My anti-depressant for life now is: cry like a baby when I'm suddenly down, have my temper tantrum when I've been swept up in my storm, call myself names like my father once did, shake it off (because no one is here to lift me back up), get a hold of myself (I'm a man after all), maybe cry a little more (because no one can hear me and I feel safe letting go)—then I get back up and remind myself of what my calling is; my unique purpose here in this life truly is.
After all this, I get back to work—even if the tears are still flowing.
Nothing really holds me down anymore like it used to. I'm remembering what resilience is, even amidst my storms and self-deceptive battles.
The only tricky part about it all, is learning to differentiate what the mind might elude to as love and what love really is—the difference between boundaries and exponential expansion.
It emanates from the heart and anytime unresolved thoughts start trickling in, I know I've separated from that eternal connection.
If I'm suffering, I'm not loving myself—I'm running and hiding from it, despite the torment I might feel; believing that love should be so painful because to earn love as a child, it had to be painful, you know, to appease my parent's suffering and abuse whether emotional, mental or physical.
Yes, there's pain present in love as well but not to the point where we'd seek to tarnish ourselves or banish it from us all together.
It's painful, because it’s welling up in my chest-cavity instead of flowing freely through me.
I'll often times close the door and peek out the tiny master key hole wondering if anyone knows I've barricaded myself in again.
"Do not disturb me—P.S. Leave me the f*ck alone."
No one ever listens—they still knock, despite me pretending I'm not home.
Eventually, I'll ever-so quietly slip the key in the hole, turn it ever-so gently and attempt to open the door without making it creak.
It always does, no one's ever fooled by my show of inadequacy or victimhood-stance.
It's a tough sell, attempting to convince myself that I don't deserve love or relationship.
There's a difference between timing and not deserving what's inalienably a part of each of us.
I'm reminded that it starts and ends with me, every time.
No one's coming to save me or soothe my woes.
I'm a warrior and warriors rise to the occasion.
I've learned to release so I might fight this invisible battle another day, when it has crept into my spirit and longing nature.
When I'm seeking that outward validation, I'm cornering myself.
I've trapped myself in a cave and am being smoked out, unable to breathe or see out.
It floors me and that's where, amidst the salty tears and pathetic gestures to end this, my resurrection occurs.
I'm forgiven for being human—I forgive myself and remind me that I'm still just a little boy who was wounded ever-so long ago.
My duty is to clean up my act so I might be of some useful service to others.
I cry often, so that I don't become bitter from what would otherwise cripple any good sense I've learned to embrace about myself.
I'm a survivor and on some days, that's enough—just to be here breathing; alive and present.
It’s times like this, that I realize I’m indeed, growing—some days, like a bean-sprout and others, like a lotus.