Category: Love, Your Brain

coloring-page-with-marcus-aurelius-quote-about-looking-inward

4 Poems From a Mental Hospital

GenevieveLeave a comment

I. Constants

In the courtyard

turning inward-

each one of us

small spheres of loneliness.

 

We’re locked

-in our minds

-in our pain

-in our patient IDs

 

What do you do

when the treatment

feels worse

than the illness?

 

Stripped of everything

familiar,

except that constant-

depression.

 

II. Foggy

Should I ask for the nail clippers?

Small signs of time passing-

longer nails, body hair,

and that monthly reminder of womanhood.

 

Everything else blurs together-

groups, meals, and the patients

who come and go

before I can come back to myself.

 

Twice a day, the question

“are you thinking about wanting to be dead?”

Each time I reply,

I’m less sure of my answer.

 

III. Scrutinized

The nurses walk by every 15 minutes

and flip through their clipboards,

monitoring their charges

with small, inked notes.

 

Some of us deal with it

alone,

cocooning ourselves

inside our skulls.

 

Others direct it outward,

venting to anyone who will listen

in an attempt

to regain control.

 

Ever present: the choice to perform-

or be authentic.

Which will get me out

and which will get me better?

 

IV. Treatment

They say it’s not a punishment, being here-

and it’s not-

but my sputtering brain,

fighting to maintain pathology,

 

begs

to differ.

 

A Lumpdate

Genevieve2 Comments

What is a lumpdate? I’m glad you asked. “The Lump” is the name I use to refer to the imaginary goblin in my brain that rides a tiny, rusty unicycle in circles, day and night.

watercolor artwork of a cartoon goblin giving bad advice about mental health

The Lump was quiet for a while, but it’s back again, so this is a lumpdate- an update about the Lump. It won’t be a long lumpdate; the Lump is rather unoriginal and doesn’t have many new points to make. Really, they’re all repeats of the same damaging doubts from before.

In sum, the Lump is back, setting up shop in my mind.

A cartoon goblin riding a unicycle and damaging mental health by refusing to leave

I’m trying to evict it.

Love,

Your brain

Relapse: A Poem about Self-Harm

Genevieve1 Comment

black and white painting of woman with furrowed bow and eyes closedThe remnants

were there all along-

wrapped inside my skull,

twined around every neuron.

 

In spring,

it awoke from its dormancy,

stretched its vines

to suffocate me further.

 

I’ll prune it back

and pull

what roots I can.

Maybe this time

 

I’ll get them before

late summer,

when the poison berries

are full,

 

bursting with

rotten propagation.

Waiting to sow the blight-

again.

 

Next year,

I’ll be clean

 

Love,

Your brain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recovery From Depression

GenevieveLeave a comment

TW: suicide & self-harm

I Used To

I used to look at the time when I heard a train go by at night, the heavy silence of 2 AM broken by the siren call of escape. I used to notice unlocked windows on the fourth floor of West Hall as I went up and down the stairs, each trip to and from class becoming harder. I used to see ways to die everywhere; in the passing bus, in the cold, dark current of the Huron River, in the pastel-blue sewing scissors tucked under my pillow. I used to wonder how long it would take for these morbid opportunities to escape my notice. How long before I can go a full day without putting some new, self-destructive idea on a mental shelf? How long before any phrase including the word “cut” doesn’t make me yearn to be alone so that I can do just that? I used to wonder about these things until I realized,

drawing-of-woman-lying-in-field-of-wildflowers

 

I used to.

Love,

Your brain

How Do You Measure Hope?

Genevieve2 Comments

I was sitting in my therapist’s office yesterday, quiet and subdued, while we discussed the challenge of recovering from repeated episodes of depression. I had explained that sometimes I take solace in the knowledge that the episodes eventually end, but other times, I despair that depression will inevitably return. In trying to ask me where I sat on the continuum that day, my therapist posed an interesting rhetorical question.

How do you measure hope?

Neither of us answered it, but I found myself pondering it as I left. We measure things because it helps us put them into the context of the world around us. But how do you measure a subjective thing like hope? Can you weigh it? Stand it up against your kitchen doorframe and mark its growth as the years go by? Or maybe you measure it by volume- how much space it takes up in your life; in your goals; in your routines. If you could measure hope in decibels, would yours be louder than your doubt?

For now, I choose to measure hope in binary terms. Hope is hope, no matter how small or dim. If your hope is small, feed it with the belief that the better times are worth it.

Love, 

Your brain

February’s Grip

GenevieveLeave a comment

The sun has left us for a few rotations, only peeking out from behind the clouds in short intervals. It smiles down on us weakly, filtered through miles of gauzy cotton. How did I manage a more northern latitude? Just a day or two of relative darkness is enough to upset my balance.
Maybe I’m searching for explanations that don’t exist. To excuse my mood as simply a mirror for what’s outside. It seems impossible that such a minute change could affect me so drastically, and yet when I embark on my morning walk, the slow, chemical drip of melatonin invariably calls me back to bed. So, I hunker down, and I wait for February’s grip to loosen.
Love,
Your Brain

Some Thoughts on Running

GenevieveLeave a comment

CW: mentions of self-harm

Sometimes I run because it’s when I feel strongest. I run because I love the feeling of my muscles working beneath my skin, my breath matched to my stride. Breathe in for three steps, breathe out for three steps. I love the sense of accomplishment, knowing that my body can carry me further than I think it can. Sometimes I run because it gives me joy. The simple pleasure of the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, moving with a body I’m thankful for. My body is a canvas for my mental state; when I’m well, I run for the joy of it. When I’m unwell, I run because it’s just another way to hurt myself. I run because at mile three I’m still thinking about cutting, but by mile five my brain is numb. Breathe in for three steps. Breathe out for three steps. I run because maybe if I can push my body to obey me, my brain might follow suit. I run because to be exhausted is to be empty, and where could my depression have gone except to have been left behind on the path? Expelled by my lungs, my racing heart, my wrung-out muscles. I run because it makes me feel good, and because sometimes, it makes me feel nothing at all.

Love, 

Your Brain