HIGH FUNCTIONING DEPRESSION


iamrenegadeblog

By Jacquie Mwaura

So yesterday life decided to hand me another one of its harsh reality slaps. I just realized I’d been suffering with functional depression for the past 10 months. 10 months. Yaani a baby was conceived, carried to full term and came into the world while I was struggling to get by. I was updating a very close friend of mine about a recent conversation I had with a mutual friend.

The irony of all this is that in as much as I’m in the mental health field, I still have stigma attached to seeking professional mental health services.

In this state of high functioning depression, your life seems to be going pretty well. After all they’re people suffering from a lot worse. You may have a supportive network but there’s a little voice that tells you they just wouldn’t understand. Your family may not really know what’s…

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Recollections


The seat smelled like her hair long after she left. As he sat in that little booth alone contemplating on incoherent thoughts, there was still an air of her presence around him. He thought he could still picture her in that blue dress leaning on the table staring into her water as she had done for the thirty minutes that she’d been there. He had known what she was going to say and he’d felt the dread and anticipation turn in his stomach. He had looked upon her with a certain kind of softness that sought to assure him rather than to soothe her. He had not said a word. Somewhere in the background, he heard the sound system come on. The place had some really impressive surround sound. It seemed to ease in from the walls and into their moods. The song had a slow hum that turned to into a relaxed rap and a beat that rose and dropped with you pulses. He thought it funny of the universe.

 

He shook himself and stood up suddenly. Robot-like. He felt that the pub had now become too hot for his black outfit. He thought about losing his leather jacket before he decided that it would be a lot healthier to just walk out and away from this place. This booth that now resembled the ugly shape of an unfinished mansion. He wanted to keep the memory of her pure and that could only be done far from the place that it had been defiled. He sighed and began to cross the floor, proceeding to the counter near the door while ruffling in his pockets unconsciously for money. The bar attendant was a rather pleasing young man who seemed to smile warmly behind his closed lips. It was probably his eyes though, he thought. They made his seem harmlessly hospitable. Like a safe place. Which was a rather unusual quality for bartending. It surprised him that he should consider these trivialities with all the weight in his head. So he tried to concentrate on his sorrow as he handed over the note he’d found. The bartender shook his unusual head and said simply while nodding towards the door.

“Amelipa.”

He did not question him, rather dragged himself out and into the mild chaos of people in a Tuesday evening, loosing himself in the events of her again.

 

“I’m pregnant”

 

She had said it with a certain kind of acceptance that wrapped around his uncertainties like a cloak and took away some of the burden. She was looking straight into her glass of water and she was not moving. Her voice did not shake and the only time that their gazes ever met, she did not look seeking at all. He remembered feeling both relieved and painfully unneeded when her eyes did not ask for assurances or for help. He saw those eyes now splashed across the city lights. Looking at him from the billboards and beaming past him in the headlights of pimped up Matatus. They blurred him and forced him further into his mind to try and make real sense of what had just happened.

 

He had thought he’d prepared himself for the news. He had sat down and had read the message that blinked from his phone and he had felt the tension behind the words. Before they met, he had spent the day going through himself to find out what exactly it was that he was feeling. He found a couple of conflicting ones and he’d gone with the one he thought was most dominant. He had tried it on consciously and told himself over and over again.

“It’s just a baby. It’s just a baby.”

By evening, he had tried about as much as thirty percent to accept in his heart that they could handle it.

 

He was almost hit by a rogue Matatu, liberally painted with green glow paint that screeched to a halt a few inches off the paved sidewalk. He bumped into a corporate lady rushing by as he tried to swing out of its way. Nothing he had done, however, had prepared him for the bus that she had crushed into his heart chest when she had added.

 

“But it’s not yours.”

Some Nights


Some nights stand still just at the
brink of dawn,
Nights that ride in the wind and
knock down all your doors,
They bag you up, blindfolded and
bound,
Into a sack stinking of your
weaknesses
And laced with your own personal
kryptonite
Then you go for a ride.

On such a night,
Up on the lonely, steep slopes of a
hill,
With a magnificent view of city
lights,
I met a man.
A stranger in the night, with a
smoke and a bottle
He gazed past the magnificent, lost
While I sat in the silence and raised
my own for a quiet toast
To our mutual misery that thrived on
company,
But he would have none of that,
So I turned my bottle into a mirror
of sorts,
The reflections of my life gleaming
off its surface

When he spoke at last,
His speech was slurred
Nevertheless, his words slithered out
in a venomous spite,
He cursed everything that could claim
life
From the drops of water that kept
the sand alive in beaches
To the city lights, glowing like they
breathed
But when, in the split of a stopped
second that I caught his gaze,
No fires burned inside his eyes
Instead a cot of grey glass that held
back an ocean
That seemed to be drowning him from
inside
I would brave the cold alone later
that night
Wondering whether it was simply
myself I was seeing in there

When I told him what I was running
away from,
Myself,
He let out a sharp sarcastic chuckle
that pierced the already torn
fragments of my spirit
He said,
“You, mate, are your own best
friend.
Embrace the beast inside of you,
Love him and feed his wicked desires.
Then, maybe, just maybe
You will be able to survive the shit
storm that’s coming your way.”

Mist

Mist

Do you ever just want to fade away. Not die..no. Just soar to someplace above humanity where nothing exists but a cleaner, non feeling version of yourself?

A place where you don’t even feel the slightest of urges like scratching an itchy thigh or an involuntary sneeze.. and you don’t have to think or feel anymore. You do not bother your mind with imaginings of illogical things or burden it with thoughts of how not to be so..alive.
You won’t feel anything anymore. Even the cries of a shattering heart will not be a merciful echo somewhere in your dull brain. All the years of disappointments and never belonging will be shed from you like a cloak of dust. Regrets and mistakes will be dropped back to earth and left to make miserable of another poor soul.

Just as tragic as it is liberating, you won’t be able to feel the good things either. You will not feel the electric rush of a lover’s touch or a soft delight of their lips on yours. You will not savour the reach aroma of crushing coffee beans in the cold mornings where mist was a silent understanding companion.
Laughter, smiles..the sounds of happiness. Orgasms. Contentment. None of these.

But it is all okay..because you will not
know that deep longing of missing something, or someone.

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The Little Pub : 02. The Preacher


His days were white as his nights black, when he traded the bible for a flogger and his flock for escorts .He spoke of a god. One they never knew. He condemned them and called them the abandoned. He said his god had his back on them. He spoke of his belief with fury, and his eyes flaired everytime he mentioned sin…….. However, looking at him keenly, you could see the lust. You could see him in the wee hours of the night covetingly eying the hooker and would steal a spank. Embrace righteousness, he said. It’s the key to redemption. Did he ever listen to himself. His liquor is his redemptor. So he says in his stupours…
cc http:// inmyworlddotme.wordpress.com/

Vicious Circle



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I want to take your solace,

You know I can

But I do not want to die

I maybe heartless but I can still feel the cold

You are like a disease that plagues my soul

I’ll leave you tonight and never want to return

But you haunt my dreams and knock at my walls

Until everything falls

I can see you are lonely,

But not for my love

You say you lie awake most nights,

Thinking of us

But the fire that you desire does not any longer reside in me

It burnt away the last time you were around to light it.

So draw me back to you like a magnet

Play with my strings as one does with a puppet

I can only promise to leave you emptier than I found you

And it would still be a lot wholesome than you’ve made me.

They say the eyes speak the language of the soul

And an overflow of the heart also leaks into it,

I read your eyes like the pages of a secret diary

Only to drown in the flood of raw emotion

In essence, I was in you as you were in me,

But that was a long time ago, before the storms.

Now we are just strangers with memories,

And a cosmic connection,

Too painful to pursue.

You Say The Strangest Things

You Say The Strangest Things

I heard there’s a future on the other side of today. The better side of today. A place where the past means nothing and your scars all fade away. Your scars. I don’t know how you got them but sometimes I swear you look at me like I gave them to you. The past, the happier days then the darker days. Nothing you should hold onto so. But all we’ve got right now is the present, and presently, you go and say something out of this world like; “I can’t live like this anymore”

Then my mind sobers and the fog lifts like a curtain withdrawn. At the sound of your voice that cuts like a sword in the cold. My heart falls with each blow. What do you mean? Why you say such strange things? Baby, we are happy. You ARE happy. That smile that lights up your face every morning after a night of passion speaks more than your actual words right now. I can see into your soul. Past your eyes and deep down to your core. And it’s a bubble of bliss down there. Now don’t say this anymore. I’m getting upset. And you know the doctor says I shouldn’t get upset.

__________________________________________________________

Today morning I woke up. Except I didn’t wake up. Because I was woken up. By the numbing ache that plagued my side like an incessant drill. Just some little memoirs from last night. Night of passion. My eyes struggled apart before I pull myself together and up on the headrest. He is still asleep. I can tell by the tight, huddled up way in which his torso is curled up on the sheets. I don’t think he’s had a peaceful night in months. He does not have a shirt on, regardless of the rather biting cold and his bad chest. I force myself not to care. As the veins in my arm carry the pain to my heart, a couple of other things rise to my head. Like hatred, vile, anger and murderous thoughts. He gets these in the same measure I do. Maybe even a little less. But that does not matter, because he’d die before I did. He had to.

 

I fought out of bed and half crawled to the open bathroom. My body today will not allow any usual morning business. So I just sit on the toilet seat and hold my head in palms. By god it hurts. It hurts where it shouldn’t and where it ought to. All around the town. Down past my defences and even pricks at my subconscious. She sits up, leans back and shakes her head in pity. But I silence her before she gives me anymore grief.

 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. He’s going to kill me”

 

As the old tug of war begins to cook in me, I manage to find my reflection on the mirror in front of the medicine cabinet. A stranger stares back. Her eyes white as snow and her lips dry like the desert. She talks to me. Telepathy?

I know that he’s sick and that he needs help. I know he loves me and that I love him. I know sometimes it’s my fault and most times I’m just a stupid person. I know my smiles mislead him and my hypocrisy just feeds his demons like logs to a fire. I know I should get out. I can’t fix him. I know he’s going to kill me. But really, it’d just be me killing myself.

 

But once in a while, I lose it and my thoughts come back to me. The times I’ve tasted the edge with the skin on my knees, I push back and scream to his face. And I tell him some of what I usually do not.

 

These times, I tell him strange things.