The Gift of Poetry

                  April is National Poetry Month. For me poetry is a major part of my life and my journey with mental illness. Depression and anxiety have haunted me since I was a teenager. Fortunately, poetry has been by my side almost as long. I started writing poetry when I was around 15 years old. I didn’t know what I was doing. In the beginning I was probably just writing words on the page. I remember a teacher encouraging me to write. I don’t know if she knew she was encouraging me to release all that was trapped inside of my mind. That’s what my poetry was doing. 

                  In the years since I have written countless poems. Some of them are just for me. Others have found their way into my books and been read at open mic poetry readings. Still, others have allowed me to better communicate with my mental health team. This is one of the great things about poetry; it belongs in many places and serves many purposes. 

                  I have admired the writings of many poets including Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson. More recently I have been impressed by the work of young poets such as Amanda Gorman. Poets share a unique magic as they paint pictures with words. Are there any poets that resonate with you? Share in the comments.

                  For me poetry has a healing power. I find strength in releasing my thoughts and feelings in verse. The words flow out of me. They pull the depression and anxiety out of my mind. I feel the poetry and know that it is bringing me a bit of healing.

                  Sometimes I write poems for others. To me that is the most meaningful gift I can give because the poem is a piece of me. The poem is me speaking to you in a way that I may not be able to speak aloud. 

                  Today I would like to share a poem that I wrote the other day. No one has read this poem yet. Enjoy. 

                  I will share a few more poems this month to celebrate National Poetry Month.

 

A Poem Must Speak

 

A poem must speak.

Its words giving meaning to what the poet experiences.

Her emotions spill onto the page.

 

A poem must speak.

The poet forming the words trapped within her.

Sharing a piece of her life.

 

A poem must speak.

Words expressing meaning and

Allowing the reader into the poet’s inner world.

 

A poem must speak.

An interpretation of pain and joy emerge as

Words flow and emotion jumps off the page.

 

A poem must speak.

Creating a deep connection between poet and reader,

A moment of understanding.

 

As the poem speaks,

The poet breathes a sigh of relief.

 

 

 

Describing Depression

"What is depression like? It's like drowning even though you know how to swim." - often attributed to Elizabeth Wurtzel

 

                  I have often been asked to describe depression. I write a lot about depression. This blog is just one place where I write about it. Poetry is the form I am most comfortable writing about depression. I also like to read how other people describe it. While I find that there is a commonality in how we describe depression, there is also a uniqueness to each of our descriptions. 

                  The image I use most often to describe depression is darkness. For me it is a heavy, blanketing darkness. It spreads over me erasing the light around me. This is how I experience depression. When I share my image, I usually hear from others that they can relate. That is reassuring in the sense that it means depression is real. I am not alone. Depression affects so many of us. 

                  Recently, I used the metaphors of a winding road and an uninvited guest to describe depression. These metaphors aptly describe depression for me. Whether it is darkness, a winding road, or an uninvited guest, these images share the idea that depression is not easy. I think being able to create metaphors or images to describe depression indicates that I have an understanding of what I live with. I may not fully understand depression, but by writing about it I am processing it. I am working with depression as I express how it feels.

                  Sometimes I search online for how others describe depression. The quote above is one that I connected with. Depression is like drowning. It seems like a similar feeling to being blanketed by darkness. Drowning even when you know how to swim indicates that you need more than the knowledge of swimming to survive the water. 

How does this relate to depression?  Many of us who live with depression know the coping skills to fight depression. We have used those skills. We know that we are not our depression. But there are times when that knowledge is not enough. Depression can be stronger than that knowledge just as a strong current can make swimming difficult. When depression is heavy, when it is bearing down on us, it can be difficult to cope with it. I think I have a solid understanding of how depression affects me, but there are still times when I need a “lifeguard” to help me navigate it. I can know what I need to do and at the same time I can be paralyzed by depression.  

However we describe depression, it is painful. Depression makes life difficult. Depression is an illness. We may each describe depression in our own way, but however we describe depression, it can be debilitating. Putting our depression into words gives us a power over it. Describing it allows us to look at it from the outside. It enables us to share with others what we are experiencing. I believe that the more we discuss it, the more likely we are to be able to process depression. Of course, there are going to be times when depression has the upper hand. Times when we need a lifeguard to help us through the depression. I will continue to write about my depression. I encourage others to describe depression in whatever way works for them. Our descriptions help us and may just help others. 

Beach Therapy

 

                  Yesterday I spent the day at South Carlsbad State Beach where my friend, Sharon, was camping with her family. She invited me down for the day to enjoy the ocean breeze and sunshine. Looking out over the ocean I felt a sense of peace. I needed this day. My depression has been creeping back in and I have felt myself starting to spiral into the darkness. I thought of yesterday as beach therapy.

                  The beach has been a place to escape for me since my college days. I had the privilege of going to college on the Redwood Coast. It was there that I learned that the beach could calm me. Perhaps it is something in the breeze that soothes me. The waves rolling onto the sand quiet my thoughts. I can escape the running monologue in my head when I am on the beach. The beaches on the Redwood Coast had the added benefit of the redwoods towering to the East. These gentle giants protected me. Their green needles creating an image of safety in my mind as the scent of the ocean filled me. 

                  While I was at the beach yesterday, I wrote. Actually, I was surprised to realize I had written 13 and half pages. That is quite productive for a day on the beach. My writing was a mix of poetry and journaling. The poems were uplifting. I was seeing the beauty in the ocean as I watched the waves gently coming ashore.  As I journaled, I felt the poison of depression and anxiety flowing through my pen. The pages held the darkness that has been building up over the past several days. I tried to envision the words that emerged flowing out to sea with the waves. I’m not sure how successful I was, but I made the effort. That is what is important. 

                  As I walked on the rocks that covered the water’s edge, I felt the unsteadiness of the loose rocks beneath my feet. That unsteadiness holds a similarity to living with depression. With depression I am rarely sure when I will have a good day. I step into each day hoping that the darkness will fade for a while, but I know it is always lurking. When I stepped on the rocks, I didn’t know if I would lose my footing. In the same way, I take a step forward and wonder if I will find the light of healing or if depression will darken my day. The unsteadiness is draining. I am always trying to steady myself. That is depression. There is so much uncertainty. The one thing that is certain is that the darkness hurts. 

                  I picked up a few rocks and brought them home with me. Perhaps, I’ll paint them or start a rock garden. I wanted something tangible to remind me of the peace that floats in the air near the ocean. I think I need to escape to the beach more often. It definitely awakened the muse within me as I wrote several poems. I am never freer than when I am writing. Even when the painful thoughts emerge on the page, I am healing because those thoughts are leaving me. My pen ushers them out of my mind. 

                  My day on the beach was therapy for me. We need different types of therapy when we struggle with depression or other mental illnesses. Talk therapy helps, but sometimes I also need the silence of the beach. I need the ocean breeze and salty air. Both types of therapy carry me forward into the light of healing. I know I must return to the beach more often. I can fill my journal on the water’s edge, release all the thoughts and feelings that are pent up inside of me. 

                  I’ll end this post with a few Haiku poems I wrote on the beach:

 

A moment to breathe

Inhale the ocean’s clean air.

Settle into rest.

 

 

 

Waves lapping the sand.

Salty foam over my toes,

Cooling my lost soul.

 

 

 

I write on the beach.

Pen poised to capture hope

As waves crash on rocks.

 

Blogging for a Year

                 I missed it, but last week marked a year since I started this depression blog. My first post was June 16, 2023. I thought today I would glance back on the previous year and look forward to the coming year.  

                  This year has been nothing like I expected. When I started the blog, I was just coming out of a difficult period with my depression. In the months prior to starting my blog I had been through both esketamine and TMS treatment. They worked for me, and I was feeling better. In early June I transferred out of a job that was not good for my mental health. My amazing mental health care team helped me secure that transfer. It wasn’t easy but being away from that job had things looking up. I started interviewing for new positions. After a couple weeks I landed a position as a special education coordinator at a high school. I was excited about work for the first time in a long while. 

                  My blog had started off well. I had a new job. My depression and anxiety seemed under control. I was ready for a good year. Two days after being hired for the new position, I found myself in the emergency room. This emergency visit started a year I could never have expected. Within a couple weeks I was hospitalized and underwent a liver biopsy.  A week later my primary care provider said the word that would change everything. Cancer. I was diagnosed with stage 4 metastatic breast cancer. Chemotherapy would start quickly. The people that surrounded me would change my life. From my aunt to my dancing nurse to my oncologist, I was supported and cared for. My mental health team and primary care provider remained by my side, lifting me up. Somehow, I managed to keep writing this blog. I missed a few posts, but for the most part I posted twice a week. This blog gave me purpose. It provided a distraction to my treatment and the illness that was trying to take my life. 

                  Writing emerged as my healing tool, the same way it has as I have battled depression and anxiety. Those two “buddies” made noise during this past year. They joined cancer in trying to take me down. I fought. Some days were bad. Other days were really bad. Still, I kept writing. Taking pen to paper saved me. It gave my thoughts somewhere to go. I filled a few journals in addition to the posts I was writing. This blog and my journal were lifelines for me. 

                  As for the blog, my audience has varied. Some posts garner a lot of readers. Others only manage to attract few. The two most read posts were “A Safe Place for Healing” and “A Funeral for My Hair”.  The post “Cancer Hasn’t Won” had a lot of readers, too. As did the posts on esketamine treatment and TMS (transcranial magnetic stimulation), which were a series written from my psychiatric nurse practitioner’s perspective with follow-ups from my perspective as a patient. 

I continue to share my thoughts on depression and living with mental illness. I haven’t had the consistent readership that I was hoping for, but I’m not giving up. If you are reading this, I ask that you share the blog with someone or go back and read some of my older posts that you might have missed. I truly believe that we need to openly discuss depression and other mental illnesses. We need to bring acceptance and understanding to these illnesses. I have lived most of my life with depression and anxiety. Unfortunately, a large portion of that time, support was minimal if it was there at all. Times are changing. Mental illness is more accepted and understood now. Unfortunately, we are not where we need to be. We need to bring more light into the discussion. It is my hope that this blog be a part of that light. I want to bring hope and understanding. If my experience can bring help to others than it has served a purpose. I will continue to post twice a week. Writing is a larger part of my life now that I am unable to work. I hope to build this blog and in doing so help others. It helps me to write, and I hope that others are helped by my words. When I started this blog a year ago, I didn’t know how much it would help me. This blog has been a lifeline for me. I hope you will continue to read it and share it with others. 

My Pen – Writing as a Healing Tool

                  Having lived with depression most of my life has required me to develop coping strategies and healing tools. I have a great mental health team, but I can’t lean on them 24/7. So, I need tools to rely on in those moments when I am struggling on my own. Some of these tools have become a part of my daily life. The most significant tool I have is writing. 

I write every day. I write more when I am struggling. I write in different forms. Poetry has always been my go-to writing form. It is the type of writing that I discovered first in my battle with depression. I started writing poems as a teenager. I filled notebooks with these poems, which expressed what I was going through. I still write poems decades later. The poems seem to just pour out of me especially when I am struggling. I don’t know. Maybe I think in poetry. Many of my poems are dark, which makes sense. Depression is dark. As I have found healing, I have been able to write poems that evoke that healing. I am proud of both types of poems. They express who I am and what I live with. 

My writing has taken other forms over the years. You are reading one of those forms. This blog keeps me going. It provides me with a space to write about depression, which is healing for me. I hope that my posts bring healing to others. I also hope that it brings an understanding of depression to those who do not experience it. It is through understanding that we can help each other. 

Before I share a poem, I would like to invite readers to learn about the healing power of writing. I will be giving a talk for NAMI Glendale next Thursday, June 20^th at 7:00 pm. It is on Zoom. The link to register for this free event is at the bottom of this post. It will be an interactive talk that provides attendees with the opportunity to try writing. 

Now, for the poem. This poem can be found in my book, A Light Amidst the Darkness: Illuminating Mental Illness and Suffering. The poem is titled, My Pen. It explores what is happening inside of me as I write. Rather than explain the poem, I’ll let you draw meaning from it. 

 

 

My Pen

 

When my mind is full of turmoil I turn to my pen,

Reach for my journal and begin to write.

Words take the form of lines.

The poison pours out of me.

My pen is an instrument of healing.

The ink gives life to the words I cannot voice.

Line after line, page after page filled with my thoughts.

I feel each thought as it leaves my mind to make its mark upon the page.

The page soaks up my memories;

Becomes stained by my pain.

Dark thought after dark thought is released

And allowed to breathe on the page.

In these moments I feel lighter.

A sense of healing envelops me

As my turmoil escapes

My pen provides this passage to healing.

Each poem I write gives me the courage to continue.

My journals hold the reality of my pain.

Relieving me of my pain

And allowing me to live.

 

 

                  If you are interested in joining my talk, Writing as a Healing Tool, use the link to register.

 

https://namiglendale.org/event/writing-as-a-healing-tool/

 

The Healing Power of Writing

            Recently, I was scrolling social media. A quote on Sandra Marinella’s (author of The Story You Need to Tell) struck me.  I paused and took the quote in, reflected on it.  “Writing was there to listen when no one would seem to understand what you were going through.” The quote is from Frederick Espiritu.  I instantly related to the quote.  Writing has been there for me for as long as I can remember.  It has been a healing salve for me since I was in my early teens. 

            What is it about writing that is so healing?  I am not sure I can give an explanation that does justice to the healing power of writing in my life.  I started writing poetry when depression emerged in my life.  I wrote constantly, filling red spiral notebooks with the darkness that resided in my mind.  The poems expressed the depression that was unnamed at the time.  I wouldn’t understand until decades later, but my writing was serving as a sort of therapy for me.  It was allowing me to express the darkness depression caused me to feel.  In those early years I was not diagnosed and the effects of my mood on my life were ignored by people, such as teachers and school counselors who should have addressed it.  Lacking intervention, I turned to my writing.  My notebooks listened.  They took in every word.  

            I continued writing into adulthood.  I have never stopped writing.  It has been the most constant coping strategy in my life.  About ten years ago, after years and years of writing, I shared some of my poems with my psychologist, Dr. Klein.  He understood.  He recognized that the writing was serving as a quasi-therapy for me.  Writing allowed me to express so much of what was stuck in my head because of my depression.  Dr. Klein read my poems.  We talked about them.  My writing provided more insight into what I was going through than I could express in discussion.  We often used my poems to start discussions.  It made talking easier for me.  Dr. Klein encouraged me to keep writing.  That advice has carried me over the years.  

            My journals are always by my side.  They give me a sense of security and a place to express the torment of the depression and anxiety that so often rule my life.  I don’t know the science behind how writing works, although I am interested in learning about it.  I just know writing works for me.  I believe it can work for others.  I have given a few talks on the healing power of writing.  They have been successful.  When a person is given a conduit to healing there is a release.  The conduit for me is writing. I believe in its power, but there are other conduits.  Art, music, and exercise are examples.

            Writing allows me to let the thoughts and emotions that fill my head flow out of me.  These thoughts often become trapped in my head.  They drag me down.  At times when my depression is in control, the thoughts that fill my head need an escape route.  Writing provides that route for me.  In the early years my writing took the form of poetry.  I have evolved.  I still write poems, but I also journal.  I write this blog.  I have dabbled with fiction writing.  Poetry and journaling seem to be the most effective for me. The thoughts that I struggled to process when they are stuck in my head become concrete on the page once written.  I can read those words and better understand them.  I can share my written word with my mental health team.  This allows them to gain a different understanding of what I am going through.  With depression it is often hard to verbalize out loud what I am feeling or thinking.  When I write, those feelings and thoughts flow differently.  They take on life and make more sense. 

            I believe writing has been a gift in my life.  I honestly believe that I would not have made it to this point in my life without writing.  At the times when I can speak to someone on my mental health team, writing is there.  My journal takes in my pain.  It holds it when I am unable to carry the pain.

            When I was diagnosed with cancer last summer, I turned to writing.  It seemed like an obvious thing to do. Writing helped me through depression. I had to trust that it would help me through cancer.  Since my diagnosis, I have written more pages than I can count.  Journal entries, poems, and blog posts have been abundant.  They have carried me in my weakest moments.  I wrote as chemo drugs were dripping into my body.  I wrote as nausea roiled through me.  Fatigued, but unable to sleep, I wrote.  Just as with the depression, writing helped me cope with the cancer.  I have written some of my best poems hooked up to IVs.  Writing gave me the hope I need to fight cancer.  

            Writing is always there for me.  It is my most faithful companion.  It is an elixir that has always brought me healing.  By no means am I suggesting that writing is a cure for depression or cancer.  Medical treatment is necessary.  Writing helps, though.  It makes the road easier to travel.  It takes on the darkness of my mood and the pain and fear of cancer.  Writing gives depression and cancer a holding place.  This allows me to face them head on.  I don’t have experience with other illnesses, but my guess is that writing can ease the suffering of other illnesses.  I have found that writing understands.  It knows my pain and is willing to hold it for me.  Writing listens when no one else understands.  I can’t ask for anymore.