Major Depressive Disorder

there are many things that

don’t make sense,

like the apathy of depression,

or the loss of children,

or pain

upon pain

upon pain.

and yet,

there are many things that

don’t make sense,

like the flicker beat of hope,

or the cry of a newborn babe,

or grace

upon grace

upon grace.

1) stop feeling

2) sleep

3) force feed yourself

4) repeat 1 to 2

5) plaster a smile

6) reach out

7) apologize

8) repeat 1 to 4

Am scared.

Should not be scared.

Will make others scared.

Am sad.

Should not be sad.

Should be grateful you’re all here.

Am tired.

Should not be tired.

Was my fault.

(Note: Lolo = grandfather in Tagalog.)

Everything can be a weapon

when applied with enough force.

Knives.

Crochet hooks.

Keys.

Thoughts.

I wish I was dead

spirals later into

lying in bed,

staring at the wall,

thinking of the “best” way to die.

This is not logical,

I think.

I need sleep,

I think.

I call the 24-hour

psychological services

telephone line at my school,

relay my information.

I keep coming back there.

I ask for strategies to help.

“Some people list

their reasons to live.”

I have 5:

My parents,

my sister,

my Lolo,

and my twin.

The fact I want to trust myself

enough to cook

(I haven’t cooked,

I don’t have the time

or energy to cook)

also keeps me running

away, away

from the relentless thoughts.

Med dosage increases

and with it, the thoughts

that muted

so I could mostly forget them

surge back.

I run and pray and run

(and I also literally run

(I’d be a horrible running partner

to my twin

if I never showed up

to the 4-miler.

And I can’t make my family

who are coming to see me run,

bury me instead.)).

“I have been suicidal

for a week and I am

exhausted,” I say to a friend

(The fucking exhausted goes

unsaid.)

I lie on the couch,

think of compilers.

Lolo only gets me

to admit to living with

edges in my mind

when I ask to speak with him

to assure myself he’s alive

and he notes he can’t read

my mind.

I email the psychiatrist.

Dosage goes back down.

Cycle cycle cycle.

I go up and down

and up and down

and up and down

and up and down

and up and down.

I pity the souls

who have to deal with me like this.

(I apologize, as I often do, but

“You’ve already hit

the apology quota 

for the semester!” says my classmate.)

(Lolo says, “Never apologize to me

for the way you feel.

You should have at least

one person

you don’t hide from.”)

When I’m up I don’t

sleep through the day,

I can think a little more

and the thoughts

pursue me much less,

which I am grateful for.

(“I’m trying to get better,

I really am.”)

When I’m down I’m

all around.

(Where do Vanished objects go?

Into Nothing, that is,

everything.)

I am no one,

I am a weight,

I am surviving,

I am both myself

and not myself.

Please don’t call me.

I just want to sleep.

Too much light.

Too much noise.

People send platitudes.

I appreciate the thought

behind them.

Staring at my screen.

What do I write again?

I had an outline?

I said I was going to do this

and I’m late again.

Think, Christine, think.

What’s the next step?

What have I learned

in the last couple months?

I was there at every class, 

surely I’d know

(even if I fell asleep every time).

I can’t think, I can barely start.

What am I supposed to do again?

I said I was going to pee?

Thank you for reminding me,

I’m going to do that right now.

I’ll set a reminder for next time.

When did I last eat?

I can’t get up.

Trash on the table.

Trash on the ground.

Dishes from January.

I’d be a horrible mum.

Lemonade

lemonade

lemonade

on the floor.

Sticky sticky sticky sticky

dried paper towels.

Tracks on the ground.

My wheelchair carries

the juice elsewhere.

It’s been there for a week.

I’m a horrible human being.

Breathe, Christine, breathe.

Lemonade

lemonade

lemonade.

Breathe, Christine, breathe.

Lemonade

lemonade

lemonade.

No no no.

You can clean it tomorrow.

No lemonade bad.

Can’t breathe can’t think.

Breathe, Christine, breathe.

What was I supposed to do again?

Eat? Frozen food’s on the table, there.

Think, Christine, think.

Put the food where?

I have no dishes,

I have no clothes.

Breathe, Christine, breathe.

There’s tupperware?

Thank God.

I thought you’re not supposed to 

heat up plastic

but it’s all right right now,

I have to eat.

(“No don’t come don’t come.”)

Food should go in Tupperware,

Tupperware should go in microwave.

Get up, Christine, get up.

I thought you said you were losing weight.

Eat, Christine, eat.

I am sobbing.

(“I know you won’t judge

but I don’t want people

to see me like this.”)

I’m so tired but shouldn’t

I be there?

I’m the only one

in my project group

without classes.

I am lucky

and I

escape 

in 

sleep.

tightrope through the dark.

when the hail has stopped pouring,

when you’re not slipping on water

and suspended by a thread

there is quiet.

drip

drip

drip

could that be peace?

when death is not a threat

but a friend.

could that be peace?

when the dreams that haunt

are not dreams that horrify.

could that be peace?

when thoughts flutter away

in waves pushed out to sea.

could that be peace?

between the silences and the spaces

between who I am

and who I am not

between what I’m made of

and what I’m running from.

could that be peace?

(Inspired by the prose poetry of Dears, Beloveds by Kevin Phan.)

Peace runs like a symphony of sound and I try to snatch it from the air. Cup your hands, let the harmonics land on your palms. Let them bounce like rain off of your eardrums: kaboom, kaboom! They ask me if I read the news and I say I don’t. I don’t. I don’t say I see the faces of people I couldn’t save in the dark. I don’t say I know what it’s like to feel pain / fear / anguish / anxiety / oh God no please just stop / it’s charging for you like a train and I would jump in front of the train for you but that still wouldn’t stop it. (I don’t know what it’s like to feel yours.) Rest my body on the ground, my beautiful broken body. I may have been on a psych ward but I’m not 6 feet under and that’s what counts. Not the numbers and statistics but the breath I take in. Inhale as I trace my thumb with my index nail. Exhale as I round the corner and fall back into the groove of my trembling hand. Inhale as I go up the steepest hill to the top of my index finger, Exhale as I fall back down in time with my ribcage, in time with my hands. 3 breaths, 4 breaths, 5 breaths. I rise as I fall. I rise as I fall. I rise as I fall. 

I am grateful to be alive

to listen to music freely

to see the sun

to feel the rain

to dance

dance

dance

heels of my palm spinning

heart in my chest pounding

1 - 2 - 3

1 - 2 - 3

on the carpet

spin round

twirl back

laughter gasping

smiling alone in my apartment

body alive with pleasure of God

to have mind spinning with possibilities

where there was once

silence

pain

please

the pleas still continue but

less less less

less consuming now

less demanding now

reverse

the emptiness

reverse

the pain

reverse

the drowning

to dance on the pain

to have faith when your lungs burn

to know love without feeling it

to exist

break

blow

burn

feel the feelings of broken glass

then melt the shards

see them meld back together:

cool marble symphony

cacophony of broken light

tightrope in the dark

fragile gossamer peace

to hope

(in the pain)

hope

(in the darkness)

hope

(in the shattering)

hope

(on God).