Hey It's Tay

explaining my depression

July 12, 2020

it goes like—

it hurts.

you can’t hear me through the gasping breaths, and so you ask

“what?”

“it hurts.”

but i can’t hear me through my beating heart.

and i start to believe that it wouldn’t be so bad

if it didn’t beat anymore.

my mother tells me that happiness is a choice.

so why then would i choose to feel this way?

my vision blurs when i lay on the couch

and stare at the blinds for too long.

i don’t like this drunken state of unknown.

i might feel motivated in two hours.

i might move, i might shower, i might eat a bite of food.

or i might drop to my knees on the floor;

clutch my heart.

i don’t like this drunken state of unknown.

it hurts. it’s the clearest explanation.

“why don’t you meet up with friends?”

asks a friend whose physical distance from me

keeps us from meeting.

anxiety joins the table with the mere mention of social obligation,

and why would i want to show up at the table

with depression and anxiety disguised under “plans” with friends

who would be chained to the empty table with me,

for i undoubtedly would show up empty-handed.

i have nothing to offer to myself and even less to party.

it hurts,

and even in its numbing pain, it hurts

like a gentle reminder that i’m not allowed to be happy.

i cannot be happy,

and then i forget what happiness felt like to begin with.

but then i find it in the memory of your arms

making me feel safe, wanted, and the numbness

is blocked by the all-too-real breathtaking pain,

and i’m gasping again.

nights are the worst. and mornings.

and those moments in-between.

and i feel peace only when i can sleep, but i can’t sleep.

insomnia becomes my only friend,

save for the broken nights and i, so well-acquainted.

and it hurts.
Love letter to the girl with the broken heart

March 21, 2020

It has or will happen to us all at least once (and most, more than once, if we are so lucky) in our lives, and it’s a pain that can’t be replicated— further, that no one would ever wish to replicate.

To hear that it will be okay is the biggest insult of all, and I am not here to tell you that. You are not ignorant. You know that you will be okay. Your heart is young and healthy, and you will not die from having it broken. In fact, you know that in a few months, you will be back, up and running, a few scars to prove the battle, but otherwise unscathed. You will emerge wiser and stronger, and you will hold this memory in the back of your mind; if you see a situation that could cause you to repeat this sequence of events that led to you having to collect the pieces of your broken heart, you will avoid it at all costs. You will have learned your lesson. You will see it as just that— a lesson.

But right now, you are feeling every inch of this heartbreak. It is a physical pain as much as an emotional one. You feel that someone has reached their hands into your stomach and twisted your insides. Your heart— it’s numb… Is it even there anymore? You feel it missing: an empty hole, and the hollowness hurts despite the numbness. Your head is pounding, and it doesn’t make sense. Not too long ago, you were healthy. Now, you are physically ill, and it’s all because of a heartbreak. And yes, you are dramatic. But… they would cry too if it happened to them.

You won’t want to hear what your friends have to say, and you certainly don’t want to hear from your mother at a time like this. You want to wallow in your sadness because you know that it will not last forever. You deserve this time— the time to grieve the memory of a man who you thought might be yours forever. He will wake in the morning, but he will be dead to you.

You do not want to hear what I have to say, but, in all my stubbornness, I will say it anyway. I will skip the consoling; again, it’s insulting. You don’t need to be consoled; more importantly, you don’t wish to be consoled.

I will say this:

You should wake up in the morning and go for a run because you love fitness. You should not wake up in the morning and go for a run to prove to a man that you love fitness.

You should eat healthy to be healthy. You should not eat healthy to prove to a man that you are healthy.

You should study because you are ambitious. You should not study to prove to a man that you are ambitious.

You should better yourself to be better for yourself. You should not better yourself to be better for a man.

You catch my drift?

Now, let that sink in, and run with it. You will know that you are ready to be loved when you don’t have to show someone why you are worthy of being loved. When you are who you want to see yourself as and who you want the world to see you as… that’s when you’re ready.

Go on, and be that girl.
She Asked Me How I Felt

February 9, 2020

In a little, sterile, white-walled hospital room.

I could feel the needle inside of my vein

Keeping me hydrated, alive.

The drowsiness of the overdose

Clouded my ability to make sense of the question.

And so, I wondered if she meant the IV in my arm.

“It hurts like a bitch,” I reported, exhausted,

Then turning red for having cussed while speaking to my mom.

She asked, “Your heart?”

“Well yeah that too.”

And I had to explain how death seemed better

Than suffering through a long life.

“They never should’ve prescribed you those pills.”

So, I had to explain that I’m not addicted to the drugs.

“No, Mom, I’m addicted to the idea of the little white pill

Delivering me from this Hell of a life.”

But she still couldn’t understand.

So, I told her about the days when I’d look in the mirror

Before going to class, disgusted by what looked back at me.

How the only way to escape my stress and self-hatred was through sleep

And how I wasn’t getting much of that anymore;

Insomnia wreaked havoc on my nighttime brain,

Forcing me awake to discover myself all alone in my dorm room

In a college thousands of miles from home and family.

I wanted to sleep forever. She cried when I said this.

“Why didn’t I see the signs?” she asked, as if she were talking to God.

I told her they were there, littered around the house

In footsteps heard from my feet pacing the floorboards during summers at home,

To long sleeve shirts in the summertime that covered self-inflicted scars.

The dark-lens sunglasses that covered my tired eyes

Were not a fashion statement but a facade to hide the destruction

That was already brewing within my body and mind.

“But why do you feel so alone? Your friends—are they not nice to you?”

She asked, this time directing the question at me.

“The world doesn’t have it out for me.

It’s like I’ve got it out for myself.”

And so, I told her the only thing holding me to this earth

Were those people like her who refused to let me go

In cramped, clean-walled hospital rooms.

But when I was released from that room,

Having convinced all but myself that I could return to school,

I was left again with sleepless nights, negative self-talk,

And scars that covered more than just my arms.

Yet, still, I was kept alive by kind words over midnight phone calls

From a mom who assured me that she wouldn’t let me go from this earth

Neither in a small hospital room nor a college dorm that felt lightyears from home.
Questions to Ask

January 29, 2020

*A poem of frustration written shortly after the shooting at Borderline Bar & Grill in Thousand Oaks, CA, a place that I’d frequented and loved.

Where were you that day—

The day of the shooting?

Did you have the week off for vacation?

And how can the creator of the world take vacations?

Why didn’t you hold me when I was broken?

Why didn’t I feel you when I was shattered?

Did you hear the screams?

The victims begging for mercy?

Were the unanswered prayers even heard?

Or had you already gone to sleep for the night?

Did you see the believers losing faith

As they stared death in the face?

Do you remember my friend who lost the life

That you had given her just eighteen years prior?

Had you decided that it was her time to go

Or was it by chance that she fell to the earth then from it?

Is she with you now and until the end of time

Or is she gone—lost in an anarchical universe?

Do you ever feel guilty

For creating such a broken race?

Do you ever sit back atop your golden throne

And look at the monster you’ve made

And cry?
A Writer’s Solitude

January 20, 2020

There’s something lonely about being a writer.

There’s beauty in the loneliness just as there’s a bit of beauty to most everything in life. The solitude of a writer is chosen by the individual. We make the choice to either be the extrovert, spending our moments in live conversation with others in the world, or to be the introvert, thriving in the moments in between the ones spent being an active participant in daily life.

The solitude of a writer is not that of a hermit’s. We cannot possibly shield ourselves from all of life’s social opportunities, as the goings-ons of living is the fuel needed to live our passion. How can one imagine a world that he/ she has not played some part in? Well, I realize your mind may go to fantasy, ect., and that’s a clever point, but you must remember that even the wildest fiction is grounded in some understanding of reality.

So, a writer’s solitude is, to me, the most beautiful of all. Imagine me, the extroverted-introvert— I spend most of my hours during the day that I am awake in the presence of others: a desk job, the gym, my social time with my friends. But still, I schedule time within this life to retreat into the solitude of my own mind and to type out the words that fill it. I choose to spend this time alone; it’s beautiful and magnificent, and it could all be ruined if spent, instead, in the crowded depths of another’s brain.

I find that this is not an isolated circumstance of preference; I find that I love to be alone in a crowd of people paying me no mind— in the pit of a concert, traveling within a busy city, running in a crowded gym… Just as I love to be alone with a blank page, watching the world pass, capturing the noteworthy moments in my heart, and then with a tweak, into words to maybe, someday be shared with you.
Heart Murmur

January 16, 2020

There she sat beside me in class

Twitching. The professor spoke

But all I could hear was the sound of her

Twitching. A moment of stillness

and then the motion of her

Twitch. A sudden movement

Interrupted by calmness,

Immobility. I began to count

the seconds between each

Twitch. One. Two. Three. Four.

Twitch. Others in the class wanted to scream

And tell her to stop. “For fuck’s sake can you sit

Still,” they wanted to yell.

I, for one, did not mind the broken rhythm of her

Twitching. I wanted to know the why

Behind the movement that wouldn’t stop.

Sometimes seven seconds would pass,

And I’d worry that it had stopped. Does the predictable

Tick now cease to exist in her

Soul or has some powerful source come and fixed

Her; is she now healed from the rhythmic

Twitch that somehow made her her, and is it even fair

To speak as if she were defined by the ostracizing

Twitch that held her body hostage?

I don’t know the answers. All I know is this:

I wanted to take her by the hand, pull her

Close to me, and let her take refuge

In my bosom. I wanted to hold

Her to me as a mother would her

Premature baby whose existence in the world is but fleeting.

I wanted to hold her to my heart— the one that doctors

Said beat irregularly. I wanted to let her

Hear mine and listen to hers because I wondered.

I wondered. I wondered: does her heart

Twitch too?

But instead I kept quiet and sat still

But alert. Hyper-aware of her

Twitch, hyper-aware of our classmates’ cruelty

In their unresponsiveness, unaware of the professor’s

Words written on the white board,

And counting down the seconds

Until her next Twitch.
In the Dark

January 8, 2020

At unspeakable hours is when they like to come—

Never in the daylight for fear of being discovered

By those who are not allowed to know.

They chose me, and it’s a curse and a blessing.

The first night they arrived, it was ordinary and bright.

The moon shone a yellowish hue through my open window,

And the cold, damp air blew the tapestry beside my bed.

I stared at the odd geometrical shapes that made up the linen.

One looked like an eye, and it was looking at me.

When a hand reached through my window, I was panicked,

But the panic was soon overshadowed by shock.

They were massive; their gray/ blue skin stretched thinly across their frames.

I couldn’t speak, and the hairs on my body were the only parts of me that could move.

They stood up, erect, but my body flattened into the bed.

And soon I was floating out the window, lifted by energy,

They never said a word to me, and neither I to them,

But they showed me through their homes which were familiar yet excessively large.

My heartrate was steady, normal, and unthreatened,

As they let me feel their leather-like skin, and afterwards, one ran a finger

Along the smooth skin of my forearm. I wanted to thank them for their generosity

In revealing their existence, even a fragment of their way of life to me,

But soon I was deposited back into my bed, my eyes on the eye in my tapestry.

Now, I leave my bedroom window open on days when I am feeling curious.

And at night, I find myself praying for those things

That they will receive salvation just as I aim to achieve.

And sometimes I even pray that they’ll visit me,

So that I can feel their spirits one more time and glimpse into the less-known.

Sometimes my prayers are answered, and the hand comes summoning at my window.

But they work on a time of their own, unamused with my silly curiosity,

Yet kind enough to share their nature with me whenever they wish it.

Hollywood says they erase your memory: the parts they don’t want you to recall.

But for some, they want you to know that they are there

And that there’s more than mankind. Humans don’t own the universe.

So, they let me keep my memory, maybe just a portion of it.

But I remember enough to remember the feeling of these intelligent beings

As interested in me as I them, and unapologetic in their staring

With their giant, yellow, focused eyes.

And though the public buys up movie tickets with subtitles advertising “Aliens!”

The category listed reads “science fiction,” and the fictionality is not questioned.

And so, when the topic of the supernatural is brought up

By humans who believe they know everything,

I don’t open my mouth to share in their suppositions

As there’s nothing more natural to me than these creatures

Living their lives just as I.

And I do wish that I could tell the others,

So that they would understand their own ignorance

In believing that what is right ahead is what is,

But the creatures chose to share the secret of themselves with me.

And like a blessing I’ve discovered it; like a curse I live alone with it.
Love letter to the girl who won’t let go

January 1, 2020

You’re going to feel stupid one day

… But it’s okay, I’ve been there

Many of us have been there, and your need to control and fix a broken situation is not defined by idiocy.

In fact, you’re a smart girl. You’ve read the situation like a children’s book. I know this because you’re wise enough to know that this letter is directed at you— you’re the girl who won’t let go.

So why?

Why if you’ve carefully sifted through the pages of your current situation… why can’t you release that thing, that man, that woman, that life— that idealized life that dances gentle pirouettes inside your mind? And why, if I were to tell you to release it, if you were to tell you to release it, if God himself were to come down from the Heavens to personally greet you inside the walls of your complicated heart to say, “Hey, Girl, release it!!” Why then, would you still not release it?

And I can tell you this, but my words won’t matter nearly as much as the situation played out to reveal itself to you. So I won’t waste a single breath or a single moment of your short, fleeting time on this earth telling you the things that your family, your friends, everyone who cares about you has been telling you.

Instead, I will say this.

Your worth will never be determined by anyone other than a perfect being who hand-crafted you and your spirit to be placed unto a hand-crafted earth.

He saw you. And He saw that you were good. And you are good.

So be good.

And hold onto yourself.
a decade’s worth of thanks

December 30, 2019

As we enter 2020, a new decade, it only makes sense to me to give thanks for the years passed.

How does one give thanks for an entire decade?

To begin: gratitude for ten years of health and happiness.

I was thirteen when I entered the 2010’s. I couldn’t have imagined that life would take me from my comfort zone in Oklahoma to the beaches and traffic of Southern California. Then, to London for four months with lots of mini travels within.

I discovered that the world has much more to offer than what I’ll find in the states— the unique culture of Morrocco, the beautiful language spoken in Barcelona.

I grew away from some friends with whom I’d spent my childhood, and I grew closer than I thought possible to some soul sisters I met in college.

I grew more into myself, fiercely living my truth. I fell and I failed, and I got back up, and I failed again.

And I got back up.

There are not enough words of gratitude to give to encompass a decade, but I hope to live the next in thankfulness, health, and happiness.
Setting Tears on Fire

December 25, 2019

“I know pain.

I know what pain feels like.”

My mother looked at me, uncertain.

Startled by my words.

The psychiatrist looked around the room, nervous,

Wiping sweat from his brow

And letting his shirt soak up the dampness from his palms.

“I know how it feels to dive deep into yourself,

To go to places you were never meant to be,

To go to dimensions that were never fit for human life,

To see things you were never meant to see:

To have your eyes catch fire because the sight is so atrocious,

And in the end, it always ends up that the sight upon which

You fixed your eyes was just yourself—your insides.”

Now my words frightened even myself,

And my mother began to lose her patience.

But the psychiatrist inhaled deeply, exhaling the tension

Into the humid air to be breathed in by my mother

Who begged for his help through her helpless eyes

And tried to offer a hopeless smile to me.

“Once I crawled so far inside of myself that I

Couldn’t find my way out for months.

During this time, people were always looking for me.

They’d talk about me in the third person because they knew

They wouldn’t get a response.”

“How long has she been like this?” the psychiatrist whispered

To my mother, as if I couldn’t discern whispers.

He loosened his tie, and wiped droplets of water

From his bald head.

“For way too long,” my mother whispered back.

“Truly, I was right there, trying to claw my way to the surface,”

I continued. “Yelling out for help, but they wouldn’t hear me.

I found my way out when I quit trying.

I had quit gasping for air, given up, when I relinquished

Myself. I wish I had not because the nightmares are worse than the act.”

“So, you need something to help you sleep?” the psychiatrist questioned,

Nodding as if all my problems could be solved by an orange pill bottle.

“It’s not about sleeping. The nightmares come when I’m awake.

I need to find a place to stay that won’t swallow

Me up any chance it gets. I know I can’t do so safely

In my own body. I know the danger of being eaten

Alive again by myself, only to be spit out and left

To deal with the memories.”

Eventually my mother made me stop talking,

And the psychiatrist thanked her with a sigh of relief.

I returned home with a bottle of pills kept inside an orange bottle.

So, I did what I could going forward. I had to fill the empty space

Within me that I knew would envelope me any chance it had.

First, I tried to fill it with love, then fun, then flames.

I shook bottles of little white pills into the hot, empty air

Of the body that held me hostage until there was little space left.

I filled the rest, the little crevices between each pill, with booze

And then I set the whole damn thing on fire.

My mother took my burning body back into the psychiatrist’s office.

“The pills aren’t working. They’re only making it worse,” she told him.

But all I could see were flames that dried the moist air of the room.

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