crushlivelove

Drops of Memories

Rain like music,
falls in rhythm and rhyme.
Droplets, wind and thunder—
choice instruments of expression.
Cars splashing into pavements
serve as a cruel reminder
reality will not permit escape,
even for a moment,
by the closing of your eyes.
The morning’s baths are
powerful, beautiful and redeeming,
washing away memories
of the night before.
Hard, heavy bubbles break,
falling, falling, falling,
without failing.
Mirroring memories of you
that keep falling,
regularly,
increasingly,
crashing simultaneously

into each other.
Slowly, the song
begins to drizzle
until finally,
it stops.

(Still needs work, but here goes nothing…)

Isolated Room of Escape

The room was filled with those fancy boxes of tissues, which lay in between shelves of old books and VCRs, almost as if it waited for my imminent breakdown. The breeze of the sea came in through the cracks of the windows, a refreshing scent that made images of the surrounding beach play around in my head. Walking out to the balcony, I looked down at the dark beach thinking about what it meant for me to be here. To be hours away from everyone I knew, from all of my mistakes and the cause of that dull pain experienced upon waking every morning. Because waking brought you either back to unhappy reality or memories of another traumatic dream. Even worse were those dreams of fulfillment which were like a competition in which my subconscious teased the conscious with everything could have been, and then suddenly took it all away.

So I have come to get away, to recover, to be alone.

It was past midnight by the time I arrived, my thoughts were fighting each other, each trying to prove it was most worthy of my obsessing. All the analyzations of re-analyzations that fumble over each other until I’m no closer to a conclusion, but somehow farther from an answer. Worry, confusion, misunderstanding and mistakes play over each other, rewinding and forwarding a mental ache. But at least I am free of new memories to further the suffering. They will not find me here, they will not see me. They can no longer judge how I have changed. Some of them knew I needed this—I had gotten so saturated from society I felt like my entire being was being feed off by everyone surrounding me. Family who thought it was their duty to judge if I had made the best choice in dumping the boyfriend who they had understood and liked better than me, or to determine if I had gained weight in the past year. Could they have known how bad he was for me, how lost and weak I still felt from that relationship? Or how their ignorant comments about my weight would encourage an already precarious self esteem developing a disorder to purge every word, encouraged by my insecurity? Friends who caringly attempted to advise you on their own problems, assuming you shared them. Assuming your problems originated similar to theirs, but look at how they had improved by following this suggesting of their therapist’s, or that piece of advice, and so should you, they would say. The men who had taken advantage of your intense vulnerability, or worse even were those who fell for the false image they perceived unto you. They all wanted more from me, in whatever way they perceived desirable. I remain drained by the memories of them, with the yearning to be perfectly alone juxtaposed by the need to feel the comfort of another person.

What can you do when everyone wants something from you, and the pressure, the desire to be perfect, to remain yourself, and to follow their contradicting advice has drained you of your identity?

You come here, to this isolated room near the sea to avoid sleep and distract yourself at night by listening to waves outside your windows crash into each other. They seem to mimic the rhythmic way your body shuddered and sobbed once you were resigned to the pain, but before you had lost the ability to cry. That did not happen until later, once you realized it could never change anything. Still, willingly letting go and giving into the breakdown would be cathartic at this point.
You attempt to get away from them all, from all the pressure and all the garbled emotions which rather than perfectly correlating, bounced off each other building momentum internally. To write until you make sense of those confusing months, until you recover some concept of yourself, of who you are again once again. Until you are free of all external judgments and expectations which you have internalized.

lovelyluckylust:

Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696

Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433

LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255

Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386

Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743

Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438

Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673

Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272

Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000

Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-439–4253

Reblogging because you know, someone out there could use one of these.