I am Better

I talked about how this time last year I was hospitalized for severe depression (in Who I am Not). My favorite uncle had recently passed from colon cancer in April. School was hard for me, between counting thousands of flies and writing out organic chemistry reactions. It was easy for my anxiety to take over and send me into a depression.

It was after my sorority’s formal that I intentionally stepped in front of a moving car. I told my therapist and she suggested that I go to the hospital. I told my mom and soon her and my father were up at school, ready to take me home.

After the hospital, I spent the summer in an intensive outpatient program. With five hours a day, five days a week, there was barely any time for me to enjoy myself. Not like I could remember what I enjoyed doing.

Even last semester, I entered into a two week depression. Taking forever to leave my bed, forgetting how many days it had been since I had showered, failing to reach out to even my closest of friends. It was all so hard for me to even think about.

Despite all that I have gone through in the past year, I am now in good place. I’ve regained my characteristic motivation. I am motivated to do well in my classes, reach out to friends and family, and do the things I know remember that I love.

This time last year, sitting in the psychiatric ward at the cafeteria tables looking out at the rain, I would’ve said I’ve been better. But now, looking at those same water droplets hit the Ithaca soil, I can say I am better.

via Daily Prompt: Better

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Heard From Here

I pull the dirtied string, the window nude,

Stripping left blind higher, faster than right.

Space well-hidden between homes exposes

A tree stuck thin between the house cracks.

 

Laughter unleashed into streets, hyenas

Howling at the moon from the pavement.

A year ago my laugh was with these above,

Our sound in unison with pitch and tone.

 

It is a song best sung together. But now

Depression sings the taste of sour grapes.

Here, dried fruit falls from vines onto the floor,

Ants circling around the concord spheres.

 

I can still hear those laughs from here. Yet

If I push myself, it’s only back to sleep.

 

–Elizabeth Lacey

with me

with black, with white, with used to be white,

with few miles on carpet, with tumbleweeds of dust filled

brown hair, with a trim every six months. with pepto-bismol,

with grandpa’s stethoscope, with a bottle

of rumchata, with hazy memories of last night, with a full

face of make-up. with thirty-six ddd, with gender,

with romance, with sandalwood, with eponine in the rain.

with obsessive, with compulsive, with disorder.

frustration, stress, hope.

with acceptance, with freshly plucked

eyebrows, with forehead kisses. as fourth cousins,

as pisces, as killian jones. with sandy ankles,

with high-waisted jeans, with left leg falling asleep, with

insomnia. with thinking, with over-thinking,

with remembering, with small gold hoops on the first day of

school, with samantha the american girl doll, with toys

used when feeling lonely. with swiping left,

with a closed mouth smile, with two

different ears. with the same thirteen colonies,

with an inside porch, with the powerhouse of the cell, with

mitochondria. with eczema, with prescriptions at

CVS, with medicine, with confusion about the future, with fear

of being second place. with disregard, with an

order of pad see ew, with ice left from a thai iced tea.

— Elizabeth Lacey

(inspired by canvas and mirror by Evie Shockley)