Depression is my routine

Depression is my routine,
anxiety is my regime;
I don’t know how to break it
when I can no longer remember
the happiness I used to feel,
because now I only know
how to put up a shield
so you’ll see a smile
but that’ll be the mask,
not the reality.

First Post of Year, I Guess

I think I’ve been a bit overwhelmed lately which was why I haven’t posted yet this year. I’ve been sad and anxious and also ill physically so I didn’t really have a chance to, though I have posted one or two poems on my Instagram (@bamboochewer) and some pet and food photos during that time.

I guess I would say that I feel a bit like an alien. I do have friends but I don’t feel like I relate to humans, as such, because I’m so odd. I feel like I’d probably relate better to someone who doesn’t live on this planet but has recently come across it. Everyone there is a stranger to them and they look different and they act different. That’s how I’d describe how I feel.

I recently met up with a friend I’ve known since birth; however we haven’t seen each other for several years, since we were at school really. It was nice seeing her but I’m terrible at social interaction and immediately felt overwhelmed when she wanted to see me the second week. I like her a lot and I think she’s awesome but I always worry that I say the wrong things. I think I have said many wrong things across the years. I just blurt out things and most people end up hating me, which is why I don’t like meeting up with people regularly. I feel like… the more I see someone, the more they’ll realise that I’m a weirdo and the less they’ll want to see of me.

Also, most people don’t think about the world as I think of it, and I struggle to relate to people because of that. I think I have maybe one friend that has the exact same mindset as me; everyone else doesn’t understand, truly, how painful life is for me. I’d consider myself to be pretty empathetic and this empathy goes for all living beings, but it comes with great sadness. I see animals suffering and I want to help them so bad but I can’t. My autism prevents me from doing what I’ve always wanted to do; help animals! I love writing but I think, spiritually, I am that girl who talks to a butterfly and asks how it’s doing but then realises it will be dead soon and has a little funeral inside my head. I don’t talk to most people about these thoughts I have because they wouldn’t get it but I do feel like an alien for having them.

I think I’m going to do some things in my life, but I won’t do them until I’m a lot older. At least, that’s what my numerology says (I’ve become interested in it recently and my friend told me what it means for me). So maybe I’ll be like Greta Thunberg, just a granny version of her.

I like people a lot but there’s certain traits of people that I don’t understand. I think because I’m autistic, I like to see things in two ways. You either are something or you’re not, so when people say they’re in the middle of a way of thinking, I get a little confused.

We all have a purpose and I think I’m discovering my purpose as I move along in life. Your purpose can change over time too. Existing is a worthwhile purpose, if you can’t think of anything else. Existing is hard enough, so don’t worry about needing a greater purpose. Just being here is a challenge enough, sometimes.

And that concludes today’s random depressed and anxious musings.

Lia

Opportunities and Anxiety

I was so terrified, when I got told of this opportunity, that it wouldn’t happen because not many opportunities have ever amounted to anything. However, last week I met up with a woman who told me she wanted to write for her.

Today, I wrote for them for the first time. I have bad anxiety so every time anything good happens, I always question a lot of things afterwards. Was I annoying? Did my writing suck? Do they hate me? My mind always goes to the negative side of things, rather than admitting that I managed to do a few tasks today that were out of my comfort zone.

For one, I ordered lunch, which is something my mum told me to do. I was so terrified of doing it; I never order for myself because of my anxiety. My mum also wants me to go on public transport alone soon.

I also wrote from prompts that weren’t my usual writing, but I enjoyed it. I love it when I’m given a prompt that makes me write something unexpected. However, I still worry that perhaps it was not good. Perhaps, they will wonder why they wanted me to write for them in the first place. This is my anxiety.

I get so excited about opportunities, yet I also get so anxious. I think this opportunity is good though and that I might become a better writer by doing it. I just have to let myself win, not the anxiety. Before, the anxiety has won, and I have given up trying. But I am going to try my best to let myself have a chance.

Lia, you can do this!

Fairy Mail (250 Word Story)

I wrote this for the NYC Midnight Microfiction contest.  We had to write a 250 word story in 24 hours using the prompts given.

My prompts were:

Genre: Fairy tale or fantasy

Action: Delivering a letter

Word (to be included in story): Parched

Felicity had been travelling for weeks. She was parched but knew that she was near her destination. She was small, even for a fairy, and this journey had taken her to places she had never been. She didn’t often see humans; she spent most of her life in the woodlands, attending to the needs of elves. Here she was, in a city full of people. It was overwhelming, especially considering how humans walked. Their giant, undignified feet stomped around, without a single care as to what they might step on. The elves were much more elegant; their feet danced to the ground. In the city of Alsmel, it was chaos.

161 Farryn Street was the address embedded on the scroll that Felicity was to deliver. It was a human-sized scroll and weighed down like a bag of woodchips. She often carried woodchips for the elves, so they could make beautiful accessories out of them.

Felicity was just a courier and knew nothing of the letter she was delivering. She only knew that delivering it was of the utmost importance. Felicity found the address and used some magic to sound the bell.

A man with a beard opened the door. Judging from his staff, he was a wizard.

“You have a letter?” He asked.

“Yes,” Felicity replied, taking off the scroll wrapped around her. The man knelt down and picked it up.

“Thank you.”

Felicity could relax, at last – or so she thought. For then, the wizard read the letter.

Shapes

I have lines on my arms. They resemble a check-list. One, two, three, four. I guess I haven’t reached five yet. If I get to five, will it have to go diagonal like in those check-lists? I don’t want to think about what will happen if I get to five.

My friend has circles on her arms. Big, round circles. I wonder why she has circles and not lines. Sometimes they overlap, like in a venn diagram. I often think about what connects the circles together and why they intersect.

Today is a good day. I have not been cut by any triangles yet. Triangles have sharp edges. They are at their worst when they are equilateral. This means all points are as sharp as each other.

My friend is not having a good day. She has a new circle but it is not on her arm. It is over her eye. I wonder why it is there. Venn diagrams connect circles, so why should it be there? Is she starting a new one?

Just as I open my mouth to ask her, I realise that a triangle is lodged in her brain. If I talk to her, she might well throw it at me, and I don’t want that. I don’t say a thing.

A new line appears on my arm. It isn’t diagonal after all.

The Whispers

whispers entrancing my thoughts,
seducing me into a state of confusion,
my eyes low, the floor my ally,
everyone around the enemy,
if I look up, they will know
that I’m not worth the time of day,
the whispers tell me that
they’re not my friends,
they will never like me,
because I am insane,
I am existence’s bane.
friends talk about how they understand
but they don’t,
only the whispers do,
they know my deepest fears,
my worst insecurities,
and everyone else will pretend
it’s not that bad, that it can go away
if I just tried —
but the whispers know that
it’s not something I can fix.
that’s why they’re who I trust the most,
they might be mean and harsh,
but they accept me for who I am,
with all the bad too.
they don’t silence me for talking bad,
for having a rant, for a meltdown,
for moaning, or just being me,
they’re always here.
they always have time.
Always.

My Dad’s Poem

This poem is by my dad. I’m very proud.

We breathe so we cannot drown.

We love so we cannot spread doom.

We smile to better soften our foe.

We light the room which was so cold.

We pass through this world in a flash

We live for the now but not in a rush.

We are our future we are our past.