the failings of a surgically healed heart | a collection

4 | the great depression (and anxiety)

and at last, i succumb to the tortured artist trope.

thought i'd never be here

only watch from a romanticised distance:

in a shakespearean tragedy,

or amidst a three act film.

//

but i guess this was a method acting class

i unintentionally stumbled in on

when in search of a (physio)therapist

could not find the exit once i was inside.

//

here i was the flawed heroine;

but saw myself as a (sym)pathetic antagonist

(my hamartia? my existence)

//

because of it;

unlearned my character arc,

unlearned my lines,

unlearned my role.

retreated within the black of my skin,

a flesh tight funeral suit for a death of mind so poetic

//

here the misery was relentless, as i

made myself into a caricature.

forgot the parts of myself that made me

real/annoying:

my volume. my honestly. my self-worth

a now blank/black canvas

//

tried to find someone else to love me when i could not

an understudy, of sorts.

the attempt in vain.

(he did not understand the role)

//

here the class was depression

the anxiety,

an extra-curricular.

//

here i learnt to: hate myself

looked upon the dead through a filtered lens of jealously

because anxiety made me fearful of suicide

//

here i learned i might have come from a large family

but i was still on my own:

starred in a one woman show

with two trophies i won for my writing

//

my father did reappear with insults and mockery

up his clown sleeve,

when school heads lulled me into a false security

only to tell me i was an unworthy leader

(all while trump was in office)

//

in this class i did nothing; so learnt everything

lay on the floor and wallowed in a pool self-pity (aka tears)

inhaled junk food and little else,

shaved 40 years off my life span.

//

could not be apathetic because of the anxiety.

because of this i cried

over my exam results. my unlovability.

was swallowed by a black hole of negativity.

//

the whole time i thought i was the only one in that class

it was not until amid a whirl-wind of rage

i improvised the line:

"i've been feeling kinda depressed lately"

//

found my words met with a response.

out from the curtains appeared my best friend –

this the volta. the turning point. the revelation.

//

what ensued: an absolute unloading,

a donation of misery from one charitable ear to the other

talk of therapy, perpetual misery and guilt

//

here was the purification;

the purging of negative emotion

here were the moments, leading up to my quitting the class,

the moments before i tore the walls

alongside my best friend

to finally escape this black hole baptised

depression

- and yet, there are moments, where i'm not sure if what i felt was dream or reality.

--
So my dood's this is my favourite poem I've ever written EVER. And I don't know if that's unorthodox to admit but i also don't give a shite. I submitted this along with 'Method Writer' as companion pieces for my English portfolio. So yeah.

Today's shout out is goes out -wildest you left a real lovely comment on the introduction for this final part of the collection saying essentially how you didn't want it to end and how you really loved the story I told and even tho I replied some version of 'all good things have to come to any end' and i probably won't write poetry for a while there was a moment just before my reply I considered sacrificing my artistic integrity just to satisfy a reader.

But I figured I'd say here despite my decision not to do that in the end, saying thank you again is my compromise, the comment you left really warmed by heart and I hope you enjoyed this poem as much I did your comment.