Monday, June 24, 2013

i took all your words and ate them by the fire.


"She said she usually cried at least once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful & life was so short."

I wish I'd asked my god-mother more about her depression. I know we have/had similar coping mechanisms; poetry, tea and coffee, time with friends. Her dog Billie and the beach were similar to my love of flowers and safe places. But I also know that she found it hard to leave the house and didn't think she was worthy of a funeral, so I guess we both sit/sat between the lines of functional and fucked.

There is so much I want to ask her as an eighteen year old (the same age she was when her brother died)...like what's the difference between depressed and depression? Does the label change the meaning...does accepting the diagnosis show defeat or acceptance? How do you find meaning in a life so devoid of one? When does it get better? And if it doesn't, how do you accept that?
 
"In my head I play your conversations,
Over and over 'til they feel like hallucinations,
You know me, I love to lose my mind.
And everytime anybody speaks your name,
I still feel the same, I ache, I ache, I ache inside."
 
 

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