how they see us: living with depression

it is not kind and it does not care who you are, how much money you have, or the type of diet you follow.  i was listening to a conversation about a girl who cried everyday, slept more than her roommates, did not get out of bed, and was planning on dropping a couple of courses because “she didn’t know how to manage her time” and “she was doing it to herself; it’s her choice to be happy.”

truthfully, i was beyond annoyed and even angered that the friends of this girl (who was showing real symptoms of depression, at least from what I gathered from the conversation) basically wrote her off.  i wondered how these girls could come to a consensus that their “sad” friend was a burden and needed to get her life together.  after i regained composure, i realized that as a society, we are extremely ignorant about mental health.  i get it, it makes people uncomfortable; but the only way to combat the taboo that depression is a choice is to inform those that do not deal with the illness on a daily basis.

if i had a dollar for every time someone told me “just get over it” or “be happy” or “life’s hard, everyone has problems” i would have a significant stack of dollar bills.  depression is not a choice.  happiness is not a choice.  i know sure as hell that i did not choose to sit in a psychologist’s office twice a week, telling her my inner-most dark thoughts, as a 7th grader.  it was not my choice to have a chemical imbalance in my brain.  the thing is, depression is not just sad music and crying from time to time.  it is not just bad social skills.  it is not forgetting your umbrella and getting drenched walking to class, only to have an assignment due that you forgot about and declaring “this is the worst day of my life.”  but there have been many sleepless nights and mornings i could not get out of bed and multiple consecutive days that i could not change my clothes because i did not have the energy–it was not worth it; i did not care.  i sometimes get tired by walking to the car or just sitting in bed thinking; there are times i count down the minutes until i can crawl back in bed because life is too much.  depression is the medicine you are required to take every morning because without it, you could not function like a normal human being.  it is constantly drowning on dry land; never catching a break from the world or your mind.  it is not an overreaction and it is not something to be ashamed of.

people who are lucky enough to not have been plagued with mental illness love to give their advice to people who do suffer.  remember the conversation i overheard about the sad girl?  her friends’ solution was to get a job, keep busy, start working out, do something.  putting on your tennis shoes, getting a job, releasing those endorphins–all great things, i am not denying that.  they do help with momentarily relieving the symptoms of depression BUT they are not the cure-all.  do you tell someone with cancer to “try yoga, it will make you forget how sick you are but it will not actually cure you”?  running is to depression as ibuprofen is to a lifelong headache; it’ll spare you a few hours, maybe a few days, but that headache is still there.  the depression is still there.  it is not something that everyone understands–which is why a lot of people get annoyed when you are sad for too long or you refuse to move from your bed.

but to the girl who is sitting in her room, in the dark, that has not moved for days, you are okay.  it is perfectly fine to sit until you gain enough emotional strength to face the world again.  i hope your friends come to understand that you did not choose this.

you are so inspiring.

strong.

and you will get through it, i promise.  it takes time, a whole lot of time, and figuring out how to accept that fact that you are different, you suffer differently, silently.

 

xo,

kate

i swear i’m a pacifist

again and again—

and i hate this about myself;
it is a vicious laundry cycle in my head
with no detergent, just thoughts—

water—

that can’t rid a stain
so deeply seeded—
so do not act surprised when i push at you.
when i can no longer look at you without an overwhelming ailment in the pit of my stomach
i promise i will shoulder you away when you begin to get too close
no, you cannot bind my ribs together with strands of your hair
my lungs are chronically broken and not even you can hold me together

i retreat as if on a battle field

and the enemy is too strong and all of my men are dead.
i give up the fight
and lay down my weapon
because i have always been a pacifist (even when i drink too much) and
i think it would hurt more if you said goodbye first.
so i say it:
i wave the white flag
i plant it on my heart
my heart on my sleeve, resting on my armor
like the man on the moon, the flag flies for all to see
and i know it doesn’t make any sense
but i am always one to give up before they give up on me.
i would apologize but that would send the wrong message

don’t you think?

on the eighth wonder of the world

it’s no secret that traveling is my true passion. 
when my feet connect with new and unfamiliar grounds, my heart stops & races at the same time

but then i met you–a wonder. i swear you are the eighth wonder of the world. 

my soles touched down on your heart

so unfamiliar

but so much like home

(home being a place far away from here; the home i have always dreamed of)

a month passed & my heart is still beating as fast as it was when the plane landed in new zealand. 

you’re a wonder 

i swear you put the constellations in the night sky with your eyes

& the ocean bows to the moonlight shining from your heart. 

i have always been a wanderer 

wonderer 

my heart is never satisfied in one place for too long

but so much time has passed & my soul is not done searching every inch of you

i don’t think it ever will be

& that is how i know it’s authentic. 

pretty things

pretty people don’t know the things i do
but i hold out small hope that i am
interesting enough to write about
i am all over the place
my nails are only fully painted for the ten minutes i can resist biting them
do you think i’m selfish or conceited because i write about myself a lot?

pretty people don’t know the things i do
today i walked to class without my headphones
& listened to the sounds the earth created
but nothing spoke to me
and i am almost certain that means something is wrong within my soul.

you never read my stuff anyways

the only familiarity is the dust resting between and beneath the layers of books,

clothes, pens, bones,

and i cannot make myself write about you

nothing but silence–and maybe a few flames–pours out of my fingertips, and i can’t do this anymore

i think if i ignore it then it can’t hurt me; you can’t hurt me. stop curling inwards. hold yourself together.

there is work to do; more to write about

write. write. write. 

i have more words to speak that don’t make sense to anyone but myself

stitching and restiching my lips has become my favorite past time; i have refused even the slightest vibrations to escape my mouth for so long 

i no longer remember the sound of my own voice

i never had the courage to post this until now

you look better with your cap on

golden locks peek out from underneath as i stand there sweeping away at the dust

collecting inside my ribs.

when i realize, i have been cleaning for decades–searching for something, anything left

inside of my hollow chest.

nothing.

i cannot say it is a surprise

i compulsively clean everything until nothing remains–

 i pick at my cuticles until they are no more so my hands are clean;

they are bleeding.

 the pages in my journals have been torn out one by one;

i cannot stand the mess of the jumbled words.  thoughts.  foolishness.

you do not notice; you never notice the cobwebs accumulating in my stomach while i wait

on you

i am searching for something, but you are not it.

you have become the dust settling at the bottom of my lungs

the room, too still, quiet to expel air

cough.

you look better with your cap on.

why do we encourage kids to dream, but degrade whimsical adults?

i strongly believe that google maps & gps voices convince us young adults that we must have a destination in mind at all times;  it is crucial to know exactly where we are going with each nervous breath we take.  but maybe, perhaps, there is not only one path of life.  there is no specific purpose blinking on a marquee sign at the end of the road.  growing does not necessarily mean growing up.  falling down, bruised knees, bleeding elbows: maybe we get back up.  maybe i choose to stay on the ground for a while because i know that every moment has purpose.  i want to take a “faulty” turn & have my internal map quest re-route itself before realizing each individual corner glows with a different marquee.  a different lesson.  a new escapade.

while trying to unlearn things like calorie counting & holding doors open for people who will never appreciate it, we forget about the numerous paths offered before us.  fabrication makes for a functioning adult in society.  maybe i have decided not to abandon my daydreams.  i will no longer submerge my aspirations under quiet whispers in hopes that no one will point out my warped expectations.  i may still be learning new things everyday, but i know this— i look forward to growing, but not just up.

all the love, kp.

on being eighteen

i write too much about life for someone who is still a child;

at 18 years old, i am still too young but far too old–

what that means, i’m not sure yet

i am held together by the nights of no sleep

and the mornings of more coffee than water.

each day seems longer than the previous

which is how i know i am growing up;

“perhaps, this is our last time together” is all i hear from those who mean the most to me.

no:

growing up does not mean disappearing–

for once i  understand what it means to truly long for someone in

a totally platonic way.

they say the worst way to ruin your new journey;

the new phase in your life (adulthood)–

is to expect to have everything together and figured out.

you are enough, we are an entirely new universe

created solely for the purpose of crashing into the shores of life.

embrace the passions of youth because

sooner or later, passions turn into weak smiles and small talk with a bank teller.

xo,

kp

**disclaimer: image is not mine. words are mine.

in love with the city

I. never have i experienced such happiness as when i visit a new city in a foreign land.    

II. unfamiliar air fills up my lungs and i am one with the world.

III. that is all i ever wish for–to be one with this planet. 

IV. this is true satisfaction.  

V. “beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder” echoes throughout my mind as i travel, travel travel; nothing will ever compare.

VI. looking out above such a beautiful landscape reminds me how small i am; the earth does not owe me anything, but rewards me with transcendent liveliness.  

VII. tell me how you came to be, remind me what it means to be free, beautiful, exquisite, mysterious…

VIII. i am no longer scared, for you have shown me how to properly live.  interact.  connect.

IX. how do i repay something that simply deserves more than i can offer; how can i show such respect and honor towards that of which never stops giving. X. my words will never be enough, but i will continue to shout them across every land until they are heard: the earth is ours to maintain, love, and care for.

**disclaimer: all images are mine, taken with my my own camera.

all the love,

KP