Gratitude

1/365

Despite going to bed at two in the morning, I still got up at five to go running. The city was asleep and I had the trail around the lake completely to myself.


I left my wallet on home by accident, but the barista at Broadcast Coffee gave me my macchiato for free without hesitation.


It was snowing this morning, but now it’s nothing but blue skies and sunshine. I can’t remember a New Year’s Day that wasn’t gorgeous out, but this one feels like an especially good sign.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Personal Development

Yolk

"That’s All Yolks" © Rob, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
That’s All Yolks” © Rob, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

The yolk from the white, I try to separate the logic from the feeling. What I cognitively know from what circles like snakes in my stomach. Only one part is used at a time. The things I know exhaust and go home long before emotions tire, and I’m left sobbing in the shower over things I know aren’t true.

We ache. Our hearts, our spirits are pummeled against the shore for longer than we think they can hold up. At night we wrap up into each other and I whisper, “I don’t know if I can do this forever,” and he responds with, “You don’t have to. Just a little while more.”

I shake. Pull my hair and claw at my skin and gasp into the carpet. Put on my coat and scarf and take a walk. Call my mom. Beg for something to keep me just a little grounded.

It’s that time of year again.

In a bathrobe and slippers, I curl up on the couch and read books. Play video games. Watch Law and Order. Anything to keep me distracted. To keep me from looking into the pit of me and still not having any answers for why life feels like this.

But when I’m running Zedd’s vocalist is singing in my ears again. “Take your dark days and send them to the sun and carry on…” And I hit repeat again and again and again. Again. Again. “Let it go until you let go of all the anger…” And I run. My feet pounding the pavement and my heart leaping out of my chest. Unsure if I even remember what breathing steady is. I gasp for air and my legs scream to stop. No. Again. Again. “It’s easy to hold, but so hard to forgive…” Again. Again. “All the words that made you hurt will burn like paper. Straight into the fire, straight into the fire. Let it go until the smoke is gone forever…” Again. Again.

I separate out the yolk from the white. Knowing full well that each part has its own use and sometimes they are used together. I cling onto the scraps of hope still left in me somewhere. The perfect mixture of logic and feeling. I dig my nails in deep.

Again.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Poetry

Whistle

© Photography by Tanya De 2008.
© Photography by Tanya De, 2008.

I’m tired all the time.
But my new medication
must be working,
because today I heard myself
whistling.

I had to stop.
To check to see if
the sound was really
coming out of me.

On my run this morning
I think I was smiling.
Breath heavy,
tufts of clouds like smoke
propelled out of my mouth.
Legs strong, feet steady on
leaf-smattered ground.

Something is shifting.
Sprouting.

I think about calling my NP and
confessing my love to him.
Almost cry over the fact
no one tried this sooner.
Terrified it’s going to
stop working.

But for now,
I’m whistling.