The following poems are first and foremost about my personal experiences with depression and anxiety. That’s just how they started. However, as I went through and revised them, fixing wording here and punctuation there, I found myself wanting to explore the relationship between my mental illnesses and my identity. In the past several years, since starting college, I’ve struggled a lot, trying to find the balance between Depressed Emily, Anxious Emily, and Normal Emily that felt the most true to myself.
I’ve never been one to take my own mental illnesses and romanticize them, so linking the illnesses to my love for writing poetry didn’t feel right, but it didn’t feel honest to say they play no part in the process either. What’s more, each of those versions of myself is just one facet of the whole person. I’m not me without them just the same as I’m not me just because I have them. On making those realizations this project took a new turn. Instead of focusing solely on experience, I changed my direction to explore more of the relationship between myself and my mental illness—each version of myself individually, how they all play together—as well as how they impact my relationship with the people around me, be they strangers or loved ones.
The purpose of this project isn’t to make a broad statement about disability in general—I have no right to be the sole voice, especially because my disabilities don’t extend into the physical. Instead, I want to shed some light on some of the inner workings of mental illness, specifically depression and anxiety, in order to bring the complicated nature of it all into focus. I hope that the poems I’ve written don’t come across as romanticizing in any way, nor do I hope they belittle. Instead, I hope when you read you find them authentic and real, showing many different facets of what it means to be human.
Hindsight
I want to tell you about the good things, too, I mean
it wasn’t all awful I just don’t remember anything else
but the air smelling dirty and burning and feeling like
suffocating in concrete and also missing the green and
skipping a presentation in my speech class because my
suitemates thought I was having a heart attack (it was
just anxiety and the ER nurse was annoyed with me
until I mentioned you had died, in which case she nodded
like she finally got it) and my professor asked me about
the trip the next day in class, in front of everyone, and I had to
explain, “oh, I’m fine, it was all a misunderstanding,” but
she was nice about it and after that I started seeing a
therapist, Dr. T, and if it weren’t for her I’d probably be
squished under the Green Line at Boylston Street Station
which she said was passive suicidal ideation and anyways
walking through Harvard Square to see Dr. T is one of
my favorite memories of the city because, for once, I
felt like I could breathe and not be stealing someone else’s air.
Auditory Anxiety
It’s like this: I know in my gut something’s wrong
because it leaves a bad taste in my mouth
whenever I leave the room and they start talking.
No, no, sorry, it’s not a bad taste in my mouth
it’s my whole brain tensing up, it’s my blood
stampeding through my chest up to my ears and
It’s like this: I hold my breath so I won’t move
but I still feel my fingers wiggling so I lock up
every joint muscle nerve, begging for silence
to come free me but some stupid tears sneak out
and tickle my ears like they’re teasing me and
I’ve never felt so out of control as when the snap
of my breath sent me running, no, crawling
to press my ear against the wall the crack under the door
anything to fill in the blanks and
It’s like this: When it gets so bad I can’t even breathe,
I know I can’t trust what I hear.
All the Little Selves
Every now and then we hold meetings
to check-in with one another, sit at the round
table and ask questions like “how are you feeling?”
and “what have you been up to?”
It’s not always the same because
I’m not always the same. Sometimes
I’m the monochrome, others the
cartoon. Today I’m neither. I’m plain.
It’s not that we don’t see each other—
The monochrome visits at night, slips
under the covers to keep me warm while
I dream and talks to me when I can’t.
The cartoon finds me in crowds, appears
behind new people, pantomiming surprise
to see me there, clambers up onto the shoulders
of strangers, looks to the sky for pianos and anvils.
Today we’re talking about ourselves.
They haven’t visited recently and, if I’m being honest,
I miss them. I tell them that and they look at me confused,
silent, take one hand each and squeeze. A promise.
Perspectives
Even at rock bottom I never saw myself as
broken. Just faded, dulled, muted. I’d look
at the world and be frightened by the vibrancy,
wishing for the easy comfort of my bedroom.
Sometimes they seemed like they were screaming
technicolor murder, and on those days I’d
stay safe under the covers, blank. That was back when
I couldn’t find where my shadows stopped and I
began. I was so wrapped up in them we were
inseparable, like one big knot. Pisces season
never was very kind to me, but I still greet
her all the same, each tangled finger waving,
To the Me I Was Before
Were you watching? Did you see when
I cut, colored, dyed, pierced, molded myself
in the absence of your shadow, practiced
unfurling my edges and pressing out the creases.
It didn’t stick at first—it’s hard to take up space
when you’re so used to folding in on yourself,
after all, but I’ve decided to let myself be,
to expand and contract as I need to, to let
the colors permeate through me so I can feel
entire spectrums of light. In this time of
me, me, me, this absence of your me,
I want to spark life back into these hollows.
I want to be bright again.
