2 AM Depression Poem

At 2 am I write another poem about my depression.

Once more it feels like drowning.

Like darkness.

Like I am patching myself up

With stitches that will not hold,

But this time,

The metaphor about Sisyphus gets stuck in my throat.

This is no longer impossible recovery.

It does not feel fair to assume

The boulder will roll back down the hill.

I think it is an injustice,

And a falsehood to say I am not getting better.

I do not have all the words to express healing yet,

Haven't chosen a language in which this poem says,

'She's not as broken.'

But I am no longer Greek tragedy,

Stuck in endless cycle of punishment.

It has been 1 year, 11 months

And 27 days

Since I decided I did not deserve to keep hurting.

Recovery is not always a linear process.

Sometimes I take two steps forward,

Feel the sun kiss my skin.

It plays an unfamiliar melody,

Strums forgiveness on a harp made of ribcage.

Recovery is not always a linear process.

Sometimes I'm submerged twenty feet under,

Silence heavy on a Tuesday morning,

Even though my thoughts are

Vociferous, intrusive, god-handed things.

Awful, Barging, god-abandoned things.

But every time,

I reach into the abyss.

I extract the parts of myself that are still worth saving.

Sometimes I hear mami's voice in my ear--

"All of you is still worth saving."

And sometimes I say

"Thank you,"

And sometimes I sink

A little deeper.

And sometimes I am feathers and wax,

Icarus in an ocean,

Because I too thought i would make it.

And other times I am my own savior.

And other times I am my own god.

And other times I walk backwards into hell,

Write myself a new myth about surviving,

Where Icarus makes it to shore.

Where Sisyphus is forgiven.

Where I sleep until morning,

And all I can hear,

Is calm waters.