Trenches

In the trenches of depression, I built a fortress and I was a Queen lining up my bouts of therapy like soldiers off to war.

Chemistry and biology their battleground, as repetition became the axis I built my world around.

Remember to eat and remember to sleep and no, you can’t keep staying up until 3am.

But the thing that no one tells you is that you grow to resent the people who are just trying to help.

I carved secrets into my skin and painted pictures of people as villains.

Shame lingering in the acrid taste of anxious bile.

I wasn’t okay for a while.

I wish now that I hadn’t dragged people along for the ride.

But this isn’t an apology, as much as it is a plea.

Take the time to fall in love with yourself again.

The way your fingers fascinated you when you were five.

Or the first time you counted the freckles on your face, tracing constellations on your skin.

Dissect your mind, writing the music to your own personal hymn because you are holy and your mind is sacred space and like war torn countries, you will learn to build again, putting water to concrete like plans into action.

Sitting on the couch for months, lost in mind numbing pixels.

Two Masters degrees trailing behind me because this goddamn disease doesn’t just go on leave or take early retirement packages.

I understand now that I was both a saint and a sinner and I won’t use this calamity as an excuse for the things that I let be.

But I want to tell my story authentically. I wasn’t always the person you see.

People might not agree with the choices I’ve made in attempts for survival.

But I found my God on late nights screaming out into the universe. Atop the Empire State Building, the bright lights of New York gave my humanity perspective.

We are made of salt and water.

Of bruised knees and bruised hearts.

Of minds filled with too many ideas.

And of hands that are sometimes too willing to touch fire.

I held on to routine and repetition. Reminding myself that it’s okay to feel.

And my words. My words. My words. They will. They will. They will. They will heal.

 

Alushka Rajaram
Alushka is a Melbourne based writer who draws inspiration from her Indian and African roots.
She focuses her work on current socio-political issues, mental health and life as a WOC and immigrant.

About Author

Alushka is a Melbourne based writer who draws inspiration from her Indian and African roots. She focuses her work on current socio-political issues, mental health and life as a WOC and immigrant.

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