For When Your Depression Feels Misunderstood

This poem is really personal. It means a lot to me. I spend a lot of time spouting off poetry and articles about my depression and how it affects me but rarely do I write about how other people still have issues with understanding that depression affects a lot of people. Mental health has to be discussed, or we’ll always have a horrible stigma surrounding it. It’s not something that can be cured or fixed or trained out of someone. So help people, don’t tell them their depression can be something beautiful or different or better if they just try hard enoughhelp them.

Wheatfields

they romanticize it –
call it Van Gogh cutting off his ear
then painting healthy
green wheatfields underneath upset skies –
say it’s the last autumn leaf falling
to the damp grass because
everything must fall before
being reborn better –
claim it’s bees seeking flowers in your garden
only to create honey that lasts like the Egyptians’
so sweet rotten

they call it beautiful like –
give it a poetic name
and it’ll be good enough
when you swaddle yourself in your gray duvet
in the dull shuttered morning light

mine is this way –
they use fanciful language and
tear open my body to love
the depression right out of me
they make me a metaphor –
call me Persephone begging for freedom –
all exhausted cliché and comparisons
to something I’ll never add up to

they set my mind straight
turn me outside in and tell me to cross the street –
tell me to count the fields of tulips
make beauty out of nothing –
like maybe if I give enough
of myself
I can map my fingertip trails into something

when really –
it’s just Van Gogh in wheatfields
weary leaves being raked
sour honey thrown out and
broken Greek myths strangled
in a cloud of existence and
surrender

Featured Image via Unsplash

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