The Voices

My schedule has my final "Work" period of the day down as 1900-2100, but having been a bit under the weather lately (I caught a couple of the "start-of-term" bugs that're always flying around academia at this time of year), I have let myself stop at 2000 instead, with a few more breaks during the day as well. Hopefully as term progresses and my health improves, I will gradually increase the number of working hours again - I see the coursework decreeing a few "all-nighters" in the (not so distant) future too... If you want to know the sort of thing my coursework entails, I have a blog chronicling my final year which, although currently quite sparse, will hopefully, during the year, shed some light on what is apparently quite an obscure discipline to a lot of people.

In the meantime, here is a poem I wrote about 10 minutes ago - it's a bit "meta" since this was written to try and quell some of the noise to which it refers:

It's noisy in my head,
Like a telly on the blink.
But the noise is more than static -
There are madmen in my attic.

How can I make them see,
That these half-formed words and sounds
Just flood my brain and knock me down -
It only takes an inch to drown?

I hope they mean no harm,
But their presence all the same
Really does me no good at all -
True thoughts displaced by inane drawl.

I see a pattern emerging...

Different poem, same theme:

And how,
In this world of promise and light,
Do you see so little
In the way of illumination?
Could it,
Though, in truth, I shudder to ask,
Be that your blinkered eyes
Look not for a brighter path than this?
Tis plain
This lethargy runs far too deep
Dulling the mind and wit -
An apathy to be fought in vain.
A cloak
Is draped heavy about the heart
An enveloping force
Quells a passion never even there.

A Conversation

I feel like a ship
Broken in two

But everything's fine
What's wrong with you?

Waves of confusion
Break on a forgotten shore

But you got what you want
You can hardly want more?

If the answer were simple
Would the question exist?

What question is that
I don't follow your gist?

I wish I knew
And could see some light

Why do you feel so wrong
When it's all going right?

Why is it no different
When I see what I've got?

How is it that still
You're not content with your lot?

Contentment is one thing
Harder to reach is an easy mind

So you're sticking with melancholia
To accompany your daily grind?

The last few weeks have not been great...

... and hence the lack of posting - I haven't even had a Word of the Week, let alone a chance to blog about it. Today has also been a bad day, I did almost no work, and the stuff I tried I got wrong.

The worst thing is that yesterday was great, and the weekend coming should be too. I spent the afternoon with friends from church yesterday - lovelier people you couldn't hope to meet - and on Friday one of my all time truest friends is (hopefully) coming to stay for a few days. So, all told, I should be in a good cycle, not a bad one. Unfortunately, if my mental state were that rational then I guess I wouldn't have all the issues that I seem to.

Just in case you were wondering, dear reader (although I doubt you were), here is a rough draft of what it's like to be me today. Caveat - This is only reflective of now, and is not a comprehensive, or even proof-read exposition of myself.

Life is that thing which you and I

Experience before we die.

A cacophony of feeling and thought,

The noise of any place you sit and wait.

To some of us,

THE single thought is thus:

When everything is said and done,

Death comes far too late.

Losing the game:

Sometimes I think I'm just a pawn,

In that game you play with other people's lives.

You set up challenges throughout the day -

Knowing full well they can't be done.

Do you laugh, I wonder, as you watch us flounder?

Is it some sadistic pleasure you draw from our efforts,

Or is it just cold academia that drives your study?

Even as the night draws in and the game is at a lull,

Some other force, (or is it you?)

Denies me the rest I’m sure I'm due

And so, exhausted, it all begins again.

This viscous cycle spiralling down.

Until,

I fear,

The darkness will out.

I’m having a bad few weeks. My grades are getting worse instead of better; I feel less and less inclined to participate in daily domestic duties – from getting out of bed onwards (inclusive of all those little things which most people do instinctively everyday and which I used to be quite particular about); my laptop is increasing the speed of its descent into electronic senility and the result of my psychiatric evaluation is that in view of the severity, range and longevity of my many issues, the best course of action seems to be longer-term, more intensive therapy rather than guided self-help. There is, of course a waiting list for this type of therapy (aimed in part at helping those sorts of people who have self-harmed or felt suicidal tendencies…), so I have no idea when that will start, but I hope that it starts soon and is effective, because to be honest I’m starting to get a wee bit desperate.

Apart from anything else, I’m dying for one good night’s sleep, although if I woke up in the morning to find I wasn’t still utterly exhausted, I’d probably have a heart attack.

It’s had a big effect on my work: A lot of the time I’m like some sort of confused, sleep-deprived, geriatric zombie suffering from senile decay and when I’m not, I’m being overly hyper to try and compensate – both scenarios leading to general bad health and I’m left wondering how the group I’m working with can possibly make sense of anything I’m saying. On the subject of which – apologies if this is in appalling English, I will probably retract this post at some point in the future.

(Sorry for the shitty quality of the poem – it’s a first draft which I dashed off about 6 minutes ago purely to head this post… may or may not polish it off at a later date)

Shrinking

         I hate that shrinking feeling,

         It gets me every time.

            Morale growing ever smaller,

            Confidence knocked right back.

         He takes pride in it -

         It’s there in his eyes.

           Watching as you break.

            He’s meant to help -

         He knows it’s his job,

         And his manner seems kind.

            Then you actually ask

            And Jekyll turns Hyde.

Nothing else you can do,

So you shrink away.

No more support.

Fade away.

Disappear.

It’s World Mental Health Day today. I wrote this poem this morning – it’s very much a rough draft, and I’m never particularly comfortable without rigid forms to follow, but it’s a (very) vague idea of what part of being depressed can sometimes feel like.

Let me know what you think, I’m not sure I’ll keep it, but I wanted to mark today with something.

Who'd've thought a poem could rule your life?

I hate this poem.

One night in the Easter holidays I was woken up with the first verse of this, and it has been haunting me ever since. The rhymes and structure are tenuous at best and the logical part of me is telling me to burn it, in the same way I do two-thirds of all my other poems, and forget it ever existed. However, I can't seem to shake it, so I'm hoping that publishing it will finally make my brain accept that it's finished and move on.

What is it you want from me,

Confirmation that your path was right?

Or do you just want me to give

My life for yours, that you might live?

Are your glasses that rosy,

Can you not remember your own plight?

You may have reached your tunnel's end,

Other wounds take longer to mend.

I had hoped that you would see,

The cost of asking for new insight.

Your passion and strength serve you well,

But some of us still live in hell.

And now, 'through a glass darkly',

You're looking with scorn upon my fight -

For all we are alike, we two,

I can't just drop what you outgrew.

Enough pressure, let me be:

My head is hurting, my chest is tight.

I needed an objective eye,

Not a lecture on 'do or die'.

I feel like a sapling tree,

Expected to grow in strength and height.

But some trees take longer to grow,

And are no worse for going slow.

I never wanted your pity,

I am aware that I sound uptight:

You misunderstood my question -

You judged me on your own fortune.

So now I'm feeling guilty

For looking to you who is so bright;

A role model I only bore,

Who kicks me down upon the floor.

I asked for help, finally -

Put my pride away, worked through the fright.

In different ways the battle's won,

And now I hold the smoking gun.

I'm losing all energy,

I'm sure it affords you great delight.

I kinda thought that you would know,

Old scars reap what new wounds sow.

From a friend

This is a poem written by my friend: when I read it I thought that it needed some tlc, but that it had some nice potential, and was a more optimistic take on things than the sort of stuff I have been writing and avoiding posting lately.

Under Construction

I’m tearing myself apart,
and pulling myself together.
But it’s harder than it looks,
and I know I could do better.

Trying to amend my faults,
and fix up all my woes.
And I know I just can’t stop,
until this feeling goes.

By M.W.D. Lewis 15/10/09

Happy National Poetry Day

I am putting up this post, as it is National poetry day, and as I purport to be a poet of sorts (hey it rhymes!). Please note however, that this was written on the spur of the moment, and is not really indicative of the sort of quality that I normally aspire to.

Shout for all the world to hear,
Yipee, yahoo, hooray!
Shout to all the world, my Dear,
It's National Poetry Day!

Untitled (suggestions welcome)

Apologies in advance, there are some slightly ropey bits in this poem, although I hope that overall it get by okay.

The days last long when darkness brings not sleep.
No help from the warm drink or counted ewe.
Even resort to the bottle 'tis true,
Brings no cure. Soon one wishes to sit and weep.
Out of the window on the streets you peep:
Shrouded in slumber are all but the few;
Workers and those who stay wakeful, like you;
Knowing it will come slowly, at a creep.
And yet, we know, as with the rolling tide,
That when the future comes it all will cease
And we with joy unto our beds will fly:
Lifted up on soaring dreams to ride,
From the shackles of waking now released.
And so to the Future look you and I.

Mike, this is dedicated to you, not particularly because the content is anything I think is particularly relevant to you (although I think you know where I'm coming from), but as a thank-you: thanks for quoting me and thanks for your support with this.

It's also for all the people who found the last post a bit too geeky. Not that the people who liked the last post can't appreciate this as well or anything, in fact if you did want to be geeky about it, there are some interesting patterns here.

The Feeling

I wake up with The Feeling, like I could cry,
Only crying doesn't come easily to me.
Hysteria and panic open the flood gates,
But even then only sometimes.

The Feeling makes my head spin,
Drowning in a salty ocean,
With nowhere to go.
So It travels to my stomach.

The nausea wrenches at me,
Telling me I'll faint or puke.
But nothing happens,
Just The Feeling,

Stagnating.

A poem in recognition of National Poetry Day (Thurs 091008), addressing, in a roundabout fashion, my depression in recognition of World Mental Health Day (Fri 101008).

Apologies to any English students/lovers, it's very poorly written. I used free verse primarily because I'm lazy; I've never actually been a huge fan of it as a poetical form.