A Poem. But not a Limerick.
The wind picks up your feet and carries you
to a place where tears and rain don't fall.
It's always a strange day
when grey chases the colors away.
But the wind knows what you did
and where your thoughts stray.
So grand when only the wind knows how to be your friend.
There is no need to run
when the wind worries at your hair
and carries you
beyond your own stare.
Leave your pieces there,
sharp edges that cut and prick at others.
You don't have to hold it together
for someone else to see the cracks
in your smile
and the dullness reflected in your eyes.
When wind is your friend there's no such thing as lonely,
And suddenly you're strong.
With the wind at your heels
you don't have to let anyone in.
It lifts you high,
away from all the smoke
It's never been an easy thing
to let the world fall away,
but the wind sends all the pain away,
and now you don't have to feel.
You don't even have to try to heal when the wind carries you
higher and freezes your skin
until you are as fragile as steel.
Today I find myself in that strange place between sadness and apathy. I can feel myself moving slowly toward full-on depression, when the only thing it would take to send me free-falling into the darkest corners of my own mind is to do nothing. But to change the pattern even a little bit takes monumental effort, and a will that I have a hard time accessing at times like this.
It was hard not to edit the above poem to reflect something less damning. But the grim reality is that when you've had a week or more of grinding sadness, anger, and self-recriminations the slide into apathy seems to offer a sense of freedom, even power. There's security and peace in losing touch with reality, but soon it turns into confusion, and an even greater sense of loss when you realize how far you are from anyone who might once have helped you, grounded you, or given you hope.
It's not the end of the world for me. I've been through it enough to know the signs, and sometimes I manage to take the necessary step back from the ledge. Those first steps are always the hardest, when you're still windmilling your arms and fighting gravity. Sometimes I still fall, but I'm fighting it, so I don't fall as far, or land as hard. Then, I apply the old cliche band-aid, patch myself up again, and start to climb back up. It always takes a while, but eventually I realize I'm not climbing alone.