Here Comes the Dread

I feel like crying

or screaming,

or perhaps both.

My chest is in a knot,

unwilling to untangle itself.

It’s being fed by

an emotional

anxious

energy

from a fount

that I don’t know how

to turn off anymore. 

So I’m here,

doing the only thing that

has never left me, or judged me -

writing. 

Just write it out.

Just write it down.

Get your feelings onto a page

and they’ll become lighter.

Right?

A decade of writing,

in the hopes to unload these burdens,

and leave something behind

for those who wonder

and ask

“why?”

Because at times I wasn’t sure

I’d write more than a few years worth

of memories. 

Now, it’s like what's inside

has learned all my tricks.

It knows exactly

how to make me feel

at the exact wrong times,

and it’s become immune to

the concoctions

I once leaned on for rescue

when it went

into full assault mode. 

Now the drugs barely touch it,

or if they are helping,

then these feelings are so great

that they are breaking the bounds

that were once set with the medications.

What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?

I went back to therapy,

I got on board with a psychiatrist,

I’m changing my medications,

I’m trying to get out of the house more,

and eat more mindfully. 

I’m…scared. And frustrated. And angry.

...

Yeah, it is a little lighter now after that.

But I know it won’t last. 

Here comes the dread.

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