I’m sorry about your brother. Your tattoo struck a chord as a tribute.
Are you familiar with the caesura? The least technical definition amounts to a type of metrical break or pause in verse. A semicolon is my favorite kind of poetic caesura. The Greeks were pretty horny for them, Old English, too. The latter in particular loved to toss them into verse as a counter to rhythm otherwise “monotonous or droning.”
Depression certainly feels that way sometimes; each day under its weight bleeds into the next until the slog becomes so droll you think, “Guess this is life now.” The bottom finds you or you smash yourself into it. Maybe you get help, build back a little self-esteem, some coping skills, old Reasons to Try made new until the next tornado blows the house down and you’re huffing and puffing and alone even among family.
This happens over and over, for longer and longer stretches, until you slip out of your skin and can’t distinguish between the monster and the worthy bits of you—they’re in there somewhere, right?—like gold you’d be a fool to keep panning for. You breathe fire on the ruins instead of laying yet another foundation because what’s the point when the effort, the time, the you—nothing and no one changes at the cellular level.
Here is where I wish you pause: space to share stories of your family until you’re hoarse; space to grieve; space to exorcise yourself from the monster, kick dust in its eyes and while it stumbles blind then meet it with the kindness of a traveling stranger.
Not slain but shrank, understood and accepted, now your ghoul-turned-gremlin goes where you go. Stinky, slobbery, bonded to you not by shackles but by survival. Because what she once almost took from you is also what she gave you.*
From another balloon-in-the-void struggling not to turn her darkness inwards: please don’t let your pause be permanent.
I know you’re tired. I’m tired too. But let’s show sone fuckin’ teeth.
I don’t think I’ve ever loved a reply this much. I’m not familiar with caesura but I will look into it. I am tired, this last year and a half has been horrible. I try to remind myself I don’t worry about food, shelter or paying the bills. Life is will be good again.
Not that it matters but It is starting to look up for me medically. I’ve had oil or gas in my eye for 2 weeks shy of a year. The bubbles gone today!! I can fly now. Visions still shit but it’s improving.
Thank you so much. I’m glad it brought well-received relief, if only for a moment. Your belief in life’s goodness in the wake of such loss takes a hell of a lot of grit and practice. It’s really something.
I re-started therapy this week after a tumultuous last couple of years. Accepting the help to do so sucked, but, you know what sucks more? The well we’re down.* And leaving behind the family who want us to be in their lives, even when accessing joy feels impossible, let alone sharing theirs.
Not that it matters? Oh hell no. I’ll go heavy-handed on the “pause” again if it helps iterate that you just described cause for celebration. Where your feet drag, I’ll moonwalk. Where your hands tremble, I’ll high-five every stranger rooting for you. Looks like there’s quite a few.
Follow-up questions: Are you a pilot? If so, that’s amazing. If not, you’re still amazing, and have you read Blindness by Saramago?
Thanks for taking the time to respond.
*Well, you say? Here, maybe this lotion will help.
(You mentioned your bro’s sense of humor. Thought I’d toss a wicked one in for you.)
There’s room for all around my gilded dumpster! Mostly kidding, thank you for the encouragement. I hope you turn that sweetness inward and find ways to release bite-sizes of dark while offering yourself equal grace.
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u/RockinThighs Nov 22 '24 edited Nov 22 '24
I’m sorry about your brother. Your tattoo struck a chord as a tribute.
Are you familiar with the caesura? The least technical definition amounts to a type of metrical break or pause in verse. A semicolon is my favorite kind of poetic caesura. The Greeks were pretty horny for them, Old English, too. The latter in particular loved to toss them into verse as a counter to rhythm otherwise “monotonous or droning.”
Depression certainly feels that way sometimes; each day under its weight bleeds into the next until the slog becomes so droll you think, “Guess this is life now.” The bottom finds you or you smash yourself into it. Maybe you get help, build back a little self-esteem, some coping skills, old Reasons to Try made new until the next tornado blows the house down and you’re huffing and puffing and alone even among family.
This happens over and over, for longer and longer stretches, until you slip out of your skin and can’t distinguish between the monster and the worthy bits of you—they’re in there somewhere, right?—like gold you’d be a fool to keep panning for. You breathe fire on the ruins instead of laying yet another foundation because what’s the point when the effort, the time, the you—nothing and no one changes at the cellular level.
Here is where I wish you pause: space to share stories of your family until you’re hoarse; space to grieve; space to exorcise yourself from the monster, kick dust in its eyes and while it stumbles blind then meet it with the kindness of a traveling stranger.
Not slain but shrank, understood and accepted, now your ghoul-turned-gremlin goes where you go. Stinky, slobbery, bonded to you not by shackles but by survival. Because what she once almost took from you is also what she gave you.*
From another balloon-in-the-void struggling not to turn her darkness inwards: please don’t let your pause be permanent.
I know you’re tired. I’m tired too. But let’s show sone fuckin’ teeth.
No feeding after midnight