Wingword Poetry Prize 2020 is now open. Submit your poems today!

Phoenix || A story from self destruction to reconstruction

Khwabida_ki_parvaaz

depressed-girl

How will I ever explain to you the journey I once went through?

I don't know how to start this story
It won't take you back to a faded glory.
I don't know if you'd be able to hear it till the end or you'd run away from the intense.
Let me warn you about this ordeal trial
It won't be easy to hear for a while.
I take you back to my formative years, when depression whispered "hey" into my innocent ears.
I don't remember when, I don't remember how, its weirdly difficult to recollect that episode now.
Its like someone washed off those 4 long years.
I just remember incidences from that ordeal.
I remember there was a pair of scissors, that understood my self pity, it went inside my vagina but couldn't open up to me. It cried as I cried and then came out. Luckily I wasn't brave enough to bully me.
Was it the shame of an assault or was it the depression taking toll?
I remember walking my way back home and crying on streets while gropers had a ball.
I didn't know who to blame, an abusive relationship or a not so kind past.
So I decided to take the blame and then,
started the downfall.
It seemed slaps and boxing wasn't enough so I banged my head and body to the wall.
So many times did suicide cross my mind but it was nothing but a bravado, on the hind.
But then something happened and rock bottomed me, while depression further snarled and mocked at me.
That incident shattered my numbness and allowed me to scream out loud.
I confided in my family and decided to shake hands with therapy.
I stopped feeding depression with all that self loathing. Self pity had to eventually, remove its hoarding.
But if you think this is the happily ever after then I apologise to again scatter.
It was a constant struggle to find the right shrink.
Some blamed me and others just wanted to pay their bills, while watching how depression kills.
I eventually stumbled upon a guardian angel and called him doc.
His medication gave me worst of dreams, of cutting my family to pieces and eating them raw, of dragging a headless body and enjoying the scene like a pro. The floor I tell you was as messy as the dream and this isn't even half of what all I had seen.
The side-effects were worse.
The extreme anxiety, dizziness made me feel incapable and smaller than every being.
The shooting sensations in my head were louder than my screams.
When walking seemed like a task and falling was the obvious part.
When normal was illusory and confidence of course was a far fetched story.
Did I tell you how helpless I felt when dynamic was the only comfort I knew, it was my only ephemeral friend.
I wondered if ever there will be a day, when I'd be able to feel safe without this blanket in the play.
I confided in my doc and told him about the worst of storms, and wrote down every emotion, all the symptoms of this form. I told him how I forget to poop and wash, of how I cry for no reason and a hell lot of other loss.
But now we all could see the change.
The victim in me had decided to be the fighter now.
I knew I ought to get out and then take a bow. So I religiously followed his guidance and trusted therapy while the fighter in me, fought daily.
After 3 to 4 long years I was wise and haley.
I had now tasted healing thanks to this depression I saw daily.
The light within me was shining so bright that the light outside me was inspired and lit after a while, when darkness faced identity crisis and depression felt ashamed of its vices.
So this was my journey from self destruction to reconstruction.
I sat beneath the oak and spelled renewal, resilience, rebirth to the tears I soak.


Leave a comment