Not Okay

 I'm not okay, I'm not okay

I'm not okay again today

I feel ragged, torn, and shunned

Hated by just about everyone

Including myself - indeed, the most

I seem such an unlikely host

For creativity at all

And when I'm stuck within a fall

I can't get up, can't move my legs

They're stiff and broken like old pegs

But no one knows because to me

I'm too invisible to see

So here I am, online again

Praying for an early end

To get me out of this deep hole

Or maybe something to cleanse my soul

So I feel free, honored and loved

And stop staring at skies above 

Where nobody looks down on me

I know it - its simple to see

I'm just alone. Alone again

Oh how I wish I had a friend

Someone to trust and share my things

Someone who missed me, my art, my sings

Instead I'm sitting here alone

Solitary, on my own

Streaming tears straight down my face

Only a paper mask in its place

Because I need to hide those tears

Embarrassment one of many fears

That keep me locked up deep inside

Shuttered beside my wounded pride

So no, I'm not okay today

I'm not okay. I'm not okay.

I wish.

 I wish I felt well.

I wish I felt like my life was worth living. Right now, as I sit in my car, I do not.

I am 30 weeks pregnant and feel alone. All my projects have gone nowhere and are worth nothing. This is what it feels like again to not be medicated and living with my actual brain.

I fucking hate it. I hate myself and I miss my drugs. If I wasn't so worried what it would do to baby Eddie, I'd go home right now and take five Lexapro to kick start feeling better again.

I touched up my fanfiction and couldn't stop fiddling. Suddenly my character was an abuse victim, like me. Suddenly he had self-harm scars and died in his lover's arms. And then I kept writing. I wrote a full-length, contemporary novel of their story in three weeks. I've been fiddling with it for two months. I hate it. It's awful. Nobody likes it. But why are they still banging on the door in my head if I'm no good at telling their story?

Writing is yet another thing I am no good at. I don't even know why I try to be creative anymore. I used to think I was a woman of many talents. Now, I'm just a loser jack-of-all-trades who knows a little bit about a lot of shit nobody cares about.

So I sit in my car, trying to breathe through my stuffed nose, and pound my temples for day 4 of this neverending migraine. I filled out paperwork for a new therapist yesterday. That first appointment can't come fast enough.

I'm a burden on those I love, and myself. I'm not suicidal and never have been.

But I get it. I see why Mom did what she did.

I could never do it. I'm not brave enough. But I wish my brain would shut up long enough so I could give up these projects for a while instead of being left feeling like I have a million half-baked projects and no direction.

I'm a mess.

I wish I felt well.