Broken Bone, Broken Person

This is an addendum to the drawing I posted yesterday.

Months ago, when I started drawing this, I didn’t know what it was I was drawing, or why I was drawing it. I saw the creature’s shape in the fibers of a hanging hand towel and felt compelled to sketch it out. Upon completion and reflection it seems to me this drawing is a representation my past depression.

The setting is a dark woods, a symbol of suicide. The sky is lighter near the horizon, indicating that the sun has just set, or is just about to rise. I think the sun is rising by the way the creature seems to be leaving the forest.

The creature is representative of several dimensions of my depression and past suffering. It floats off the ground, detached from the world, but still in it. The body is diseased, the creature has a rotten core. The face is blind, those who cannot see cannot leave the forest. The teeth sharp and cruel like my words were. The outer shell resembles a broken bone, my daily, throbbing pain. I don’t remember what the antlers are about :p

This post is a bit self indulgent and perhaps comes off as a case of 2egdy4u or over thinking. Either way, I figured I’d share for posterity’s sake. For anyone wondering, I don’t identify with the drawing.

Something Broken

I’m not much of a poemer or an artist, but last year I was feeling down and so I sketched out the following.Girl in the corner appearing sad holding a mysterious item. I don't know what it is but I do that it's mine. I know it held a light within for when it worked it shined.

Initially, I wanted to write more about what was broken. However, it’s been so long that these feelings are vague and foreign to me now.  I wouldn’t want to do a disservice to them by trotting out platitudes to cover up my gaps in understanding.

I guess this is the price of procrastination. Poem below in writing.

I don’t know what it is,
but I do know that it’s mine.
I know it housed a light within,
for when it worked, it shined.

On depression

I’m afraid of depression.

I’m afraid it will come back one day.

I’m afraid to use the word in reference to myself.

I’m afraid because depression almost killed me.

I’m afraid because I didn’t know why I was so depressed.

I’m afraid because I wasn’t aware how close I was to killing myself.

I’m afraid that depression has left deep scars on my mind that will take time to heal.

But I know that I can’t be afraid to talk about it.

Not talking about how I was really feeling is what let me wander through the woods until I was so lost I couldn’t find my way back.

Not talking about how I felt is what caused the years of repression that I still feel today. The years that knotted my mind with their insidious defense mechanisms. Being emotionally dead but calling it ‘stoic.’ Giving no fucks but actually suffocating in apathy. Seeming fearless when really I had given up on trying to live.

I’m ready to talk about it. I’m still hurting but those times are distant enough, like some sort of sad, strange dream that I can begin to reflect.

I need to talk about it. I grow distant, speechless and my eyes well up when I think about the past, but I have not properly grieved. I have felt the need to cry for months now but, the tears never come. The barriers in my mind have been trained to carefully scrutinize any inbound stimulus and any outbound emotion. I have forgotten how to feel and it’s taking time to learn to open up to my emotions again.

As much as I recognize what those long sleepless nights were about in retrospect, I feel as if I haven’t properly internalized them. There’s a difference between knowing what they were about and admitting to yourself how bad things were. Writing this post helps.