Poetical Musings on a Scarred Past

* WARNING CONTAINS POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING REFERENCES TO SUICIDE ATTEMPTS AND SELF-HARM*

Evening folks,

I find myself as per usual cramming in far too many late night tasks before I can properly set my mind to rest and hibernate until the next day rudely beginnings.

However whilst my brain perhaps does not appreciate last minute reading it has enjoyed the time for reflection on what was a long but brilliant day (which is what my life mainly seems to consist of at the moment).

My third year at university at the moment seems to be filled with a never ending To Do list and not enough time in which to complete it all, and whilst it can be exciting to be involved in lots of things, I confess I do frequently teeter on the brink of feeling overwhelmed by the amount I have on personally and course wise. Yet despite this my day today involved a good kind of busyness, the kind I am happy to surrender moments of rest to because I am invested in the outcome of the task. 

Today involved a chance for me to chat about mental health, in both dissertation themed and social settings, and this is something I find is a breath of fresh air to me. To be able to talk, discuss, process and protest my own and other's experiences, in literature or life, on a daily basis gives me hope and fuel to keep going as passion fuels my soul's tank of energy when my body and mind are running a bit low. It also was a chance to spend time with dear and new friends, to reflect at how blessed I am as part of my journey with mental health to have made - and continue to make - such inspiring connections with individuals who are amazing on so many levels. Which is you know all of you reading this...

Whilst I have now reached a stage in my own lived experience with mental health issues that I can openly talk and feel proud of where I have got to and what I have achieved, I feel equally as proud of the wonderful human beings I encounter on a daily basis who struggle but survive. Because even if we slip up in looking after ourselves, preparing seminar questions or even getting to bed on time, every single one of us is surviving. And until we reach the point where that surviving becomes living rather than enduring again we should try to never underestimate the power of deciding to face our struggles. We do all give in and fall down - I do so frequently even now - but even if we get back up again only for a short while, that is worth honouring.

Anyway that's enough of me platituding to you all at this late hour. When looking through a load of old documents on my ageing laptop I found this poem I re-drafted back in May and I thought I would let it do a bit of talking for me instead. The beginnings of it were written back in 2011 when I was going through some of the worst times of my depression and self-harm, and it was re-edited this year not to change the remembrance of that abyss but to show every story of mental health issues has the potential to change beyond your own concept of its ending. Back when I wrote this in 2011, I had only planned to live to the March of 2010 so I was already extending my own self-imposed expiry date, and now 4 years on my story is still ongoing. 

Mental health is part of you and an important one but it is not all of who you are. We all have a daily opportunity to choose who that is, and that opportunity will wait until you are ready to take it and is not a one time thing. We continuously change who we are and who we want to become.

My awareness of a deep rooted tenacity to survive since the original poem was written prompted me to change it's ending. Not to something positive per say but to reflect the pride I now feel to be where I am that has come out of that past place of pain. To say I have suffered, and struggled and bear the marks of that but I am no longer ashamed of it, society's stigma can not silence me. I will not stop speaking about or supporting those with mental health issues until such a time where civilisation acknowledges, provides for and understands the needs of mental health in every human being. 

I think this important to remember. Whilst it is difficult and often uncomfortable or daunting to talk about mental health whether you are suffering, surviving, supporting or all of the aforementioned, being silent is even more damaging.

All our stories are ongoing and thus 'Self-Harm' became 'Scarred Survivor' and who knows in a couple more years the narrative may have changed in ways that my slumber-desiring brain can not really begin to comprehend.

I shall now leave you with my more concise poetical thoughts on the subject and apologise for my rusty poetical form, it's been a while since I shared any of my work with any one so try not to judge me too harshly eh :P Even inexperienced poetry is still good mental health dialogue though right? 

Here you go:

Scarred Survivor

Knives and razorblades are my friends.

A cut here, a cut there,

Dark red blood seeping out,

My jagged breathing, the silence ends.

A perforated scar along my shoulder.

Cuts dotted along my arms,

These scars are ugly.

I wonder if they’ll be there when I get older?

Slitting is my pain release.

It feels good:

But I know it’s bad.

I just want this agony to cease.

...

The way out, a door, some escape

I longed for back then with all my desire.

I felt alone, full of desperation and self-directed ire.

Yet a strength of will, some saving grace and months of work

Meant I eradicated the desire to kill (myself).

But to no longer be ‘depressed’

Does not mean I did not continue to myself oppress

A voice is hard to silence even if a blade is put down

The scars may no longer show without but are there within.

Struggle on, steps forward, falling so far back.

Counselling, sharing, crying, not caring.

Being loved, fighting on, caring.

Regression, self-berating and hopelessness setting in.

Ashamed to show these scars whilst they were there

And then afraid to show my brokenness, those internal scars, and be rejected.

I survived but those scars where there and I hid them.

I self-stigmatised.

...

I open up. I confess.

I share with you my story not under duress.

To be a survivor is not to hide but to share those

Scars,

Be proud of the strength to get to this point.

This is freedom, this is me.

Mental illness story available for anyone to see.

Read my body, hear these words and know that darkness is not the

End.

Battle wounds breed strength.

Strength grows self-worth.

Self-worth means I have not just survived.

I live. 

Thank you as ever for taking the time to read my blog and for your continuing love and support in my written and verbal endeavours, mental health related or otherwise.

If anyone has any thoughts or responses to my post or poetry please feel free to share.

Until next time all my fictional love,

M x

(P.S Why do I find writing about mental health so much easier than course reading?)