Fingers clenching tense shaking mind racing

A thousand thoughts intruding on each other

Chest hollow

Fluttering heart erratic panicky feeling driving

Stakes of anxiety muscles taut

Cracking knuckles sinking flailing

Gasping for air inhaling failure like bitter remedies

Glazed eyes unseeing galaxies of unbidden futures

All imagined in escapist daydreams

Crushing hunched shoulders

Achy neck veins throbbing breathing shallow breaths

Overwhelming sense of finality

Conflicting duality of hope and despair

Rolled together like an expensive joint of reality

She smiles at me

Downcast eyes laugh lines hiding deceiving beliefs in the achievability of it all

The same reckless diving into disbelieving desires of possibilities

Of futures yet to pass but the hope is too strong to ignore

Incessant tapping of feet clicking heels betraying nervous ticks

A shared glance igniting fueling fire of my inevitable inability

To express what I mean

An inarticulate wordsmith dumbstruck by sheer desperation

Lacking faith or courage abandoned plans fall from weak hands

As opportunities knock but the door remained bolted

It’s the same old tale

Boring

A soul destroying passion too late or too early

Just not my time I suppose is the proposed moral of this story

Trembling fingers reach soft caress of flushed cheeks

Hands tumbling through ruffled hair snag on panting breaths and heaving chests

Lips sewn into pounding lines erratically beating across each other’s necks

Clenched

Goosebumps rise on roused arms

Shivers delectable vibrations arousing consuming sinful

Thump thump of hearts so loud they muffle the sounds

Of tearing clothes and noisy inhales

Worshipping at the altar of glistening pleasure

Mouths locked

Lips puffy

Tongues fighting a battle in which everyone is victorious

Heavy breaths and tangled limbs and heat radiating

Burning so good on wet skin

Eyes meeting electrifying currents of shared secrets

Floating in between

Time freezes momentarily fleeting

Sweet agony of completing this union of two souls

Temporary retreat from reality interrupted

Sweat sticky solidifying in cold pools of washed up desire

Eyes no longer meeting rather fleeing

Satiation granted with no permanency

Spent

A miasma of lingering questions and unspoken replies

All played out internally

Feet slip into shoes slide across the room and out the door

Never looking back

The whispered, “do you want to stay the night?”

Drowned out by the roar of the engine

Nonverbal response to an unheard request

Regret

Bone-deep exhaustion floods through me, every shuffling step feeling like it might be my last. Years of fear and frustration boiling up and then subsiding because feeling anything at all is too much effort. I walk into the computer lab silently beside my classmates; turning right and heading towards the back of the class instead of my customary front-row seat. A few people glance at me quizzically, unsure of what I’m doing, but I ignore them and seat myself in the back corner, head leaning against the wall, the coolness a stark contrast to the raging inferno inside my of my head.

Professor Montoya doesn’t know what to make of me. She asks loudly over the conversations of the rest of the class, “Are you ok?” I glance up at her, debating whether or not to respond, and choose to simply allay her concerns with a thumbs-up. Lying about how I feel has gotten me this far in life. Hopefully it can get me through the rest of this class as well.

Everyone’s working on the lab assignment; extensive defining of terminology for their research projects. Usually I would be up at the front making a spectacle of myself as I debate with Professor Montoya about semantics and how certain definitions could be misconstrued. Today, I don’t even bother turning my computer on. Instead, I lower the chair all the way down, and place my head on arms. I inhale and exhale slowly, wondering if I can breathe in enough oxygen to wake myself up even a little bit. But even the action of deep breathing is too tiring to continue for long.

Listening to the conversations of research partners towards the front of the class, I quietly thank whatever deity exists that my perpetually flaky partner is absent today as well. Just as I think this however, I hear the professor scolding him for showing up late. I don’t even bother raising my head. Hiding behind a massive computer screen, I hope irrationally that he doesn’t notice my massive frame hunched over in the back. My hope is dashed.

“Hey buddy, what’s going on?” he asks, plopping down in the seat next to me. I’m simultaneously overwhelmed by gratitude for his kind voice, and completely infuriated that he couldn’t take the hint that separating myself from the rest of the class meant I didn’t want to be disturbed. I offer a non-committal grunt.

“Can I do anything to help?” His sincerity and open demeanor aren’t doing anything to help at the moment, because indifference is easier to deal with than sympathy. My head still buried in my arms, I shake it back and forth slowly, mentally begging him to go away. Thankfully, this time my telepathy has apparently worked because he pats my shoulder awkwardly several times before returning to the front of the room.

The conversations in the room become louder and louder, as people try to be heard over their neighbors, until what seems like a deafening cacophony of voices are all debating definitions. Professor Montoya’s voice rings above it all calling for quiet.

“Alright! Enough! That’s plenty of time to work on your operationalizations. Now we’re going to cover the types of tests you’ll be using for your data. Who can tell me what a chi-square test measures?” I finally raise my head from my arms to glance around the room, noting that the only person looking in my direction is the professor. I lean my head against the wall again, closing my eyes and wondering how upset she would be if I left early. As I debate the pros and cons of blatantly walking out of class in the middle of the lecture, I notice that my name is being repeated.

“Joseph? Can you enlighten us?” Professor Montoya is staring directly at me now, and the rest of the class has turned around as well to hear my response. I stare back nonplussed, mind blank, wondering what on earth they were talking about. I shake my head, unable to form words, a sudden lump of anxious build-up making its home in my throat. A few people look at me askance, unable to determine why I’m not on my A-game today, but blessedly turn back around when the professor returns to lecturing on homogeneity and independence. The world blurs for a moment, colors blending together, a vacuum-like silence descending on the room as the sound rushes out. My eyes droop, not quite closed, but not absorbing any information regardless.

“Joseph, talk to me, what’s going on?” The sudden voice from my left startles me, jumping slightly in my seat as reality snaps back into place. I turn to see Professor Montoya staring at me with worried eyes, eyebrows scrunched together, slowly reaching a hand out. I flinch.

“You’re really worrying me, please talk to me,” she implores, lowering her hand but still looking at me too closely, too much scrutiny in those eyes. I look away, desire to confide in someone conflicting violently with my lifelong refusal to ever admit any emotional pain.

“I’m just really tired today,” I whisper, trying not to let the sound of exhaustion and tears enter my voice. Judging by the look on her face, I doubt I succeeded.

“It’s more than being tired, I know what tired looks like, this ain’t it. Come on Joseph, you know I’m a mandatory reporter. If you don’t tell me what’s going on I’m going to have to assume someone’s hurting you or you’re hurting yourself. Please, talk to me.” I glance up at her face, and can tell she’s deadly serious about the reporting if I don’t give her something. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my inner turmoil and find the courage to admit a tiny portion of what’s happening in my head.

“I’m on new meds,” I respond, refusing to look at her, speaking more to the keyboard in front of me than anything else. “They’re just making me really tired. I’m sorry I’m not participating.”

Her silence in response forces me to look up at her again, wondering what her reaction would be to hearing this. If she would stop probing. Wondering if she would leave me alone again so I could pretend to be present. She stares at me intently, seemingly searching for something that she doesn’t find. The pressure of maintaining eye contact becomes too much, and I look away again.

“Meds for what?” she asks in a no-nonsense tone. I can tell from her voice that she thinks I’m lying, that I’m on drugs, downers, maybe took too much syrup this morning.

My breath is coming in shallow gasps now, heart pounding so hard in my chest it feels like the motion is rocking me back and forth. I shake my head again, hunching over, shame flooding through my at the thought of admitting what’s wrong with me.

“Joseph?!” She asks in alarm, a hint of panic seeping into her voice, clearly dismayed by the sight of me. “Joseph, I need you to verbalize to me. What’s happening? You’re scaring me!”

I realize that if I don’t say anything, she’s going to call campus safety. That idea more than anything else spurs me into calming myself long enough to respond.

“Depression,” I mumble, the word escaping from my lips like a pulled tooth. “The meds are for depression.” My whole body is tense, drawn taut like a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest hint of scorn or doubt. I wring my hands together so hard that I can feel my bones creaking in protest, knuckles so white they look dead. My previous exhaustion is replaced with a post-adrenaline rush of shakiness, breath still coming out in nasally exhales. I can’t bring myself to look at her.

“Ok,” she replies. “Thank you for telling me. I understand. Don’t worry about the classwork today. Feel free to take off whenever, I know you don’t need the practice.” With that, she gets up, walking to the front of the class towards a raised hand, never looking back. An overwhelming sense of relief fills me, a prickly feeling building in my eyes. Curious, I reach up, feeling wetness, confused as to what it could be.

If you had asthma you’d use an inhaler

If you were nearsighted you’d wear prescription glasses to see better

If you had high blood pressure

You’d take Lipitor in the morning

Cause if you didn’t, you’d know that your body couldn’t afford it

If you had a headache you’d take aspirin to make the pain go away

If your pancreas doesn’t work you inject insulin every day

What’s funny though if someone had cancer you wouldn’t say

That they can cure themselves with self-help books and meditation

Obviously what they need is chemotherapy and radiation

But what you’re telling me is if I’m struggling with mental health

That it’s different from everything else

That I don’t need professional help

Just learn to be comfortable with myself

Well I call bullshit!

How you gonna tell someone who sincerely wishes they were dead

That they don’t know how they feel

Cause it’s all in their head?

Of course it’s all in their head, just like Alzheimer’s and MS

You gonna tell me you think fresh air

Is gonna cure ALS?

The stigma about discussing mental illness has slowly eroded

But that’s only half the problem cause it’s not just the talking that’s important

The diagnosis is a start but it’s only the first part

Anxiety and depression won’t be cured by yoga in the park

Cause please explain to me why morphine’s ok for a broken back

But when I’m having a panic attack a xanax is too much to ask

But I gotta ask

Have you ever felt like you were crawling out of your skin?

Like the whole world’s about to end and you’ve got tunnel vision

Your lungs are feeling so heavy and you can’t catch your breath

And you’re sure everyone’s staring at your heart banging in your chest

But maybe not

Maybe anxiety’s not your story

Maybe you cried from disappointment that you even woke up this morning

Maybe you get so tired that you can’t even stand

And the only thing keeping you going is a bottle in your hand

Every sharp object you see you imagine slitting your wrists

Cause anything’s gotta be better than this

We can talk about depression but it’s so hard explaining

When you hate yourself and every interaction feels so draining

So why is it socially acceptable to get knee and hip replacements

But not when I’m suicidal and need anti-depressants?

I’ll tell you this

When I was 20 I tried to kill myself by jumping off a roof

Cause I felt worthless and ashamed of who I was and that’s the truth

When I was 21 and 22 I drank myself to sleep at night

Figured if I didn’t wake up the next morning well that’s alright

Been depressed and suicidal since I was a little kid

And for a while I wasn’t sure I was ever gonna want to live

For the past ten months I’ve been taking some medication

And for the first time in my life I feel something other than agitation

For the first time in my life I can see with clear eyes

And it’s all thanks to these pills that everyone wants to demonize

I’m so sick and tired of these people who complain

About anti-depressants as if the pills are to blame

We need more dialogue about mental illness that’s how I see it

Cause when I’m dealing with my sickness you don’t get to tell me how to treat it.

(Excerpt from my new poetry book "Ramblings of an Addled Heart")

She smells like drunken three AM philosophical conversations

Sitting on the grass

Pants wet from the not-quite-dawn-yet dew

Like the aroma of iced-tea on a hot day

Sweat rolling down tense necks

Sweet ice cold salvation quenching parched lips

She smells unassuming

Like a quiet confidence reflected in the fire of her eyes

The reek of determination and nurturing

Rolling off of her like comic-drawn heat waves

Tangible

She sounds like the voice you knew all along

Like a forgotten memory

A wisp of echoing melody you can’t quite place

Like the name of a song you know intimately

But can’t quite say

She sounds like distant ocean waves

Crashing along the shore

Calm

Yet hiding a raging riptide underneath

She sounds like sizzling blueberry pancakes in the morning

Buttery crinkling of home-cooked comfort

She feels like

Sweaty palms and pounding hearts

Like blazing rays of possibility

The first splash of heat across your face

Staring into a sunrise

Shielding squinted eyes with hands to block out the overwhelming radiance

She feels like redemption

Like the culmination of a lifetime’s work

Like a patchwork quilt

Built by holy hands designed to wrap around

And smother hesitation

She feels like home

Anxiety coursing through my veins like snake poison

Uncontainable

The harder I try to repress it the more forceful it comes

It’s ebbing rage creeping up on me

Subtle as a brick in the face

Consuming

The nervous tap of my foot

Hand clenching into fist

Fingernails biting into palm

Pent-up energy begging to be released

The urge to scream nearly overwhelming

And every word you say feeds it more

Cracking knuckles, and hands and fists

Clenching

Unclenching

Clenching

Unclenching

Foot tapping and knuckles still cracking

Head bobbing and the sound of your voice

Raking on my nerves like the sound of nails on a chalkboard

But worse

Because you won’t shut up

Want to punch you, kick you

Pick you up and throw you down a flight of stairs

Do anything to shut you up

The primal need to yell, to scream

To expel some kind of angry noise from my throat

Approaching the breaking point now

And for some fucking reason you still won’t shut up!

The only thing left to do is let it all out

Scream at the top of my lungs

Call you names

Bring into question the legitimacy of your birth

And say things about your mother that would horrify me if she heard

And as I stand there, energy spent and all my pent-up frustrations

Heaped onto you

Tears falling down your face

Anguish written in your eyes

The slight trembling of your chin

I want to feel bad, remorseful

Guilty that I’ve hurt you

But all I can feel is relief

Contentment

Because you’ve finally

Finally

Shut up

What do you do?

What do you mean? I do a lot of things.

Yeah but when you introduce yourself to someone you say, “Hi, I…”

“Hi, I like to write.”

Oh cool you’re a writer?

Sometimes.

Well what about the rest of the time?

I dunno, I like to read a lot too.

Ok but what’s your job?

Like, what do I do for money? Is that what you mean?

Yeah.

Oh well I tutor.

So you’re a tutor?

Sometimes.

What do you mean sometimes? You’re either a tutor or you’re not.

Well sometimes I tutor. Most of the time I don’t.

Yeah but if that’s your job then you’re a tutor.

No.

What do you mean, no?

I mean I’m not a tutor. I’m not a noun. I’m a verb. I tutor.

I don’t get it.

Ok let me ask you this; what do you do for money?

I’m a bank teller.

You’re a bank teller.

Yes.

You’re a noun?

Huh?

You tell banks?

You’re confusing me.

Are you trying to tell me that the sum of everything you are can be explained as “I’m a bank teller?”

No, obviously not.

Obviously.

I do other things than work at a bank.

Then why are you trying to define yourself by your job?

That’s not what I was doing at all.

Of course it was. You said “Hi, I’m a bank teller.”

…

Do you see what I mean? You’re more than the sum of the roles you occupy. Why would you want to limit yourself?

I’m not limiting myself by telling people what I do for a living.

For a living?

Yeah?

You live for work?

What? No!

Then why did you say you’re doing it for a living?

It’s a turn of phrase, it doesn’t mean anything.

Of course it does. Everything means something. You said it, you expected me to understand what you meant when you said it, of course it has meaning.

Yeah but it doesn’t mean that.

What does it mean then?

It means I do it to make money so I can afford to live! There! Does that make sense to you?

I mean, I understand it, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense to me.

Ugh. You’re so frustrating. Why are you like this?

Like what?

THIS! Why are you questioning everything I say? Why can’t you just make conversation like a normal person? You obviously know what I mean when I’m asking these things. Why are you pretending to be so obtuse?

You think I’m being obtuse?

Uh, yeah. Yeah I do. I think you’re deliberately trying to be annoying.

I’m sorry you feel that way. That’s not my intention.

Then what is your intention?

To make you think?

You’re saying I don’t think?

No, I’m saying you don’t think about the things you find so common to ask about because you’ve never had a reason to question it.

Questions like these are common for a reason when you’re meeting someone new.

Why?

What do you mean why? I’m trying to get to know you!

No, you’re trying to learn the labels I’ve been given. I am not a noun. I am a verb. I am not stagnation or complacency or anything you can easily define. I am motion. I reject the idea that you can take something I do occasionally and make that my identity. I am more than the sum of the things that I happen to be doing. I am more than the sum of the roles I am told to play. I am more than the sum of the labels people use to define the world around them because they’re afraid of ambiguity. I am indescribable. I am uncomfortable. I am everything and nothing and all of the things in between. But I am not a noun.

You’re weird is what you are.

I know.

You’re definitely right about you being uncomfortable. Thanks for the drink, but I’m gonna take off now.

No worries. And you’re welcome.

Bye!

Bye bank teller!

…

…

*sigh*

THE BREAKDOWN

Third night in a row with little to no sleep

Frustrated thoughts raging beneath a happy exterior breaking free

Like a shroud thrown over thoughts a blanket falls over my mood

The temporary refuge of suicidal thoughts

No longer a retreat but now a permanent residence

Willing myself to keep going through the motions

Because this dreadful agony of constricting despair

Ebbs and flows

And judging by the well known pattern it’s been months

So

By now it should be easing up

But it’s not

So I drink

Maybe it’s unhealthy but it’s the only thing that makes me want to wake up in the morning sometimes

But only sometimes

The motivation to seek help pushed along by the long held fear

Of feeling like this ten years from now

So I do

I reach out for help.

THE TESTS

A series of frank questions that follow one another

Fired like bullets from a machine gun

Rapid-fire

Being asked to divulge information

Previously only written down in hidden journals

Staccato hum of the blood rushing in my ears

Accompany the soul-crushing weight of my responses

To the question

“What do you hope to get from treatment?”

I answer, “relief”

The series of questions is followed by a battery of tests

Questionnaires and coordination trials and answering the same questions in different ways

A half-pint of blood taken to run tests designed to make sure the problem exists

In my head

And not my body

THE WAIT

All the old doubts about seeking treatment resurface

Maybe I should cancel the follow-up appointments

It’s not really that bad I tell myself

I’ll get over it eventually

Except I never have

Other people have real problems, I think to myself

I’m just a negative nancy

I don’t even feel that bad today

Everything’s fine

I was freaking out over nothing

THE DIAGNOSIS

Reluctantly I return to discover what has been discovered about me

I am handed a printout of a summary of the diagnosis

I read over the list of symptoms possibly associated with my condition and nod my head along like a bobble with each one:

Inability to concentrate

Feelings of worthlessness

Desire to stay away from others

Self-hatred

Rarely experiences positive emotions

Loss of interest or motivation

Overeating

Unexplained irritability

Insomnia

Hopelessness

It’s called Dysthymia. Persistent Depressive Disorder. PDD.

I finally have a name for it

I’ve heard stories of people receiving a diagnosis and feeling happy because they finally have a name for it

Except I always understood what I felt

I just didn’t know why I felt it

The last thing I feel is relief

Because Dysthymia is a lifelong illness

So instead of relief

I get a diagnosis that tells me hopefully with medication and therapy

I’ll one day have this under control

Hopefully

But it’ll never go away

My greatest fear stemming from early childhood

Is that I would feel this way for the rest of my life

Now I have a definitive answer

The answer is yes

THE REACTION

While I agonize over these thoughts

Another pops into my head

That my mental suffering compares not at all

With people who have real problems

I’m not homeless. I have food. I have a safe place to sleep. I don’t live in a war zone. I’m better off than most of the world’s population.

The self-hatred I know so intimately wells up and chastises me for having the audacity to be depressed when I have absolutely no reason to be

I feel overwhelmed

Tired, anxious

My neck has been aching for weeks from tension

I can’t pretend to be cheery anymore

I can’t pretend at all anymore

I’ve lost my motivation

I’ve lost my hope

I’ve lost the energy to even care

Early in the morning, (12:45am), sitting on the ridiculously comfortable recliner in the den of some of my closest friends’ house in Kansas. Said my temporary goodbyes to California last week, but I’ll be back to bring in the new year. Every day that I’ve been here, I feel the stress and anxiety dripping off of me. Every day that I’m away from the things that call upon my time and energy I feel rejuvenated. I haven’t been this relaxed in years.

Looking back at my emotional state two weeks ago is startling. It was scary how close to the edge I was, how totally defeated I felt. The lingering pain is still there, but it’s not the knock-down, devastating wreck that it was. Maybe it’s true that time heals all wounds. But I feel more open than I have in years as well. More vulnerable, but in a good way. More willing to make connections. Maybe it’s true that there’s a silver lining to everything as well.

I’ve been a very closed off person for a long time. Years of perceived failure, coupled with a crippling fear of rejection left me a hopeful guy with impenetrable walls. But in mere weeks she tore down those walls like they were cheap plaster. Took the scabs I willingly placed over every inch of my heart and ripped them off. She burrowed her way into my very psyche, and destroyed nearly every barrier I had ever put up to stop that precise thing from happening.

In the wake of coming to terms with the fact that another relationship didn’t work out, I didn’t see at first the gift she had left me. That even as she stole away a piece of me that I didn’t know I had left to give, instead of feeling hopeless, I actually feel hopeful. Hopeful for the future. She showed me that life without these walls is hard. It’s harsh, and it hurts, and a lot of things that didn’t seem painful before, are painful now. But at the same time a lot of things I didn’t let myself feel, I’m letting myself feel now.

It’s scary to contemplate the idea of being so open. But once down, I can’t find it in me to try rebuilding those walls. Maybe it’s true that those who wear their heart on their sleeves get burned more easily than those who don’t. I don’t know. What I do know is that life looks brighter and more appealing with these walls down. Things don’t seem as dark as they did before. It feels like even though things will hurt more readily, I’m stronger than I was before her.

It feels like 2016 is going to be a good year.

Torturing myself looking at the new pictures of you

Seeing you look at him the way I looked at you

Wondering if everything was a lie

Of course the promises were

Of course the promises were

But wondering if the looks you gave me were a lie

If the sensual touches

The nights curled into each other

The opening of our hearts

The sharing of our baggage

You crying on me,

Me crying in front of another person

For the first time in years

Was it all a lie?

Was every moment spent holding each other a lie?

Was the laughter?

My lips on your neck, my hands on your back and thigh, was it all a lie?

Why

It's what I keep asking myself

Why

Baring my soul to you

More honesty flowing through me

More genuine responses than I had ever given anyone

Our relationship was based on deception

I guess I always knew that nothing good could come of it

A part of me still wants to know, even though I never will

Won't ever get that sense of closure

Was your love a lie?