Three years ago, I stopped writing poetry. People kept asking me. I kept asking myself. For a while, I still tried. I still picked up my pen and notebook almost everyday, only to find myself staring at the blank page.
The truth is: it was driving me insane. Something that used to heal me ended up making it worse when I found myself falling again.
When my mind is full of uncontrollable, dark, scary thoughts; when I feel like I’m walking on eggshells; when digging into my emotions feels like falling into a deep hole and losing the only grip I have on my sanity;
it’s hard not to build a wall around the hole and hold myself.
Yes, it’s been years. I’m still there, and I’m still scared.
(This year, I decided that I’ve had enough. I had therapy sessions, I went to a psychiatrist and tried SSRI, I’m on mood stabilizer, I bought essential oils, I’m signing up for yoga classes, I’m dragging my body out of bed to engage in human interactions, I’m doing my best to stay positive– I’m trying to heal myself, because I have to, because time can’t.)