A vulnerable expression of a dark & lonely storm

Depression looms like an unwelcome cloud. Smog blurring vision, disrupting ability to breath pure oxygen. 

Logic screams in the background, “these are lies! Believe them not!” But the only sound that radiates is a hoarse whisper, the smoke closing in. 

Truth stands obvious, naked in the back of the storm. You are loved. You are wanted. However, the opposite is felt, through every muscle, every cranial nerve. The lies are reality and nothing can be known otherwise. 

Images of peaceful sleep drift to the conscience mind. A release from pain, a final escape from noise and confusion. There is peace up there, above the world. Dreaming of nothing less than unadulterated  clarity. 

Tears surge through the eyes, down the nose and over cheeks. Sniffling, screaming away the pain. Expressing and giving voice to the darkness releases it to the universe. 

Fly away, exit my mind.
Release me from the prison of your lies. 
I hate you. I hate your ability to cripple me. 

Friends and family become concerned. They ask what they can do to help. Perplexity and helplessness becomes apparent. “Just listen! If I can speak my misery and you can accept and love and share courage and hope, I can make it. Don’t be scared. I must get this out and let it not be my tormentor.” 

Who will listen without prejudice? Who will share their busy day and shelf their own demons for an evening to help fight? 

Happiness feels better. A smile invites friendly conversation. Friendly conversation distracts the mind from an aching heart. Book that social calendar. Volunteer, schedule coffees and fill the Instagram feed with cheer. Everyone will approve and no one will shun. 

Until the darkness creeps up again during times of isolation. 

Evil thoughts pounding against head like an army attempting to break down a castle gate. Gasping, “No! Not true!” Lying still, no other voice comes through. “No! It cannot be true!” 

A whisper. 

Give that whisper a song. Let the poetry ripple forth like a healing brooke. Allow the beauty to be a healing balm. There is healing power in artistic truth. 

Deep breathes. A shower, a few stretches. Singing, humming, writing, hugging. Slowly the beauty of a sunrise creeps over the horizon. The darkness recedes. The battle is won. The body and mind still weary from fighting, but feet on ground with new flower buds reaching for the sun.