Trigger Warning: This poem is about self harm. Please do not read it if this is a trigger. [UPDATED] Though I do not struggle with self harm, several of the close people in my life do, and so I wanted their words to be heard and felt here. These words put into poetic form, are from the discussions and talks I’ve had with those people.
A little brick of hate was laid, down into the dirt.
Along with words of callousness, and spite, and wrath, and hurt.
A wall was built that housed mistrust, by someone I loved dear.
It grew in strength, brick by brick, each year it grew in fear.
All I could do was sit and cry, and beg that it’d come down.
But each day mortar, stone, and hate, solidified it with the ground.
I saw the light begin to fade, as it closed against the sky.
I hung my head in deep despair, in hopelessness I cried.
Then one day a dove appeared, against the blackened grey.
It chipped the joints, and broke the bricks, and toppled them away.
It pecked, and chipped, and split the wall, stone by simple stone.
For love and peace had reached a soul, that never the soul had known.
And now a garden there exists, in place of deep despair.
No brokenness, no sadness, no signs of disrepair.
For what was once a wall they made, was used to shut me out.
Love had now transformed through healing, and brought the rampart down.
Walls are tough, man.
I’ve done my own wall making and wall breaking over the years. Erected them when I’m hurt. Angry. Resentful. Deconstructed them when I’m sorry, regretful, and desperate.
Desperate to rebuild that broken relationship from what seems the long ago burnt out embers that blow away into the breeze like little flakes of confetti.
Hardly celebratory though. No, those were sad stories.
Then there’s those relationships whose embers glow, but may never be meant to be reignited. They’re toxic. Poisonous to our soul. They deteriorate us. They hurt us to our core.
Maybe this poem could be an excuse for us to make amends in a broken relationship?
I would like to thank Natalie and Alexandra over at Joy with a Side of Sarcasmfor their humbling rendition of “So whAt.”! What an awesome tribute using Vimeo. Thank you ladies. Please check out and follow their blog and leave a comment!
TRIGGER WARNING-This post deals with how I felt the night of my suicide attempt.
I hope you will scroll down and continue reading after the words, which I’ve typed out in text format.
Pull Me
I had a little trigger, that pushed me all the way
To hang myself upon my door, I couldn’t make it go away
I knocked it down with sleeping pills, and tucked it in with rum
The Specter slashed his razor claws, the round had slipped into the gun
I had a little trigger, that pulled itself real tight
I slipped the belt around my neck, I lost the will to fight
I cut it off with leather cinched, this time would be the last
I’d ever have to take again, the demons from my past
I had a little trigger, it jabbed me in my throat
To end the crap that smeared itself, across the lies it wrote
The failures, loss, resentment, of a thousand dreaded days
To suck out all the happiness, replaced it with the grey that stays
The trigger pulled, the hammer fell
The firing pin, that sealed my hell
Waiting while the light fades out
Extinguishing without a shout
Thank you if you are still reading.
My name is Chris, and on September 14th of 2014 I hanged myself.
I’ve been away for a while…pursuing a graduate certificate in eLearning.
But just mostly away…
Apathetic. I really can’t shake it.
I’ve been on a roll of laziness and sloth.
Driven to the hinterlands of the gray by the chemical reaction of the chemicals I take, to balance the effects of the chemicals I make.
I’m still in that chemical funk but wanted to force myself to write something in the interim. Thank you for my dear friends who have reached out to check on me. I am indebted to your caring, kindness.
X Chris
p.s. – in lieu of recent WP changes, would someone please let me know how we are to link back to previous posts?
This is a repost of a four part poem I wrote on Specter, the personification of my depression. With it I hope that others suffering from the torment of depression and thoughts of suicide know they are not alone. Remember this is Suicide Prevention/Awareness month. Let’s help breathe hope to those who may be in a valley.
Thank you to my readers and followers for all your support. You are special to me.
X Chris
Specter, Pt. 1
Michael please save me,
deliver my soul.
Specter is slashing,
and tearing a hole.
It bites and It gnashes,
and tears open my wounds.
I don’t have the will,
it’ll be over soon…
Specter, Pt. 2
…And as I looked up,
my defender looked down.
Descended and thrust,
crushed Specter to the ground
His lance tip pointed,
at the devil’s crown.
Specter’s incisors and daggers
extended and grown…
Specter, Pt. 3
…Specter shrieked like a pig bled, hanging on slaughter.
With this month being Suicide Prevention/Awareness Month, I am reblogging my posts and poetry that deal specifically with suicide, as well as those things that often result in suicide such as (but NOT limited to) depression, bullying, etc.
This is a poem I wrote after I read a blogger’s post about wanting to die. Please share it with someone you are thinking of that is dealing with this RIGHT NOW.
How do you relate to the people in your life with PTSD?
This post is part of a series of poems dedicated to my girlfriend. She has PTSD and severe anxiety and you will understand her story with each post. Each time I learn something about the mental conditions she lives with, I add a “part” to the series. Please read the previous verses. Each can be found at these links – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4 of her story and the lessons she’s taught me.
“In panic she runs, through her forested mind”
Running on Empty-
Heading towards “E”, one mile at a time,
The rubber is melting the road.
With her foot to the floor, and the gauge in the red,
She races to unburden her load.
The wraiths of panic, pursue her in flight,
Their talons are shredding her gown.
The harpies of terror, claw at her hair,
Knocking her down to the ground.
In panic she runs, through her forested mind,
Past triggers, closing too quick.
She can’t get away, not this time,
She’s stuck in the labyrinth; the crypt.
The branches slash, the thorns rape her skin,
And the rocks they bloody her feet.
She’s almost on empty, the tank’s almost bare,
She’s crumbling in fright and defeat.
And I catch up to her, pulling her close,
So she stops, and she looks up at me.
“I can’t do this. I won’t, and I quit.”
“Let me go. I just want to leave.”
And I let her crumble, and the tunnel opens up,
She’s so exhausted, and broke.
But she’s made it again, through the anxiety,
Such a spirit of resiliency and hope.
She’s grown on me, and taught me her life,
My mouth hangs open in awe.
For I’m getting her condition, her PTSD
I’m beginning to understand it all.
Thank you for reading the fifth installment of this series. Please pass it on to those who are surviving through PTSD, flashbacks, and anxiety.
Aside from the sculpture, Laocoön, The Dying Gaul is one of my favorites.
You can see the pain the warrior is enduring. You see the piercing in the warrior’s liver, possibly a coup de grâce?
You see the struggles of battle and the broken sword by his right hand.
You.
Feel.
His.
Pain.
I wanted to incorporate those feelings and emotions in my poem…
How do I feel and those surviving through depression feel?
What is the suffering like?
What characterizes it for us?
Depression doesn’t care about its victims.
It chooses aimlessly and can strike at any time.
It is bold and impudent.
It. Has. Gall.
Do you survive with your depression? What are some words that you would add to this poem? Please share them with the rest of us in the Comments section.
To those having an unbearable night and struggling to survive through your mental condition. Take this poem of hope to bed with you. Thank you for sharing it with those whom you know need it right now.
I’ve been reading blogs tonight under the Suicide category and felt some survivors needed to hear these words. Praying for your peace at this difficult time my fellow warrior.
I enjoy writing and reading poetry. This is a lengthy poem but well worth the time spent to read it.
I used to not be able to read it without crying because of issues with my dad – feeling like I never measured up; always looking for his approval, etc.
Dad was a senior chief in the US Navy. A respectable, honorable man. A man who provided for our family and was faithful to my mom. He took our family camping and ate dinners with us. He brought us to church and cultivated a respect for women in my brother and I.
I guess this post is, in essence, letting go of the childhood resentment I had for my dad. We never really clicked for whatever reason. It’s still kind of a precarious relationship.
I remember my dad’s “depression” and sadness. He was never diagnosed with depression, but I see the manifestations with what I deal with in my own life. I see them more clearly after the research I’ve done into my own condition. I don’t have memories of him smiling or laughing.
Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was my depression that clouded things? Made me feel shut out. Made my life gray. My dad was a good dad. He wasn’t perfect, but he always tried to do what was right…what was honorable. He was human. He was a man.
I remember writing a suicide note when I was in middle school. I had a razor blade on my desk and was going to end my life. My dad walked in and sat on my bed. “What are you doing?” he asked calmly. I told him what I was doing and he asked why. “Because I always let you and mom down” I replied. I don’t remember anything after that but for some reason I always struggled with my low self esteem for years. Yes, even now as a 41 year old man.
Anyways, once I started teaching high school I read this poem to my students on the first day of every school year. For nine years.
I’m not sure what the point of this introduction is but I hope this poem finds a place in your heart like it did mine.
I think I’ll call my dad today and tell him that he was a good dad, and that I love him.
Thank you for taking time to read my notes here, as well as the poem. I hope they lend clarity to the design and the elements of style.
TITLE. I capitalized the letters in such a way so as to portray my disassociation with reality when I am in the throws of depression. When Specter has me in his grip.
DESIGN. The bleak, worn background speaks to my depression. I thought it would speak to the figure I wrote about in each verse. To each reader.
As usual, I had an image but decided to remove it so focus would be on making sense of the words, rather than how the image related to the words.
VERSES. I think this poem comes off as snarky and patronizing at first. I went out on a limb and kept it that way because I wanted the reader to make sense of it as they progressed.
For instance, the first two lines of each verse state a problem society might have with us (italics). A “harmless” comment made about how tired we look, or how we couldn’t handle something like everyone else.
Perhaps these are things we think. How many times have you and I felt like the speaker in the first verse? “This is not my day. I’ve never tripped so much in my life. WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH ME TODAY??!!”
People never know what goes on behind our scenes. We deal with rejection by our parents; our own flesh and blood. We can’t sleep because the night terrors won’t go away. We are broken with the loss of a marriage. We each have our demons. We each have our skeletons. We each have our masks.
It is my hope that each of my readers may find a piece of themselves in these verses. And know that they are not alone.
Do you have a verse to add that reflects your experience with your mental condition (“illness”)? I’d love to see it added in the Comments section.
Hi there. My name is Chris and I have lived with clinical depression since middle school. On the night of 9/14/14 I attempted to end my life but survived thanks to the quick actions of my close friends. This site is dedicated to both the topics of (clinical) depression and suicide awareness.
I wrote this poem in my journal around five years ago, and at a low-point in my marriage. My wife and I have since been separated for several years but this shows the stranglehold Specter had on me at the time.
The fourth verse was never finished but I wanted to publish what I had written is as, true to the day I wrote it. No changes.
For effect, I took my picture using the Zombie Booth app and used it here. I just now titled this piece, indicative of the way I felt when I wrote it.
I hope this makes others feel they are not alone in their valley. There are many other people in this world feeling what you are experiencing. Right now. At this very moment. Please hang onto that for hope, my friend.
May no one ever have to feel like this. May you find peace through the valley. I pray for your hope. Please reach out here if you feel full of despair. We look out for our own.
I challenged myself to write about my depression at a point when Specter had me in his grip. I remember coming home and crashing on the couch and immersing myself into a flurry of red box movies for days. Totally useless. Hope some folks can relate and that you enjoy this piece of poetry.
And as always, may peace come to you through your valley my friends.
How do you relate to the people in your life with PTSD?
This post is part of a series of poems dedicated to my girlfriend. She has PTSD and severe anxiety and you will understand her story with each post. Each time I learn something about the mental conditions she lives with, I add a “part” to the series. Please read Part 1 and Part 2 of her story and the lessons she’s taught me.
The Night Harpies of Terror-
The demons attack, when she’s sleeping at night,
I feel her twitching beside.
Their shredded wings spread, their chipped talons slash,
She always in terror to hide.
She awakens from choking, from a former attack,
That cut off the breath of her life.
And whispered to me to hold her tight,
So I roll over; I do what is right.
She cries silently, under muted sobs,
And doesn’t want me to hear.
Afraid that I’ll yell, or repeat it all,
I don’t blame her, from feeling her fear.
She lives in terror; an over shoulder attack,
That comes whenever it wants.
And I’ve learned to adjust, to help her with this,
She’s taught me to be the man that I must.
She’s grown on me, and taught me her life,
My mouth hangs open in awe.
For I’m getting her condition, her PTSD
I’m beginning to understand it all.
Do you have suggestions for supporting people with PTSD? Will you share them with us?
How do you relate to the people in your life with PTSD?
This post is part of a series of poems dedicated to my girlfriend. She has PTSD and severe anxiety and you will understand her story with each post. Each time I learn something about the mental conditions she lives with, I add a “part” to the series. Please read Part 1 and Part 3 of her story and the lessons she’s taught me.
Daggerous Words-
She came at me, in a tone that was harsh,
And I shut down and put up a wall.
I reinforced it with ego, and self centered-ness
I put up my guard, I let the gate fall.
I was angry, insulted, and wounded inside,
Her sticks and her stones had wounded my pride
I lashed back in defensiveness, with a little man’s heart,
I lost my bearing, I fell apart.
I fell short of the man, I needed to be
It wasn’t her, it was the PTSD
The years of bones that were broken and bruised,
The hate, and the lies, and the wrong.
Of kicks and punches, and choking and hate,
Is always present, ne’er gone.
Now she fights for her mind, and own sanity,
And I need to remember her will.
And support her with love, and uncommon valor,
And never say words that are ill.
She’s grown on me, and taught me her life,
My mouth hangs open in awe.
For I’m getting her condition, her PTSD
I’m beginning to understand it all.
Do you have suggestions for supporting people with PTSD? Will you share them with us?
I posted the wrong link yesterday. This will speak to you all, especially separated/divorced dads. May you have peace through whatever valley you are fighting through.
How do you relate to the people in your life with PTSD?
This post is part of a series of poems dedicated to my girlfriend. She has PTSD and severe anxiety and you will understand her story with each post. Each time I learn something about the mental conditions she lives with, I add a “part” to the series. Please read Part 2 and Part 3 of her story and the lessons she’s taught me.
History becomes Her story-
She’s a beautiful soul, trapped deep in her keep,
In a place she won’t let most inside.
So I’ve entered slowly and cautiously here,
Not breaking the trust she confides.
Her levels and layers, her pain and her hurt
Run as deep as the red in her blood.
And I sit and I listen, to all that she says,
Which comes from her core that is good.
She tells me of rape, of the breaking of bones,
And a tear glistens down over my cheek.
For I’ve known the warrior, the battle hardened victor,
Not imagining her soft soul so meak.
Sometimes she gets up, in the middle of the night
She says that it’s just too hard.
She’ll leave then apologize because she’s flashed back
I’m not angry, I’m honored ’cause she let down a wall.
We tell each other, “You get me.” “You understand who I am”,
And we hold each other tight.
And I’ll hold her and treasure her, ’til peace arrives,
And helps her sleep through the night.
She’s grown on me, and taught me her life,
My mouth hangs open in awe.
For I’m getting her condition, her PTSD
I’m beginning to understand it all.
Do you have suggestions for supporting people with PTSD? Will you share them with us?
This is the final verse of a four part poem on Specter– the personification of my clinical depression and suicide attempt. Please read parts 1, 2, and 3 as well. This project was the result my friend’s inspiration. Thank you @Harry P. X. Frost @ theunrepentantwanderlust.wordpress.com
If you ride the waves, they will subside.
If you have lost hope, there are others in the same valley. Reach out. Share with them.
If you feel you are alone, there are those who will help. Let them carry you.
Good will prevail my fellow warrior.
Peace be with you as you survive through your valley.
NOTE: This post has references to suicide. If this is a trigger, please do not read it at this time.
The credit for this post is given to my friend, Harry P. X. Frost. He has a commanding skill with poetry and divides his verses into sections. I am borrowing his idea (hat tip Harry) to express what I felt like in my darkest hours. Specteris the personification of my clinical depression. Please visit Harry at his page – theunrepentantwanderlust.wordpress.com/
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