Leaf Fairy

I just scribbled this. Drawing can be so frustrating: I lack the patience to execute the kind of art that I want to make. And I feel devoid of ideas.

Gingersnaps

I almost finished the sonnet challenge that I undertook instead of NaNoWriMo. But not quite--I'm four or five poems short. It was starting to be a chore instead of a fun exercise, so I'm not upset that I gave it up. Here's the one I wrote for November 17th:

Rabbit teeth slice harder than you'd realize.
But you do realize, when the blood comes out
so quickly, like a big birthday surprise.
Yet you look at your bleeding hand with doubt.

"Am I really leaking?" That's what you think.
And yes, you are. You are red and salty,
dripping like an artist's knocked-over ink.
You're a mistake. You didn't have to be.

Don't ever reach between fighting rabbits
with your helpful, bare, earnest, eager hand.
You should probably break other habits.
Snap yourself back. Be a good rubber band.

This is what you get for trying, my dear:
A hurt finger. Hurt feelings. A new fear.

Anticipation

This is the waiting room at my therapist's office. I spend five or twenty minutes here every week, experiencing dread and boredom. I don't like going to therapy, but I usually feel relieved after my appointment, and not just because it's over. I think this EMDR stuff is helping me.

Thanksgiving Day Snapshots

Jam Tarts & Pinecone

This blog is becoming a bit of a photo diary. I'll try to post some poetry tomorrow to switch things up.

Natural Reactions

Marcus With Apple

My dog Marcus stole an apple from the fruit bowl. First he brought it with him when we went for a walk, clenched firmly between his teeth, but unfortunately there are no pictures of that part. When we got home, he rushed into his crate to eat the forbidden fruit as fast as possible.



This silly puppy makes me happy. Even when he misbehaves.

Naturally

Post-rain flowers.



Lichen on the apple tree.

In case anyone cares, I've been keeping up with my sonnets! I just haven't felt like posting them.

Panda Behind Bars

The bunnies aren't getting along, and I feel like the worst person because of it. Panda has actually gotten injured. These pictures were taken before it happened, but part of her ear has been torn off. It's awful. I signed on to protect her, and clearly I haven't been doing a good enough job.

Stomach Selfie

My belly in flat greyscale. Sometimes I use photography to translate my body into something I can understand.

The Twentieth

Reading Woes

I haven't read a book in ages. I feel guilty about it. At the beginning of this year, I made a resolution to read ten books a month. I kept it up until, oh, maybe halfway through April. Possibly I even got as far as May... I don't remember exactly.

I do read quite a lot, but it's mostly short-form stuff on the internet that doesn't require much of an attention span. I think it would be good for me to read more works that require commitment and concentration. But there's so much stress and anxiety...

I have sort of an all-or-nothing attitude toward this. Like either I have to read an entire book every three days or less, or I'm a total failure at reading. It doesn't feel like there's any in-between option. I don't know why I put so much pressure on myself! It's frustrating, because my logical mind knows this is stupid and self-sabotaging.

But it's probably not healthy for rational Sonya to condemn emotional Sonya as contemptible and idiotic. It's mean and it's also counterproductive. If emotional Sonya feels safe and cherished, it will be easier to move into reading more again.

Processing

I have trouble using the phrase "mentally ill" to talk about myself. I definitely think about myself that way. And I demonstrably qualify: I've had significant periods of dysfunction due to depression. I've engaged in unhealthy aberrant behavior. (Not that all aberrant behavior is unhealthy, but mine was.) I'm on fairly intense psych meds.

And yet, even when talking to my therapist, I hesitate to describe myself as "mentally ill". I secretly worry that someone will jump in and scoff, "No you're not! You're just not trying hard enough. Everyone copes with these feelings, but the difference is that they actually cope."

Intellectually, I understand that this is nonsense. My rational mind knows that. But emotionally, I regard myself as weak and a failure for "giving in", for being lazy.

I try to push back on that. By being kind to myself. Celebrating my small successes: I made cookies the day before yesterday! I walk the dog often! I took pictures for an outfit post! And I need to acknowledge that my struggles are struggles, regardless of how they compare to other people's experiences.

I had a really good therapy session yesterday. I dread going to therapy, because it's hard, but I usually feel better afterward. I wish I could remember everything that we talked about, so I could write it all down. But it's okay to not tackle everything at once. I don't need to have all my mental health stuff fully organized right away--or ever. It's a process. It's a process. It's a process.

Autumnal

Somehow I never have anything good to say to accompany my pictures.

Lavender Lately

Recent Roses

I love taking pictures of flowers. I can never resist snapping a zillion photos around my neighborhood (or whatever neighborhood I happen to be in), and then I don't have anything to do with them. So... they get posted here. There will be another installment tomorrow.

Feelings

I know why I've been feeling anxious and unsettled today. I know why my feeling are breaking open right now.

Everything is going well. Everything is going perfect, really. I have a job that I like. Every "creature comfort" that a person could want. But I'm still not happy. Somehow I'm still... wrong.

Maybe I just feel like this because one of the bunnies bit me really hard and deep, so my right hand is messed up and I'm upset.

Some positives of life:

• I have a nice crocheted cardigan that my mom gave me.
• My dad will always have a silly conversation with me.
• Two of the bunnies do like each other and they coexist just fine.
• There's lots of nice tea in the house.
• I have blankets/quilts on my bed that my mom made.
• My therapist is gonna be proud of me for getting a job.
• I've been keeping up with my sonnets project.

In fact, last night's sonnet was a soppy one about my ex. All of a sudden I've started really missing him. I miss waking up at his apartment and making coffee and snuggling.

Life is so hard. I have the easiest life, objectively speaking, but it's so, so hard.

I've been on Skype all day because I want to talk to Ben, but he isn't messaging me. I don't know why I have to be so passive and play games... I guess I feel like he won't like me if he's sure that I like him. Because that's how I often feel about people... I don't know why he has to live all the way in St. Louis. I just want to meet his dog and hang out and watch TV. Nice stuff like that.

Just A Picture

There are all these things that I want to write, but I can't seem to find words for them. Or rather, I can't find the concentration. Pictures are so much easier... but I've never believed that saying, "a picture is worth a thousand words". Too simplistic of a sentiment, and too generalized.

But pictures are all I have right now, so I'm just posting this photo of a rose. I took it a few days ago in my neighborhood.

Oxblood & Burgundy

I shouldn't say oxblood and burgundy, because they're basically the same color. But this is my blog, and I make the rules around here. (Then I disobey them.)

Fall Arrival

Behind-the-scenes info: these dry flowers smelled really bad.

Being In Bones

Bodies are not shared resources. Your body is only yours. Don't trust anyone who thinks reevaluating capitalism means expanding their sense of entitlement, especially to your flesh.

Don't trust men who feel like the world has done them wrong. Don't trust anyone who is looking for a soft object for revenge. Never forget how soft you are. You are not an object, but they do not know this.

And now, recent sonnets:

11/12/2013

Just living is an act of ownership,
of having, holding, to grasp and to keep.
Every pound of myself, from heart to hip,
is only mine to sow and mine to reap.

We are the earth that is rotten and roil.
I'm worn of my cliche self-perception:
very tired of women as ready soil.
I will not lay flat for your incision.

Who is wary of the changing land laws?
Lines redrawn don't mean property restored.
I'm on my fours, my aching clawless paws,
stucking in a new place where concrete was poured.

This flesh is just mine, to rend and to claim.
I treat with it fiercely; protect my shame.

11/11/2013

Warm muddled blankets and my drying hair:
post-bath nighttime in bed. Notebook and pen.
I will be safe from what I cannot bear.
Believing childish things like that again.

I used to be small and unable to dream.
My mother was so tired; I was so scared.
I recall how foreign the hall would seem,
wanting to run through but I never dared.

I'm foggy with sleep, like morning mountain,
coated with white mist and the grey sunrise.
My hands are cloudy but each is a twin;
I can use them at once to close my eyes.

Sleep is no escape, nor a tranquil rest.
It's brightly failing a wide-awake test.

Garden Lines

I took that photo in my garden a couple days ago. While bending down with the camera to photograph some flowers, I saw this little fella wriggling around! I like earthworms. They are cute and good for the ecosystem. When it rains and they come onto the sidewalk, I save them from being smushed by feet. I took this photo last winter:



Fittingly, my most recent sonnets have been set in gardens, and have employed "green thumb"-type imagery. The first one even mentions earthworms!

11/9/2013

Something grows on you tonight. I wonder
if the curls of green have roots in your blood.
The slow sun fell and we became fonder
of our earthworm friends wriggling out of mud.

Plants and soil-snakes drowning in all this rain
and I keep asking, "Get out of the bath!"
You don't want to be a garden in vain,
all dark swamp soup and no pretty rock path.

Something grows on you completely, and I
like the way you look in this brittle green.
Twigs snap in my hands. First you flinch and sigh,
then you tell me to bury what I've seen.

Your face is wet, rough bark smeared with sap gold.
Fresh scent leaking but too sticky to hold.

11/10/2013

A quiet world that would be good for us
isn't blooming in my dreams anymore.
Instead they are full of strong flower fuss,
a pretty-smelling squabble at the door.

What do you sleep on, my darling, my dear?
I hope you conjure a garden like mine.
Uneasy and fragrant as it is here,
with red bustle rose ruffles just as fine.

Maybe you are withering like my past,
dried up and cried up, your grey roots cracking.
Cliches agree: forever doesn't last.
Even for a gardener's favorite king.

We had a quiet world saved in my dream.
It's lost in a seed sack; drowned in a stream.

Arboreality

I like to tease my parents (especially my dad) about their recent obsession with tree-planting. When we first moved here, they chopped down all the trees. Now they're putting in a bunch of new ones! It's a silly sequence of events, and I can't help poking fun. But I actually really like the baby trees. They're just so... cute! And green!

I try to focus on the little things in life that bring me joy. Because if you add up all those small moments of contentment... I'm sure you see where I'm going with this.

Ursa Minor

This is an outtake from my latest outfit post. I feel really pleased with it, so I have to post it somewhere, you know? While I'm here, I might as well type up sonnet #8:

Homes

I live in a house making noise at night,
a small bed that is popping cold, popping
like lamps going out, bursting up their bright.
I have a cut-up throat but it will sing.

The edge of the canyon cracks. Unsleepy
creatures rustle and run. I saw a stag.
I think he almost said something manly,
but I fled. Girl-kitten out of a bag.

At school the noise is pen-squeaking. Teach-speak.
Self-esteem in five-paragraph format.
I am good at walking stairs. I'm not meek.
Won't ever cease hating myself for that.

I live in a set of soundly spaces;
I forget the call and incur charges.

Bouquet

I only just noticed that these photos have distinct color palettes. I know why--I adjusted the hue and saturation on the second one--but I didn't realize they were so noticeably different. I guess it bothers me a little bit, but not much. Not enough that I won't post them together.

I wrote two sonnets last night--one more than I needed to, which is good because I'm gonna go straight to bed after posting this. Here's the first poem from yesterday:

Fantasy

Gingersnap tea and a fall-colored quilt.
I am made of red wool and hot water.
My mittens are soft. The ground doesn't tilt.
Have you ever held a rabbit's daughter?

It's not bad to build a story for yourself,
illustrating your mind with your own mind.
Cooking-fire stars, fairies, and mental health:
nothing to make up that you cannot find.

I'm like logs on the mulch. Drip-dropping leaves.
Careful suburban backyard carpet dirt.
Can I build a castle that I believe
on a pre-shaken place that always hurts?

Wonderment and self-doubt: both marvelous,
arising from my core of curious.

Thursday For Sonnetry

I haven't posted my last three sonnets yet... time to rectify that. In reverse chronological order, because I like yesterday's attempt best out of this lot. I titled each poem with the date when it was originally written, but I've made some slight edits since then. (In the interest of full disclosure, I guess?)

11/6/2013

Rabbits kicking out tufts of belly fur--

these two snatch at each other viciously.

Back legs too strong for my heart to endure,

and their quivering breath, so fluttery.

Rabbits fight like witches, their desperate

grunts and twists and the little, little bones.

I wish I could call in an alternate,

a growing ghost: it vanishes and moans.

I can't feed them to each other like this.

Harshly hormonal. Full girl aggression.

Can't tell a bunny to be a good miss,

'cause they're small and under wild conditions.

Their savagery breaks. It breaks up my chest.

Sorcerer ladies in tiny fur vests.

[I agonized over the phonetic repetition of "two"/"too" in the first verse, but I eventually decided it was best to leave it.]

11/5/2013

The warm, soft drag of bed calms my crazy,

even if it can only keep my demons

down for the night. Can't expect more lately.

The perpetual influx of new ones.

I feel the relief of sleep in my eyes.

Un-wakefulness is bliss and it's so near.

My alarm: a blaring morning surprise.

Not allowed to tranquilly stay in here.

Too much un-present euphoria--sleep--

and my daytimes turn dull and grainy grey.

So although I despise that hostile beep,

it keeps the more minor demons away.

I ward against my own mind. It's like hell.

I want to save myself. Can't do it well.

11/4/2013

You are tired. Say it into my hands.

It is okay for two people to melt

together at the shoulders. No demands,

just slippery about the way we felt.

I said "okay"--didn't mention "healthy".

We ignore how our skin is dissolving.

I wish you'd stop telling these things at me.

Who knows what the neighbors are wondering?

You're tired. Use all your breath to say it.

I'll fill you with leftover sentiment.

I am the peach flesh, so you be the pit.

Too red-ripe in an autumn apartment.

It's okay. Break into cliche pieces,

and stop fitting me into your dresses.

[The phrasing of the third line in the second stanza is very intentional, and I'm worried that it seems like a typo?]

All Over

Blurry self-portrait with a leaf, taken today in the backyard. I am trying to express grief.

Even though he's not primarily my pet, I feel very sad that Pickle (the family parakeet) is sick. He's such a sweet, funny bird--and now he's going to die. I took him to the vet yesterday, and she told me that he probably has a tumor. At the moment he's doing very badly--all puffed up, shivering, and unable to breathe properly. It's awful to see him be so miserable. The kindest thing would be euthanasia, so he doesn't have to suffer any longer. But it's not my decision.

Death is on my mind. I keep thinking about how heartbreaking it will be when my dog dies, and about the terrifying future of life without my parents. Just the thoughts are enough to make me cry. At least I'll probably pass away before my sister.

I can't help wishing, albeit only slightly, that I could die in Pickle's stead. He's always so joyful and joy-bringing, and I'm... not.

But maybe that's depression-brain talking. Maybe I bring the world more happiness than I realize.

Drama Domestique

Self-portraits from October 31st (Halloween) and suburban flowers from November 5th (yesterday).

I don't know why I feel like my artsy photography is relevant to a blog that's supposed to be about mental health, but obviously I do, since I keep posting it... Anyway, the title of this post is a joke.

I owe y'all two sonnets. They're written, but I haven't gotten around to typing them up yet.