What it’s really like

I don’t cry.

Crying got tiring after too many times; so I’d sit silently in my car, reclined leather, turned off engine – and just watch the world go on around, without me. I don’t think about anything, really, and I’ve gotten far too used to, to ask about it now. 

I just kind of sink where my body decides to place itself and let the physical wholeness of me feel, though crippling, whatever it needs to feel, until I am ready to step out and be part of the flow again.

When I replay these things in my head it could sound poetic, even, amusing, how emotions as deep as depression could paint such beautiful odd colours across the screen in organised-words form. My head is such a chaotic place to be in, and my heart is merciless in refusing to keep calm grounds so instead of trying to break whatever this condition I had discovered I’d always have to deal with, I find my work around.

There are days when I feel like slicing the palms of my toes just so I could feel something – I’ve decided cuts would be placed there just so I’d be reminded by the ensuing pain in my then-to-follow steps never to do it again. Then there are odd, frequent ones when I feel too many things at once; like I’m being pulled in all directions by forces I don’t recognise and are listless in explaining how or why or when and if it will ever stop. The tugging could be upwards, downwards, circling all around – sometimes I don’t even bother trying to fight it. I just let myself be whirled around in directions – as if to assure at least something inside me is going somewhere, that that’s always the lesser evil between feeling and not wanting to feel anymore.

So I would smoke my cigarettes and read my books and drown in whiskeys and write song hooks and escape in far flung lands and sneak kisses with willing tongues and take showers far too quick or too long and sing myself quietly to sleep and paint the images my head could no longer keep and I do this often enough I forget I only do it to get by.

And I smile and I laugh and I continue to give and to love, and I wait for better days.

It will come.

This beautiful piece is written by Miss Joyce Pring. Visit her blog.


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