Depression, A Forgotten Garden
You are about to read a small snippet of how I felt and saw depression. The thoughts it created and the destruction it caused my soul. But also my realization of what I found it to be.
Everything was aggravating and painful. The only time I felt comfortable was when I would finally peeled my self from my bed and take a shower. In the shower, it felt like I was being washed clean of everything. I would keep the lights off, as if to deter me from looking at my reflection. I would play music and listen as the water rushed over me like angels trying to cleanse me of the thick stench of hell that tainted my soul. Its amazing what the mind can think of in dark times just to keep you going a little bit longer. I would stay in the water till my fingers turned to prunes. The shower was the only place I felt I could hide from all the pain at animated inside me. Chains shackled my feet, built of sorrow that had branded my dreams. Along with the chain, came a shadowing cloud of mist that would follow me where ever I was. If I wasn't capturing my mind with brain numbing operations. I was trapped, listening to the idle voice. Hearing it nibble at my mind like a rat. It was never satisfied and it would never let me go.
There seemed to be no end in sight and there wasn't. It just got to the point where I was fed up with the lies and feeling of mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion. There were days before all this pain, days of laughter, smiles, and revelry. So why couldn't I go back? And in that moment of seeing that. I realized I needed to start by changing how I spoke to myself. That voice in me, wasn't some hellish demon following me and flogging me of my happiness. It was a voice I created out some false worship of lies I had told myself for far too long. I was constantly carrying scars that that never fully healed, from words of another from months ago, even years ago. I planted many seeds in my past and never tended their growth. I created a world where shadows could sleep and I would care for them. I found it easier to raise the dead in me, than tend and sustain the living. I found that my mind is much like a garden. It is easier to let it dry up and die and let the weeds flourish than to water and irrigate the soils. It was no simple task to change my pattern of thought. Still, it is not an easy thing to do. It is no elementary task to tend to my rose garden of my soul and of my mind. I still struggle with pockets of hell. But each time I find myself in one of the pockets, I see it no longer as a set back. But a chance to move forward, even more. Falling into these pockets give me awareness on what I still need to work on. And when I make it out of the pocket, I fill the pocket with what I have accomplished, I fill it with happiness, with excitement, with, joy. I fill it. with what ever will help sustain and build my garden and bare me fruits for days to come.
I fear too many us fall for the lies we tell ourselves and pretend we did not create it. That if we just let it be, it will simply go away. But if we do not recognize where the agony comes from, if we do not find the rotted tree that has roots into our soul. We cannot cut it from our garden and eat fresh fruits. We must speak our pains into existence, speak what cuts our souls, what lays in the darkest lairs of our mind. We must open our minds and speak kindness to ourselves, speak softly, but strongly. We must not criticize our own thoughts upon failure, but praise that we attempted. We must not drown our ambitious in things we do not desire nor find enjoyment in. We must not spill our hours into those that do no make us feel love, nor give love. We must be ware of what we feed our minds and whom we surround our soul with. For a gardener cannot afford to surround themselves with those who plant weeds.
-The Mind of Hell-
The fire of hell never ceases
It finds bare lands and blazes
Spreading fire to living voices,
Burning till bliss is of charred corpses,
Its mouth seething with lies and roaches
Feasting on minds riches,
Rotting soils of roses
And lusting to tie nooses,
It hangs the living from crotches
Leaving the mind to flesh and curses,
Finding weakness among the stitches,
Cutting, with fiery axes,
Its voice spitting of grudges,
leaving mind in state of molasses
While cashing in on vices
Bleeding the soul of speeches.
It sickens, it famishes,
breaking the soul of wishes
Illusions of beautiful auroras
Blinding the eyes of carcasses
Stench that discourages,
Wandering far from what lavishes,
The fire of hell never ceases.
Nor does the light of the heavens.
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