristling with ex-cons, where I met the “love of my life” an ex-armed robber, pimp and drug dealer who’d forgotten how long he’d spent in jail. Naturally, when I left residential rehab at the end of 2005, he moved straight in with me. But I’m not sure I would have got through that first Christmas out of rehab clean if he hadn’t been around.

I was going to 12 Step meetings, which I had always primarily viewed as places you went to pick up men, arriving at the end of the meeting, with my telephone number tattooed on an exposed breast. I had chosen a sponsor in NA because her handbag collection was much much bigger than mine. My local council decided I was too deranged to be left in society on my own, so my GP referred me to the Waterview Psychiatric Unit where they had a programme to treat people with Personality Disorders. I immediately renamed it the “Prison View Psychiatric Unit” as water was as absent as lakes in the Sahara, it was actually overlooking a juvenile detention centre. Read more