It started in Junior High

TW: Depression, death, fire.

I remember it started when I was in Junior High; let's say around 13 years old. I was going through The Change. My feelings were bigger, my thoughts were deeper (or so I thought), and my perception of the world was, well, bleak. These were the precursor days of the teenage goth phase, and 14 years later I still say it is NOT a phase!

I don't remember the ins and outs of what I wrote; sadly the poem was saved on another hard drive of a computer that I had lost long ago. I remember it was chaotic, teeming with graphic destruction and hyperbolized pain and sorrows - again, this was the start of the goth / emo phase that is not a phase. I remember I wrote about a vivid dream, one that haunted me throughout the rest of my years at junior high. The school was on fire. I could smell the smoke. I could hear the blaze feasting at the drywall and melting support beams. You can imagine the small panic that filled my chest when the school did spontaneous fire drills.

But in the dream, the fire didn't kill me, not entirely at least. Like a phoenix I rose from the ashes, completely born anew. But this cleansing was a curse - at least that's how it was written. I had become someone who was shadow kissed. I had faced death and for some reason or another was spared his embraced but left with an inseparable bond. I could speak to spirits. Hear them. See them. Feel them. I was caught somewhere between the veil that separated the living from the dead.

I'm sure upon deeper analysis (after all this is fiction), this metamorphosis would be an excellent representation of loss of innocence. Perhaps, even, serve as an introduction to the void of real-life mental illness in the mid 2000s that would follow me until the end of time. The pieces that followed had similar themes: death, transformation, and being caught in this veil. --Coincidentally this coincided with the peak era of YA vampire novels and my obsession with the paranormal. -- There came a point where I dreamed of it, romanticized it in my teenage poetry. I had felt so disconnected from this actual plane, but didn't have the words to describe it. There must have been countless stanzas regurgitating my own low self-esteem, body dysmorphia, and desire to be somewhere else - anywhere else - especially if a handsome vampire had whisked me away (I blame Twilight and Vampire Academy). These messages of dissociation and despair should have been a tell-tale sign that this was more than teenage angst. Even for an emo kid.

As I grew older the disturbing romanticism of death disappeared. I still wrote of depression - I still do now, but the tone has transformed much over time.

In college it was a lingering, chronic pain. Less about the actual feelings and more about its impact. There was a piece describing it as clipping my wings. As a child I felt I had a pair of wings and could soar high above the clouds. I was joyful, confident, and hopeful for the future. But as I grew, the wings didn't grow with me, and they ached after use, even when I only leapt 10 feet off the ground. It wasn't until I graduated that I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar II (aka hypomanic disorder) with heavier bouts of depression than actual mania.

I read a piece by Zara Bas not too long ago giving insight to mental illness and strife. Instead of trying to shut it out, welcome it in. Take off its coat and listen to what it has to say. You'll notice that it will leave on its own, and you'll feel better for it. Now when I write of mental illness, with all its wonderful twist and turns, it's an old friend. Sometimes she stays past their welcome, but when we do cross paths, she is met with acceptance. The pieces are melancholy but hopeful. (See my other piece "How did I get here? It's kind of a funny story.")

My poems still don't rhyme for shit, but their contents have matured. Perhaps more analytical and fewer decorative metaphors. Less enigmatic and more reflective (though there are still surreal pieces here and there when a hypomanic episode kicks in). I'm proud of how much I've overcome as a person and a writer. I feel like my pieces reflect that far more than my journal entries. They've grown as I've grown. From unbearable chaos and despair as a teenager, to acknowledgment as a young adult and acceptance as an actual adult (I pay taxes and have a 403b...gross), my poems' themes and structure have matured like fine wine. What was once a product of the violent emesis of teenage angst is now a love note to my younger self. The depression is still there, but it is met with wisdom, with love, and acceptance.