Jasmin Tea

Close your eyes…

Tell me what you see 

Right now.

Jasmin tea on your lips

Smiles caused by your fingertips.

A maybe, a when and a how

I was wishing for a now…

Jasmin Tea

Swirling in your cup

While I talk way too much

Oh! Just you listen to me!

Not to what I say

But to the way our bodies sway

And the touch of your lips

On my cheek

Warmed by Jasmin tea

Like the colour of my misery!

Hope dies young

Anxiety and depression. They're two twin sisters holding hands in a dark hallway. Much like the twins in the movie The Shining. The more you try to fend them off the more you get enthralled by their voodoo shit. And before you know it, you're on the floor in the fetal position, screaming, crying, completely helpless. You lose control of yourself and your place in the world. It's like you're coming back to your own body after some sort of amnesia induced time travel and you forget who and where you are. Your heart beats so fast you lose count of its beats. You can't breathe or speak. You have this look of terror in your eyes and everyone around you look at you as if you were completely fucking insane! And for a few moments, you feel completely fucking insane! And absolutely no one understands what the fuck it's like. It's so frustrating! It makes me so fucking angry that every time I try to explain what it's like people just tell me it's a phase and that I just need to have fun. I mean... what the actual fuck? A phase? Really? Do you know how long this fucking "phase" has been a part of my life? Years! Ever since I can think of myself as an actual fucking adult. That's how long. Then people are like... and by people I am now talking about my older sister... she's like: "man, you used to be cool! We used to have so much fun together. What happened? Why are you a party pooper now, man?" You know what, Mad? Because I don't fucking want to be drunk and high all the time. That's why! Oh. And by the way... fuck you! Fuck you and your fucking bullshit spewed out from your high horse! You think you have fun? You just get drunk and act like a fucking idiot! That's not having fun. That's numbing out the pain. At least, it was for me. I would numb out everything with booze and pot. So much so that I was someone else. I was still a wreck. But, apparently, I was a fun acceptable wreck. The wreck that I am now, is not someone people want to hang with. And it's cool. I would rather keep my wit about me than numb out all the bad shit just so other people can feel comfortable around me.

They say talking to people about it helps. But it actually doesn't because no one understands. How could they? They haven't been trough shit like this. They're not sympathetic. They try to minimize what I describe so that they don't feel bad but they end up making me angry or making me feel like crap. And the ones that want to sympathise have no clue what to say. So they basically either say some sort of shit like they're at a funeral and then change the subject. And you just sit there going through what you described word by word because you're in disbelief... how can someone just dismiss you so incredibly fast and easy? Like they're turning a page on a fucking book... a page they don't really want to read so they basically skim through it, read something they don't like, and turn the fucking page. And you just sit there... and you hear them talk about their day and shit... you can hear the sound of their voice but you're not really processing what they're saying because you're too busy thinking of scenarios in which you punch their fucking face for being such inconsiderate assholes. You have this blank stare but they don't even notice because they're just barking up a storm about some awesome sweater or whatever they bought on sale. And you literally think "what the actual fuck?"

And that's how you become a reclusive depressive anxious cunt. You wake up, take your happy pills, wash up, get dressed, have breakfast. You go to work, keep your head down, do your job, have lunch, do your job some more, keep your head down and go home. You shower, eat dinner, listen to music or watch whatever show is on that day. Take a sleeping pill so you can quiet all the voices and thoughts running will in your head. Slip into bed. Look at your phone a thousand times hoping someone will drop a line. No one ever does. Not even your sister. Some nights a few tears might flood your eyes because you feel so incredibly lonely. You wipe those tears and swallow all your hurt. You fall asleep watching some movie you've watched a thousand times before. You wake up the next day... rinse and repeat. But some times, for a split second, you dream... You dream of better days and that one day, one glorious day, you'll stand up to those bitch hand-holding twins and you regain control of yourself and of your life. You almost smile at the notion of hope. But hope died young and her twin sisters killed her...

The sum of all heartaches

Inspiration left me long ago. The more I fight and try to write, the more I feel empty and void of thought. Nothing flows from me as it used to. Is it lack of emotions? Is it this numbness that seems to fill my broken empty heart a little bit more each time I try to do anything creative? I'm just tired of staring at a blinking cursor on a blank page. Sometimes it feels like I stare at it for hours, days, weeks... months, even!

Sometimes I cry... I forget to take my pills and I cry. I cry because I'm lonely or because I read or watched something really sad. Sometimes I cry because I read or watched something happy. I cry... but not because I'm helpless or sad or hurting. I cry because I don't have the strength to fight anymore. But... it's okay. I'm just tired.

I've been living in a new city for some months now. It's a big and exciting city. I never go anywhere. I don't meet new people. I'm stuck. I'm scared. I'm scared of crowded places. I am socially awkward. I never know what to say in social situations or when I do meet new people. So I just keep quiet. So quiet I feel like the people around me might think I'm a serial killer or a psycho killer. Or a serial psycho killer. Some sort of killer. Who's very quiet.

Years ago I was the life of the party. I would drink and tell stories. I would rarely shut up. I knew how to smile. I was as cool as a cucumber. Now I'm some sort of shut-in, a shade of Boo Radley. I feel like that carefree person that I was got lost along the way. I try hard to pinpoint exactly when that happened but... I fear I will never get to the bottom of it. Mostly because thinking of it, or validating what made me change so much, almost over night, is something that I don't really want to do. I don't know what happened, but I do. I just don't want to re-hash it. I suppose I could say it's the sum of all heartaches. But, in the end, it really isn't the sum of all heartaches, it's just me... tired of being who I was.

Being this reclusive being is easier. It's not as much work as being loved by all because there's really no way of being loved by all. There's always a ton of people that hate you. I know this, because I've been there and being hated... knowing that you're hated by people hurts so much more than you thought it would. Don't get me wrong... I'm not saying that people don't hate you because you're reclusive. You're just not aware of it. And people don't get the chance to see you as often so you kind of fly under their radar. They move on to hate other outgoing and popular people. You're safe! Or so you think... Sometimes a spark of who you were comes back and you make a huge and painful effort to catch a glimpse of who you were just for one glorious night! But... you fail miserably. The sum of all heartaches is always there, in the back of your mind, crippling you and preventing you from moving forward. And maybe there's this guy that you could hang with and have fun with. But the ghosts of heartaches past paralyse you. But still, when the moon is high and bright cutting through the night, and a soft breeze seems to blow as if it's caressing your cheek, you close your eyes and almost smile. You imagine an alternate you, happy and safe in that guy's arms. But when you close your eyes, the moon is gone and only darkness surrounds you. No wind, no breeze. The night is still and you're alone. No arms around you to keep you safe and warm. Just you, alone in your bed with flooded eyes. What do you do when even your imagination hurts you?

When you're sick with flu, like I've been these last couple of days, you think about all these things. You focus on everything and nothing all at the same time. You go back and forth in your mind trying to figure out what to do next because the person you are right now is not the person you imagined you'd be. The person you were isn't the person you wanted to be either! So who the fuck am I? And how the fuck to I get to be the person I always imagined I'd be?

I'm not successful. I'm not an artist. I barely make enough money to pay my bills and make rent. I'm not happy. I don't have an awesome boyfriend. I don't have many friends. I am socially awkward. I have a fear of heights and spiders. I have road rage. I'm detached. I live in a fantasy world. I hate myself. I have depression. No, not really. I'm okay. I'm just tired...