I have been writing a lot about retreating or suicide or the grimmer aspects of reality. I haven't seen much love and sweetness to write about. Maybe we write most passionately about the wrongs we see. Pain is more authentic than love. Writing about pain releases that pain to the universe. Catharsis.
giving up terry mcdermott
i realized this morning i’m starting to give up.
no, i am giving up, it’s a relief
i’m ok with this reality.
it’s not a surprise.
the dry summer of depression has become
a rain forest thick with lost voices,
all humming autumn’s call for surrender.
while i think about death, brain plasticity and neural disfigurement
i feel too comfortable in these surroundings.
i know that i’m in trouble,
as light dims, danger shines.
i sit down to write the unprintable.
let all the ugliest thoughts and desires
out of their cages;
release wild frothing accusations
about myself.
my anger is worn out.
used up by the constant
geological pressure of depression,
its loving fingers graciously waiting
to close my dying eyes
i text my sister
to falsely update her with a thumbs-up emoji.
i get a dull happy face response.
to avoid intimacy we don’t use words
she pretends this enough and knows it’s not
she doesn’t know i’m putting her on trial
i have 12 pissed off voices in my head
ready to condemn her.
this makes no difference to her
i used to want justice from the world,
retribution for criminal acts of depression.
now i want quiet
to allow this to end.
i call my therapist
to leave a message,
i won’t be coming
to our next appointment.
