I'm reading over the notes
that my therapist jotted down
during one of our first sessions.

there is so much trauma
and so many diagnoses.

my therapist says that
I'm not alone, and that
so many people know
a similar type of pain.



she's right. I'm not alone,
because I'm not the only
person to have a therapist

and because I'm not the first
person to be diagnosed
with these conditions

and because right now,
at this very second,

there is someone who
is reading this poem and
relating to these words.



sometimes this thought
is upsetting to me.

it depresses me to think
that other children were
raised by parents who
were like my parents,

and that they've faced
the same type of pain.



other times, this thought
is oddly comforting.

it hurts to think about
the children who grew up
the same way that I did

but it also calms me
to know that there
are other people
who are just like me,



because that means
there are people who
have survived this.

that means that
this is survivable,

and that even if I
sometimes doubt it,

it is possible to thrive.

Existence is shimmering through
A litany of souls,
Ever-bustling and occupied.
The greys blur and blend,
Drowning in an ocean
Without saturation or warmth.
Colors wilt as the petals of a rose,
Perception compromised
Under the spell of deep grief.
Frost creeping up the frame
Like icy fingers
To announce impending frostbite.
And in the vast expanse
Of ever growing darkness
There is a glimmer of life
A sign of hope
Dig
Climb
Run
Jump
Do anything you can to feed that hope
By any means possible
Escape that place

I called the suicide hotline today.
My hands shook as I dialed the numbers.
My heart pounded as the automated voice greeted me.
I don't know what i was so scared of.
Millions of people call every day. I'm just another suicidal girl in their phonebook.

I called the suicide hotline today
At 5 am. I hadn’t slept yet. Up all night trying not to hurt myself.
I hung up after pressing call twice.
Maybe if i didn't say my feelings out loud, they wouldn't exist?
Maybe if i kept them locked in there usual box,
I’d continue to live like nothing's wrong.

I called the suicide hotline today
And i was connected with a soft-spoken lady called Ashley.
I talked with my eyes closed, trying to picture her in front of me. I like to believe she greeted me with a comforting smile.
I still curse the first couple minutes of the call that consisted of me just saying “huh?” At all her questions because I couldn’t hear (thanks dad for the horrible ears)

I called the suicide hotline today.
I told ashley that i want to hurt and **** myself.
I told ashley that i wasn't okay.
I told ashley that i think i was losing a best friend.

I said sorry to ashley a lot for everything i did wrong.
For calling about my minuscule problems, for crying, for not being able to hear her, for crying again, for cursing.
She told me that I had no reason to be sorry a lot.
Then i said sorry for being sorry.

I called the suicide hotline today.
A great amount of time was spent with Ashley just listening to me.
And let me just say, speaking freely without worrying about being judged is amazing.
She offered help when i asked or paused and let me cry when i needed to.
She didn't belittle my problems, compare herself to me, or make it about her.
This entire call was about me and **** that felt good.

I called the suicide hotline today.
She gave me tips on how to healthily cope with things,
She informed me how i could get therapists for cheap or low prices,
She encouraged me to talk to friends and family.

I think the most important thing she told me was that it was okay to be selfish sometimes.
I don't think that's a trait I ever learned.
All I ever do is give and give to other people even when I had no spoons left.
Ashley made sure to inform me that that's not okay.
“You need to be selfish sometimes,” She said.
“I don't know how,” I said.

I called the suicide hotline today.
Our conversation lasted forty-five minutes.
I wanted to talk longer just because I enjoyed her company but I kept yawning and she insisted I slept.
And yet, i lie here, writing this and thinking about all we talked about instead of sleeping.

I called the suicide hotline today.
My night was very dark before talking to Ashley.
Although I thanked her multiple times, i don't know if she really knows how thankful I am for her. Because i am.
The difference she made in just forty-five minutes is mindblowing.

I called the suicide hotline today.
My hands are still shaking.
My heart is still pounding.
But i am alive.
And in this moment, I’m okay.

I am a therapist

But

I wanted to be an artist


Clay under my fingernails, in my curls, drying on my skin.
Filling up my moleskine
Occupying my thoughts, my dreams,
each moment of every day




Now.....

Now, I listen to people's pain, their sorrow, their hurt.

5 years of grad school, fancy acronyms at the end of my name, they can call me doctor...some do. some insist. perhaps it makes them feel like I am more than just an imperfect human like they are.

My clients come to me with their pain, I see them, I hear them, I try, I try so hard to soothe them, make them feel worthy, make them feel good enough. make them feel loved. deserving of love.

Some days, being a psychologist provides so much meaning to my life, other days...other days I cry and punish myself for not pursuing art.

Why didn't I do it?
Why was I so scared?
Why did I let the **** talking from my parents and the judgements of my family keep me from doing what I loved?

WHY.



Hey, you want to know how to make me cry instantaneously?
               Ask me about what I gave up to be where I am today.


        what I lost for the acronyms,
        what I lost for the title,
        what I lost for the salary,
        what I lost so my mom could tell people her daughter was a
                            "doctor" (not a real one even still)

Ask me what I lost.

Ask me how I lay awake at night, stare off into space, doing math in my mind, thinking, wondering, planning out how to grow my practice to make enough to rent a studio space, buy a kiln, and make art once again.

Ask me why I got a doctorate in psychology so all I could think about was how to make art again.


Ask me.
I dare you.


My own therapist just did and my make up smeared.
I think sobbed is the technical term.

Or perhaps, I just let all the feelings and sadness bleed out of me. every now and again they do

every now and again I let down my defenses, remove the distractions, and find the time to really think and reflect on what I lost.
what I gave up to allow myself to make money off of listening to people.
I allow myself to be used and profit from it.


JUST like my family uses me and takes up far too much space.

I provide care to others because it's my job, but it's also what I've always known how to do, what I was taught to do.

Taking care of others is ******* exhausting.
I love my job.
I hate my job.


Ya know what?

I never hated art.
I never did.
Art never took from me.
Clay never used me and spit me out or told me things like "I'm not getting anything from you" like my clients have told me.

clay Doesn't take.
clay only gave.
ceramics only ever gave.

WHY the **** did I not allow myself to take?
WHY did I create a life for myself where I am continuously giving and people are continuously taking?

I am so ******* empty and so ******* tired.

I just want to make art.

all i ever wanted was to make art.

I have two facts for you,
First, anything and everything you see, is hiding something.
A funeral of shadows lurking behind it mourning the loss of everything that for once made the dark side kiss the light, and not regret it.
Second, you need to hold some things like, a prey gripping onto life before the predator. Softly. It mustn't hurt when it leaves.

1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.

I am though bound by lightning,
The one that rips liberty right off the statue,
I am though in love with the pyre,
Of your arms, melting me into you.

1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.

Like, when one with sleep murdered out of eyelids yearns to write poetry, the need to birth something out of emptiness is then the noose, shrinking around one's throat, trying to force out a lullaby instead.

Like, when one with courage ***** out of his consciousness tries to play a violin of frayed frets, freedom is the abuse caged within the paper ***** thrown and made to pass through the performer's shaking hands.

1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.

I am though caged by swords,
The ones that cut "fly" right out of "butterfly",
I am though set free in the meadow,
Of your eyes, burning into mine.

I open my eyes and you sit in front of me, smiling that diamond smile
My heart shines, I haven’t seen you in such a long while
You begin to tell me all the things I long to hear
The sound of your laugh, oh, how I hold it dear

We fall into a comfortable flow, like we always do
Your eyes tell a story, such a beautiful shade of blue
I reach out to touch you, and find myself amazed
Where you just were sits an empty chair, am I dazed?

I realize quickly - you were never there
I trick myself into seeing you to hide the pain I can’t bear
The vacant seat in front of me is like a glimpse into my soul
The loss of you, my darling, will leave a permanent hole

She says, “what do you want to say? Imagine that your loved one is in the chair”
If only she knew that I talk to you every day, in my mind and my heart
She looks at me with pity in her eyes, she thinks I’ve lost it
But I have nothing else to lose now that we are forever apart

These are the seeds of self-hate
That grew into delusion
The roots of loathing the lack of control
Hating food
was the start
Of hating myself
I ripped down that tree
with my bare hands
tearing and scraping until it was gone
But the seeds
Are still there
And I've unconsciously
Plated them
by talking to you