Tag: depression

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Written December 8th 2018 by Winter Burnett

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Notifications? Ah. Just one. Good though.
Obsession? It’s not as bad as some though.
I’m not alcoholic. I don’t do drugs.
It’s not the same to OD on technology.
I have other problems. deeper.
This is just a symptom of something beyond my control.
Do any of us really have control?
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Battery low.
Searching to recharge. It’s not as simple for me.
No universal plug. No standard volts.
I don’t just take electricity.
It’s hard work to rest.
It’s difficult to step back, stop, and breathe.
The things I need a break from are the things sustaining me.
An endless cycle of repetition.
Spirals down. Spirals within to myself.
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A brief world of escape.
Did you like my photo?
65 people saw this.
Vote on this little poll.
Showing the authentic self that I formed and that I like.
The quirky silly dramatic purple lipstick wearing person.
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I don’t show you the crying in my car or alone walking my dog at night.
Pacing in my tiny room when I have too much energy.
The useless shit I buy because I need it in the moment.
The binge eating away the emotions I don’t want.
The hours I keep myself awake feeling sad.
The over sexualized thoughts that come whenever they feel like.
Shortness of breath like an asthma attack all invented by the anxieties of my head.
The days I literally put “get out of bed, leave room, use bathroom” as individual checks on my todo list.

It’s much too much to share.
Too dark of a secret to keep.
I share bits with some and bits with others.
I don’t exist as fully human to any one person.
I’m layers of fake personalities.
Layers of funny and sad stories.
Layers of certain emotions and circumstances.
And when I start to show the real me
And you leave.
You don’t even have to really leave.
You can still be there and still care.
You can still love me and hold my hand.
You can still be physically present in my life.
But there are days my anxieties take up all room inside my head.
The cloud of depression is less like a dense fog and more like volcano smoke and ash suffocating me.
Hypomania leaves no room for anyone but myself. I’m pretty awesome after all.

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Here we are.
Back again.
Scrolling as unhealthy obsession.
A coping mechanism.
All I have for sanity.
Covering the hole that would show what is really left of me.
Hint: I’m worn out and empty.

Edge

Perceptions twisted. A life conflicted.
A word convicted of something it never was meant to be.
Surface rising. Questions surprising.
A love compromising to be where it’s “supposed” to be.
Chaos turned sorrow. Breath just borrowed.
Waiting for tomorrow in hopes it will be what it should be.

Depressing Poetry

Throwback to an intense season of depression.
Written by Winter Burnett November 13, 2016

Here I walk.
Alone in the moonlight.
My shadow my only comfort.
My shadow a twisted ugly version of myself.
My shadow the evidence that I’m alone.
 This bench has so much room.
And I just need a shoulder to cry on.
Someone to bring along
On these suicidal night walks,
But that’s not how this works. 
The path I can walk alone.
I say that’s fine.
But I lie.
Some can see through that,
But I don’t think I can see the truth anymore.
So my life’s now a lie.
I make rhymes
And I sit and I cry. 
This poetry does not make any sense.
Like the rest of my emotions.
I was done with this,
But apparently not.
I’m still searching for love.
When I have enough. 
So many lines written,
And not one mention of God.
That’s because we don’t talk.
Apart from emotional engagement
I’ve given up on him.
I “know” he has not given up on me,
But I need to feel rejected now.
I need to feel forgotten
Because I need to match these emotions.
And I’ve decided this is how.
 I’m still searching for labels
Of these manic depressive moments.
I’m still pretending I caused this.
I’m still alone.
And I fear.
I’ll always be alone.
 I want these words to hurt.
To crush others’ hearts
Just as much as these emotions have hurt me.
I’d go on.
I could write depressing words for ages,
But it’s getting as cold as my heart out here.
And I’m still pretending to be alive.

Continual Concentric Circles

I can’t find my footing
The ground underneath me is
Slipping, moving around, No solid ground
Other than a constant thought in my head
Telling me that I can’t
Find my footing

Ground Underneath
Slipping Moving
No solid ground
Constant thought in my head
Telling me I can’t

Find footing
Ground
Slipping
Moving
No 
A thought
Telling me
I can’t
I can’t.

Written November 18 2018

Hope in the Dark

Darkness.
Night sky.
Eyelids flutter open.
Stars breathe.
Empty with darkness.
Full of stars.
A paradox above.
Inspires both light and dark.
Now,
here
we
go.
Above,
beyond,
understanding
hope.
What do we find beautiful in the night sky?
The deafening blackness?
The empty dark void?
The endless cold space?
No.
The warm beams of the moon.
The space filled with stars.
The sky singing with light.
The hope that shines in the dark.
It’s the light that shines through.
Hope.
Hope as seen by the stars.
As seen by what we believe is there.
It only takes a small bit to believe.
                                                                                                              H o l d  O n.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
Originally Written November 18, 2016

Ends and Begins

The script for my life

ABC’s 123’s

Counting and reading

Writing and learning

Checking the boxes of an ordinary life

 
First steps, always happening.

Old beginnings, new endings.

A cyclical pattern, unknown was the start.

If I could find it would I understand?

If I could map it out would I better plan?

Could I understand the way my mind works?

Could I grasp something solid with the trio contained plus liquid and gas?

 
Trinity of self. Mind, body, spirit.

Only now I begin to truly hear it.

My body.

A breath in. A breath out.

each one ends. each one begins.

a cyclical pattern.

Of course there was a start to this… There will be an end.

But unknown.

 
I know the start of many happenings.

I know the end of many.

But why do I concern myself with this darkeness of the unknown?

Is the unknown always dark?

Is there such a thing as known?

Perhaps light comes from being unknown.
Perhaps light is defined by something other than known or unknown-ness.

 
Perhaps trying to define this in some form of poetical prose will not help.

Perhaps. A cup of tea.

The breeze outside my window.

Hearing children laugh in the distance.

Smelling a candle and seeing its dim light fade.

 
Perhaps a realignment with my true self.

The one I have hidden back in a forgotten room.

Waiting until it is safe to surface.

For the lights to be off so that I cannot be seen.

But cannot my true self be this one I have created?

Is the true self only the best self?

 
It’s probable that this is another unknown.

Maybe myself, being what it is, needs growth.

Maybe there is not a good or bad or best or anything at all.

I wonder if there is such a thing as just.

just being.

just resting.

Believing that I don’t mark off every check box

I don’t type out all of my thoughts

I don’t finish every book or watch every episode

I just am. I exist. I am safe. I am loved.

To be. Alive. Fearing death more than fearing life.

Or to lack fears at all.

 
The softest blanket taking over the place of a usual lightning cloud

The silent room taking over the screaming mind

a calmness.

a peace.

the start.

the end.

Time. Life. Breathe.

Nothing in my life slows down.

People always want me to keep moving.

I want it to stop.

 

Responsibility.
Friends.
Family.
Life.
It.
The World.
Can I find some little world to visit outside of this Americanized time?
This version of linear, strict time which sucks the life out of you?
I just want to sit back and breathe.
Not breathe so I can be alive for tomorrow.
Not breathe remembering the past.
I want to breathe in this moment.
I want.. to breathe.
In… Out.
As the cars rush past my window.
Their tires splashing the rain around in a great, never-ending, melodic symphony.
In… Out.
The smell of my bed sheets. Shampoo. Mint lip balm.
In… Out.
Expanding and collapsing. My body moving to keep me.
In… Out.
Smooth as my pencil sings these individual notes across this page.
In… Out.
My roommates reading, page turning, typing, sighing, breathing.
We are all in this state the world likes to call “alive”.
And not to be cliché or morbid, but I am no longer living.
I’m dead.
And I don’t see me being revived anytime in the near future.
I’m screaming out in my silence and only a few hear my whispers.
My heart’s secret whispers.
Sharing secret whispers. Giving them away even though you want to keep them tightly wrapped up inside.
Giving them is not for others to know. Giving them is not for others to find new meaning in discovering who you are.
Giving this secret part of you away is for you to know they have a secret whisper too.
You share a part of yourself, but you find and replace it with someone else’s part. It connects you…Almost a distraction, but somehow more holy than that.
Through conversations, touch, emotion… we realize we are not as separate as we use to think. We realize we need each other to truly live. We realize we are not alone.
But we forget that. We forget that and we hurt others.
If only people could see pain the same way they see things to critique!
Every action is caused by something.
Joy. Pain. Fear. Guilt. Peace. Love. Sadness. Anger.
Take a step back
and
breathe.
Remember the whole world is breathing.
The whole world has secret whispers in their hearts.
Here we are all just remembering how to breathe.
Pause your mental timeline. Destroy your clocks.
And breathe.
By Winter Burnett
Originally written November 17, 2015
Revised August 30, 2018