Nikola Stanković

The Road Less Talked About:

A Memoir about Depression

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 Table of Contents:
Acknowledgements ................................................... 6
Introduction ................................................................ 7
Memories ................................................................... 12
Remembrance (poem) ....................................... 16
The Silent Pain (poem) ..................................... 17
Remember the Lilies (song) ............................ 18
I Cried Today (fragment) ................................. 19
Your Beauty (poem) ........................................... 22
And What of Memories (poem) ...................... 23
Disappointment ....................................................... 24
Plinth of Your Silence (poem) ......................... 27
Visitation’s Done (poem).................................. 28
The Beating of the Drum (fragment) ............ 29
The Imperium of Silence (poem) ................... 32
Weakness (fragment) ......................................... 33
I Hate the Morning (poem) ............................. 37
I’m Still Here (song) .......................................... 38
Hope ............................................................................ 39
A Cageless Bird (fragment) .............................. 42
I Only Wish (poem) ............................................ 44
Change (fragment) ............................................. 45
When I Behold (poem) ...................................... 47
Anxiety Attack (fragment) ................................ 48

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 What is (not) Love? (poem) ............................. 51
Dad (fragment) .................................................... 52
Depression ................................................................. 56
The Wooden Grave (poem) .............................. 64
When Flowers Blossom (poem) ...................... 65
Birds (poem)......................................................... 66
Thinking of Roses (poem) ............................... 67
They (Never) Tell You (poem) ....................... 68
Nature in Denial (poem) .................................. 69
I Long for Excuses (poem) .............................. 70
Letting Go .................................................................. 71
What Will Live On (poem) ............................... 74
Surrendering to Fear (poem) ........................... 75
I Think about You Every Day (poem) .......... 76
Breathing and Meditation (fragment) .......... 77
The Willow Tree (poem)................................... 80
Mom (fragment) .................................................. 81
Distraction ................................................................. 86
A Story of a Bird .................................................. 88
A Story of a Chicken ........................................... 90
A Story of a Turtle ............................................... 92
A story of a Pig ..................................................... 94
A Story of a Cat .................................................... 96
A Story of a Bumblebee ..................................... 98

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I Met a Man (poem) ......................................... 100
I Think You’re Fun (poem) ........................... 101

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“From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken
The crownless again shall be king.”
J.R.R. Tolkien

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 Acknowledgements

To Jovana, my endless support. The one that will be

there always and forever to complete me.

To Bo, you were my front-line in fighting this. I

owe a great debt. A friend that has given it her all.

To Amar, Wio and Ravi, your support has been

invaluable. Thank you for being close friends when
it was hardest. Thank you for providing much
needed respite.

To all the people working at the Klinikum am

Michelsberg, your support and professional
expertise has been instrumental in me getting better.
Thank you for always providing much needed
counsel with a friendly smile.

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 Introduction

“A heart’s a heavy burden”

Hayao Miyazaki

This book is my attempt at coming to terms with

my depression. It represents my way of trying, not
only to come to terms with all of my most intense
feelings, but also to understand where those feelings
come from and to try and resolve them. There are a
lot of unresolved emotions, pain and grief that have
held me in a chokehold for years. This is my attempt
at finally confronting those things and maybe paving
a new way forward. Most of the contents of this book
have been written during the time of my stay at the
Psychiatric clinic at the Klinikum am Michelsberg in
Bamberg. I envision this book as a road map that
traces certain stages of my life, without trying to hold
back on anything.
The act of documenting my emotions on paper has
helped me significantly when it comes to dealing with
my depression. Oftentimes, I would find my struggle
to be too much for me to handle at a given moment,
but writing about it has helped clear my mind and
thoughts and channel them into something more
positive and creative.
Writing, and especially poetry, has been my coping
mechanism for the harsh reality that I faced. Coming
to terms with the realization that I was not well, was
not an easy process. In fact, it was a painstaking
experience that I had to become aware of, as I was
headed down a path that was disastrous. I was not in
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control in my life for many months, potentially years.
Coming to the clinic, has, not only, allowed me to get
some much needed rest, but has also freed me in the
sense that I was able to write again. Something I had
not been able to do for a long time. Through writing
I could explore a different side of myself; a side I had
often feared and tried to ignore. A side I tried to bury
– when the harsh reality is that it nearly almost buried
me.
To say that I was in a dark place, is a gross
understatement of the facts. Due to my severe
depression I found no comfort in the things I had
previously enjoyed doing, I found no joy in being
around my friends. I found it difficult to get out of
bed in the morning and even more difficult to make
myself food. I relied on delivery services to come to
my doorstep, so I wouldn’t have to leave the house.
With an unhealthy diet, spending my days in bed, and
yet being unable to sleep at night, getting around 3-4
hours of sleep on average, my situation only got
worse. I fell into a cycle I could not seem to break,
and every decision I made only drove me further
down the dark rabbit hole.
All of my darkest thoughts have now come to the
forefront; staring at me every day. I wanted the pain
to end, the suffering to stop. I wanted to silence the
voices once and for all. I could not take it anymore, I
thought. The thought of killing myself, once a distant
echo in my mind, now became a screaming urge. It
seemed like the only way out of the misery that my
life had become.
On a particularly bad day, when no one was home,
I was sobbing in the shower, I set the water to a
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hotter temperature than I normally would, and I kept
moving the nozzle – I felt like maybe if I burn myself
with the water, I could, for a moment, feel something
else. A brief escape from the too familiar sobs. I was
curled up in a ball, time seemed to stop, and I seemed
not to be present for a moment, lost in the sobs and
the hot shower. When suddenly I looked down and
realized I had been scratching my legs, and
aggressively so – for they were red with scratch marks
all above my knees. The shock of what I had just
done overcame me, and I rushed out of the shower.
I stood in the kitchen for a moment, trying to wrap
my head around what just happened to me, for I
seemed not to be conscious of what I was doing.
Then the feeling came again, and suddenly I was
holding a knife in my hand. I was not aware of when
I picked it up, it was just there in my hand, sharp and
ready to be used. I shook my head dropped the knife
and ran straight into my room. This has never
happened to me before and I had no idea how to deal
with that. I was so close to hurting myself, and yet it
seemed like I was far away, not fully there. I called a
friend, and she helped me talk through the situation
and explained that it was probably a moment of
disassociation. I had heard of the term before, but
never felt it, never experienced that kind of loss of
control. It was frightening. Suddenly the realization
hit me that I was fighting a battle I was desperately
losing.
For various reasons I never gave in to my darkest
impulses. I don’t want to disclose these reasons here
– the main point is this: I am still here. I have not
acted upon those thoughts. And to a large part,
writing was the thing that has helped guide me
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through the labyrinth of depression. It offered a way
for me to make sense of the mess that was in my
head. It helped me to untangle and grapple with some
of my emotions that I have for a long time
suppressed. It helped lead me back to a place where
I am, once again, able to live my life with some
fulfillment.
This book is not just a roadmap, it is much more
than that. It is a kind of memoir of my struggles. I
have written here some of my deepest feelings,
thoughts and observations. At times philosophical, at
times self-reflective and puzzled, at times confused
and fumbling – this book explores the very facets of
my innermost thoughts that have come to my mind
during my recovery period. I have discovered things
within myself that I thought were unknowable and
undiscoverable – I learned more about myself during
this time, than I think I have ever known. I make no
claim that there are any profound or life changing
elements to it – I only make the claim that these are
all my thoughts, my genuine view of the world at this
time, however naïve or self-harming it may be.
This litany of thoughts, opinions and verses has
helped me make sense of everything happening.
When nothing else made sense, writing did. Writing
was the only thing that made sense to me at this time.
Writing also kept me busy, on listless days when I
had nothing else to do. Poetry was my companion
through all this. Both in reading and in writing –
poetry has been by my side through all of this.
It is through my darkest periods that I have been
accompanied by poetry: the hopeful self-loving

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verses of Derek Walcott; the sardonic, witty poems
of Wendy Cope; the thought-provoking and
optimistic lines of Elizabeth Bishop; the natural
escapist poems of Wendell Berry; the prophet-like
words of Khalil Gibran – all of these and many more
have been my safe harbor in the storm of this
debilitating disease.
I owe a great debt to poetry, as a life-long admirer,
they have been more than pure recreational reading.
They have been my guardian angels – coming to my
aid in my dimmest hours; always nurturing and
always making me stop and reflect upon the situation;
either through introspection, laughter, jaw-dropping
honesty or pure wit – I’ve read about the fears, the
hopes, the joys, the trials and tribulations, the
difficult times and the peaceful times. And all them
offered me comfort when nothing else could.
Therefore this collection is in its entirety my debt
of gratitude to poetry itself, a paean to the many
poets and many poems that have illuminated my way;
to all the incredible voices out there that have been
whispering in my ear for years now.

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 Memories

“Every man’s memory is his private literature”

Aldous Huxley

I often find myself living in the past. I look at old

photos and recount what lies behind them. I listen to
music and it brings me back to moments I cherish
and hold in fond memory. I read books and am
thrown back to similar moments in my life. But these
are not merely moments of nostalgia, it feels more
like moments of grief. Grief for the “good times”
when I wasn’t burdened by such pain that today
seems like a constant and ubiquitous companion. My
pain is as much part of me as the breaths I take. I
often find myself checking out of the present
moment. My memories are both my escape and my
prison. My mind has sealed me in a coffin of failed
expectations.

Memories have become a burden. Although it

might feel nice to look back every once in a while and
reflect on what’s changed and what’s remained the
same, the truth of the matter is that I no longer just
look back - I withdraw into the memories; I let them
consume me. They have become like a kind of crutch
and it feels like I am unable to walk in the here and
now without them. I retreat in them in hopes of
finding some glimmer of peace that I had when they
were being made. I get stuck in them, like walking
through quick sand; the more I try to push myself out

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of them, the deeper I sink. I have lost track of the
current moment, and I don’t know how to get out.

If it is as Huxley says, and memories are your own

private literature, it seems as if I sometimes behave
as if the book of my life has been fully written. I often
forget that there is more to come, and I go back to
what has already been written so much so that I
forget to continue writing, to continue creating new
memories that I will look fondly on in time yet to
come. It feels as though I am crippling my own
stories, not allowing them to breathe, to become
something more. I seem to have hit upon writer’s
block, and I foolishly act as if the answers I seek are
to be found in what has already been written. They
are not there, of course. I don’t know where they are
or what they are, but as much as I tried to find them
in the past I could not.

I wonder what memories of this time will be left

for my future self, will it just be a blank space, a hole
without a story, something I would rather forget. Or
will there be traces, something beautiful to come out
of this, something which will make me tear up from
joy thinking about in some future time, in some
future space, by some future me. Or perhaps,
something in between these two will emerge. Not
blank but not beautiful; a memory of struggle, of
pain, of loss – as a reminder that life can sometimes
be difficult, brutal even. It can paralyze you but it
could be a sign that it is something you can get out
of. For though it may sometimes seem like this is the
end of the story, it’s not, it’s a period that will pass
like the wind, with time. A painful reminder of the

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ups and downs of life, imprinted upon memory and
remembered in the future. I do not wish to forget.

The thing about memories is that you cannot undo

them. This is why they are always honest and tell a
story of you, without exaggeration, without lies. It is
us who look into them and see things that are not
there, a skewed image of reality. If you are not able
to break out of the habit of deifying memories and
putting them on some kind of pedestal or assign
value and decide which memories are worthy of
preserving and which aren’t – you run the risk of
getting an incomplete, fragmented picture of what
happened. Negative memories and memories of bad
things exist for a reason. They exist to remind us of
the constant shifting of life, of the fact that nothing
remains the same, nothing stays forever and nothing
is permanent. With the good there must always come
the bad, with the joy there must always come sadness.
Memories are safeguards of this truth. A great
reminder of this is to be found in Ecclesiastes 3:

“There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born, and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down, and a time to build
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance, […]”

We would do well to remember this important

lesson. A lesson I struggle with. However I must

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remind myself of the constant ebb and flow of life.
And hopefully my memories will be my guides.

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Remembrance (poem)

Your river-like steps in the grass,

They remind me of embers and ash,
And much like the bottle is emptied,
My tears are washed away in a glass.

Your words like the droplets of dew,

They chain me in prisons of silk,
As clothes shed the stench of my grief,
I yearn for the touch that was you.

I stare at the gin’s bottomless gaze,

It stares back and admits to my shame,
The flowers nourish themselves in regret,
The echoes return to the haze.

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The Silent Pain (poem)

When all is said, and quiet takes domain,

Words have become a matter of the past.
I would still beg you only to remain.

When we are there, standing in the rain,

Stranded and speechless, with our eyes downcast.
The silence itself is my only pain.

On the seats of the never-ending train,

Not a word was spoken or question asked.
I would still beg you only to remain.

Before bed, I’d beg, but it was in vain,

I could not sleep then, not as an outcast.
The silence itself is my only pain.

I’m losing my mind, I’m going insane,

My thoughts race by fast, through emptiness vast.
I would still beg you only to remain.

I’d give it all for your silence again,

To see you coming back to say: “at last.”
Had you just promised me that you’ll remain,
I’d have forever endured the silent pain.

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Remember the Lilies (song)

The mist at the window, it sings for release.

The white trees encompass the pain of my grief,
All the while dancing the tango of peace,
The steps I remember as shallow and brief.

So, take my hand, let us waltz for a while,

Forget everything that we left far behind,
Remember the lilies, remember my smile,
For I’ll be here dancing, with you in my mind.

And when you come over, and sing in my tune,

The moon will sing back, as it breaks up the mist,
The rhythms of stars will be ours again soon,
Just give me your hand, like the night we first kissed

So, take my hand, let us waltz for a while,

Forget everything that we left far behind,
Remember the lilies, remember my smile,
For I’ll be here dancing, with you in my mind.

Now, darling, when I take my last dying breath,

Know it’s for you, while I’ll take all the pain.
For you it’s reserved, not even for death,
Please take it my love, and go dancing again.

So, one last time, let us waltz for a while,

Forget everything, leave it all far behind,
Remember the lilies, remember the smiles,
For you’ll be here dancing, with me in your mind.

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I Cried Today (fragment)

I cried today. It was over him again. I understand

that these times will inevitably come, but it seems that
recently they have been coming more than usual.
Perhaps a part of me still yearns for what once was,
and seeing him on social media or in my photos really
triggers something in me. An impulse, a quake – I’m
not sure how to describe it exactly, I just now the end
result is always tears streaming down my face.

I wish that I could tell myself that I am strong

enough, that the memory of this will no longer break
me. I don’t think that’s true yet. I haven’t come to the
point where I can look at memories of him and not
be hurt. Perhaps this time will soon come, but it
hasn’t yet. The memories, although time has passed,
still feel like a freshly open wound. They still hurt
with the intensity of their loss. A painful reminder of
what is lost, perhaps forever.

Although some aspect of me still clings on to the

idea that things might go back to how they were,
another is hesitant towards that idea. Not just in the
sense that it will never happen, but if the opportunity
were to arise, I doubt I would have the strength to go
back. For going back would also mean returning to
an old version of me, a version that I’m not sure I
want to go back to. That version is laden with
insecurities and doubts. These things have not left
me, not fully. But something has changed. Even
though it hasn’t been that long, I am not that same
person that I was at the time this all happened.

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 I am slowly learning to love myself more. I am not
sure I fully understand what that means yet, but I
believe I am taking the right steps, and hopefully in
time I will get to a place where I am satisfied, fully
satisfied with who I am – The “me” that people see,
but that I have been blind to for most of my life. It
always felt like there were two of me – the person
that everyone else saw, the upbeat, talkative,
passionate, caring person; and the person that I saw,
a self-conscious, depressed, insignificant, try-hard
that will never amount to anything and who is
probably annoying to everyone. This divide always
confused me, how could other people see such a
different version of me than what I saw, was I blind
this whole time, or were they wrong? This question
plagued my thoughts for years, and I never seemed
to be able to find an adequate answer. I wished, I
yearned to see what they see, I wanted to see the
potential in me – I wanted to love myself, like those
around love me. It has taken a lot of time, and a lot
of effort, but I am slowly taking the steps to
appreciate myself more. I am learning to be with
myself, and like the experience.

That learning also comes with a need, a drive for

someone else to love me; fully and entirely. Just me.
Going back to how it was, although tempting, seems
like a bad idea. Although I believe that to this day he
still loves me, there is more to that story. There
always was and probably always will be. And coming
to understand my needs and wants, I realized: that’s
just not enough for me. I want him back, but I want
more. And I don’t think I can get more from him.

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 I don’t exactly fully understand what that more is,
I just know that what was there, wasn’t enough. It’s
difficult even to say something like that. It feels like
a betrayal, after all that he’s given. But it’s the
unsavory truth I’m slowly beginning to realize. It
tasted sour even saying it. I would never want to say
or do anything that would hurt him in any way. Even
thinking that he might not be enough, even though
we’re no longer together evokes a strong sense of
guilt in me. Perhaps that is where the tears come
from, unresolved feelings of guilt, guilt about giving
up, guilt about not speaking up, about not fighting. I
wish I could enjoy the memories, look back fondly
on a very special thing that was a part of my life. I
don’t want to feel guilty anymore, but I’m not sure
how to resolve that guilt.

The truth of the matter is, I don’t know yet what I

want. I don’t know how long it will take me to
understand, all I know is that the memories of all the
moments don’t seem enough to fill this void inside
of me. Perhaps I’m looking in the wrong place.

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Your Beauty (poem)

Your beauty is without compare,

To any flower I can find,
Far greater than the buds of May.

No wonder art of any kind,

Can’t match your radiant delight,
Not even when they’re all combined.

No thing can ever shine as bright,

No mortal face is even near,
To how you set the world alight
I hope you know all this, my dear.

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And What of Memories (poem)

What do memories leave behind when they

Have gone to unknown seas, restless days and
Waiting for something new to appear – pray
That the void does not, in turn, like quick-sand
Drown the thin air of new beginnings – land
Amongst the freshly ground days – weighted
By a primal urge to confess the brand
Seared by a blade that is sharply serrated,
Meant to rend and devour what will be fated.

And what of memories that so stubbornly

Persist – insist upon their presence firm,
Gnawing and gashing on the sullenly
Leviathan which wishes to affirm
That not all that’s still there is but a germ
Infecting your days in ways yet unheard.
But, try as you might to shake and to squirm,
They latch on to every positive word,
Denying all your scars a fair chance to be blurred.

Could there be an immemorial time,

A hoping that nothing will resonate
Or leave echoes behind – is it a crime
To rest for a moment and not castrate
Every trace of yourself that you create.
Would it be an idea so haunting
To renounce the traces of mental weight
That infringe upon your fears? So daunting
To even imagine – but nevertheless taunting.

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 Disappointment

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”

Elizabeth Bishop

There are many things I am disappointed about.

Most of those things have to do with myself. As silly
and naïve as this may sound, I find it difficult to be
disappointed in other people. Somehow I manage to
channel all negative emotions and funnel them
directly towards myself. I know how self-destructive
this habit sounds, but it’s the truth. Perhaps that is
the root of a lot of my self-esteem issues. I put a lot
of pressure on myself, an impossible amount,
actually, and when I inevitably fail to meet those
expectations, I turn on myself. But worse yet, even
when it’s not my fault, I still find a way to blame
myself.

The lingering feeling of disappointment largely

comes from things I’ve said, or even more frequently,
things I haven’t said. I’ve kept quiet many times when
I should have spoken up, but from some unknown
fear I was always unable to do that. There were times
when everything inside me was screaming for me to
verbalize my thoughts, and yet I stayed silent. The
words just wouldn’t or couldn’t come. I was perhaps
too weak to say them, perhaps I was too afraid of the
consequences – though now I realize that the
consequences of not speaking up are far greater.
There are many possible reasons of why I didn’t do

24
what my gut was telling me to, and I’ve spent a lot of
my time in that space between what is spoken and
what is not, which is not a pleasant place to be. The
reality of the situation is that I was presented with a
lot of opportunities that I missed and I have lost
things and people dear to me and now I have to find
a way to live with the regret that is deeply rooted in
my heart.

In fact, I am practiced in “losing farther, losing faster”

and yet the “one art” still eludes me. For I am saddled
with the feeling that it is a disaster. I cannot shake the
feeling that a part of what has been lost from me is
one which is essential for my well-being; essential for
my existence. This feeling reminds me of a lyric from
a Bears in Trees song that goes: “When my identity
is entirely the maniac you see, if I became healthy
would I stop being me?” Although it might some
ridiculous to some to have these thoughts, they are
my constant companion through life. In fact one
reason of why I struggled with seeking out help was
precisely this fear of losing an essential part of who I
am. This stubborn resistance to change, positive or
otherwise has been a life-long struggle of mine.
Keeping old memories alive, keeping an old version
of myself alive, and even keeping all my insecurities
alive out of fear of what might happen if they all
disappeared. Out of fear of the unknown, or the fear
of change, or the fear of even more struggle, I kept
myself in a permanent state of suffering, not wishing
or trying to resolve my issues. I have been struggling
with this for a long time. I struggle finding a way to

25
continue without a piece of myself. I simply don’t feel
whole anymore.

I think because of my expectations, I set myself up

for failure and disappointment. I have unrealistic
expectations. This pressure that I put on myself has
to a large degree made me feel like a disappointment.
I never feel as if I do or give enough. No matter what
I do there is always that lingering feeling that I could
have given more, that I could have done more.
Naturally, this has led me down a path where I am
never satisfied with myself. As my expectations for
myself grow, so too does my disappointment – the
two are irrevocably linked.

Having put up this impossible standard to keep,

it’s always just a matter of time before I turn on
myself. I think of myself as worthless, of not
deserving love, for I haven’t earned it, of not even
deserving friends. I therefore find myself turning to
the same question that Robert Creeley asks in his
poem For Love: “Why must I think of everything as
earned?” This vicious cycle has been a constant in my
life for some years now. It’s difficult to unlearn the
patterns that lead to this vicious cycle. The more I fall
into it, the more desperate I feel. That is the nature
of it – it is self-defeating, meant to rob of me
anything that might help me to fight back and put a
stop to it.

26
Plinth of Your Silence (poem)

I kneel and I beg at the plinth of your

SILENCE keeps me up at night, but I lay
CRYING makes me tired, always wanting more
HAPPINESS is a myth to pass the day.

I pray and I yell at the bed of your

DREAMS come and go, ghosts of forgotten
MEMORIES fade away, exit the door
LEAVING you was hard, everything now rotten.

Defeated at the end of the day which brings

HOPE is a weakness of those who must be
LYING leaves one numb, pulling at the strings
ATTACHED people fear, emotional debris.

And yet, I find myself here, at the edge of

UNDERSTANDING is what it takes to move on
BELIEVING can only do so much above
LOVING can’t exist without its paragon.

27
Visitation’s Done (poem)

Alone I lay there, waiting in my bed

For anyone to stop this dreadful calm.
With every clock there comes a time you dread.

Yet no one comes and no one’s footsteps tread

Into my room, to quell the hollow psalm.
Tick-Tock, and all the time has quickly fled.

I’ve yet to leave the domain of my bed,

The sacred trust decaying in my palm.
With every clock there comes a time you dread.

My withered mind, it bears a hopeful thread,

That someone soon will ring the intercom.
Tick-Tock and all the time has quickly fled.

A buzz at the door, someone to break-bread?

It’s only the nurse, a deep rooted qualm.
With every clock there comes a time you dread.

“Visitation’s done” she carefully says.

The silence ensuing, fell like a bomb.
Tick-Tock and all the time has quickly fled.
Finally it has come, the time you dread.

28
The Beating of the Drum (fragment)

I write this after having music therapy for the first

time. Some curious insights have come out of that, I
was able to hone in on a single aspect of my
depression. War. What I mean by this is that this
incessant tug-of-war happening between my mind
and me – might actually be closer to war than I had
imagined previously. Or at least, it feels like that. Like
a beating drum, the voices are loud. Telling me, I’m
worthless, I don’t deserve friends, what a useless
waste of other people’s space I am. Yet, I do not give
in. I do not capitulate. I cannot allow this mind to
ruin what I have worked really hard to build. I
wonder about war. War has casualties, war has
victims, and war leaves irrevocable traces. What
traces are left of the part of my mind that is not trying
to kill me? What traces remain?

I cannot stand it anymore, if war is what is needed,

than I am ready to fight. I wasn’t days ago, I wasn’t
months ago, I wasn’t years ago – but I am now. If
war is what is needed to make this stop, I will wage
war on myself. I will raise the banner high and declare
that I will not go down without a fight. The casualty
of this might be me – but if I don’t fight, the casualty
will certainly be me. Nothing remains but to fight. I
have to assert my right to live. My mind will not take
that right away from me. I assert it.

I am tired, exhausted in fact – but above all I am

angry. Angry at myself for letting this go on for so
long. Angry at my mind for doing this to me, for
reducing me, shaming me – parading around how

29
weak and fragile I am. I am furious. I am furious of
having to deal with this day in and day out. I am
furious this has had an effect on those closest to me.
I am enraged. I am enraged at my inaction up until
this point. I submitted cowardly to the ideas I had
been feeding myself, wallowing in my own self-pity.
Fry was right when he said:

“Self-pity will destroy relationships, it will destroy anything

that’s good, it will fulfill all the prophecies it makes and leave
only itself. […] To pity oneself […] is doing oneself an
enormous disservice.”

The traces left behind by my self-pity have been

meager, to say the least. I have been starved by my
own emotions, my own self. And for what? What
good has come out of it? What have I gained, but
long-lasting trauma?

I resent myself – and I know that leads me back

into the same vicious circle I’m trying to escape from
right now. But I accept it now. I finally accept that a
lot of self-grief has been self-inflicted and now I wish
to rid myself of it. I do resent myself for not waking
up sooner, not getting up sooner. But I also forgive
myself. More than anything, I just want to stop this
self-hating, self-pitying crap. It’s probably going to
take me some time to get to that point, but I have to
try.

It has taken a lot of time and thinking, and I don’t

think I’m yet at a point where I have fully recovered
from the emotional debris left by myself – but I am
stepping into a new path. And hopefully this path can

30
lead me to a place out of the constant disappointment
and pain that I always find myself surrounded by.

31
The Imperium of Silence (poem)

As the imperium of silence comes

To a still-birth – what tyrant will ascend
The legacy of peace? When the war drums
Cease their sonorous tone – how to depend
On the monocrat of release? Firearms
Billow and burst – for now I must defend
The stillness. The divine nurturing well
Within me. How do I stop the loud bell

From ringing and invading? As it thrums,

The ticking noise awakes the tremble – The trend
Seems to be: I cannot escape the arms
Outstretched, grabbing me – forcing me to send
Myself to quell the riot within, as it drums
On … never stopping … I just need a friend!
When the silence is gone, then what remains?
For it seems, everything else merely wanes.

32
Weakness (fragment)

Here, I get confronted with my weakness every

passing day. And yet, I am accused of courage, of
bravery. How can this be? I don’t feel particularly
brave, I don’t feel all that courageous. So what is it
that other people see that I don’t? At this point, I’m
genuinely curious, for there seems to be some kind
of disconnect between the perception of others and
that of myself.

I find myself in a weird space where I cannot

believe those closest to me. So, I wonder, were the
categories of strength and weakness ever imagined
for the mundane trivialities of lonesome days? The
strength to get out of bed; the courage to eat – how
would these even apply? I get told every now and
then by someone that they are proud of me for
having the strength to get up despite everything, I get
approving and surprised looks and smiles for doing
the bare minimum of cleaning – that I forced myself
to do on that particular day. I get told with such
passionate intensity that I am the bravest person they
know. But how can this be, when I can barely look at
myself in the mirror out of shame. How can this be
true when there are so many things that frighten me
to the point of me becoming paralyzed? This cannot
possibly be true when on days I feel too weak and
too drained to even eat food.

The loud, never-ending voices inside me constanly

remind me of my ineptitude to deal with them and
function like a “normal,” “healthy” human being.
Louder still are the silent, soft praises of friendly

33
faces which keep reminding me that I’m not alone. Is
being alone a weakness? It certainly feels like that. I
feel at my weakest when I’m all alone, in my room
thinking about how my life is spiraling out of control
and there seems to be nothing I can do to stop it. I
feel powerless at this moment, bludgeoned by trauma
into submission, into tacit acceptance of the fact that
I am no good, that I don’t deserve to fight back, that
I don’t deserve to live.

When I take the medication meant to pacify the

protests happening inside of me, am I the figure of
revolt or of revolution? An innermost depression is
not just a part of me, it is within me. Deep. It has
taken roots as if wanting to stay for a long time. The
roots that depression has planted in me only seem to
continue to grow no matter what I do, no matter how
I try to shear them off, they seem to grow longer, dig
deeper as if to affirm their place; as if to show me
that they belong there and I should stop fighting.
They are taunting me and showing me my true
weakness, a weakness to fight back; to ascertain my
place within my own body and mind. I am helpless
against them.

It seems as if the roots are so deeply buried they

are no longer visible. It is impossible to establish
where they truly begin and where they end. Where do
I begin, and where do I end? They have been there
for a long time, and it shows. It shows on my body it
shows on my mind. It feels as if they have been there
for such a long time, they are now an integral part of
me, so closely linked that if you sever one the other
will be severed as well.

34
 How do you un-root yourself? How do you pluck
away until there’s nothing left but emptiness? Should
you even pluck away when it seems like there is no
purpose to it, when it seems like it’s doing nothing
but only deepening the emptiness, trying to fill a
hollow glass full of water. All the efforts seem in vain,
when confronted with the goal of removing this
parasite. The emptiness always lingering on.

The emptiness is the thing that never leaves; the

bird that never takes flight, the seed that never
blooms. It seems to be the one constant in my like, a
deep resounding, hollow emptiness somewhere deep
within me. Something seems to be either missing
from or has been taken away from me, but I don’t
feel whole anymore, the emptiness is too vast to
ignore at this point. I wish to know what’s the secret
of dealing with this emptiness, how do I manage to
go on? How do I fill the void that devours every
attempt like hungry shark and then laughs in my face?
How do I bloom?

Could I even bloom if all I’m ever doing is ripping

apart every piece of the flora inside me? When I tear
away at the already broken pieces, making them
smaller and smaller, I, too, by the same token,
become smaller and smaller. When will be the end, is
it when there is nothing left to rip out? The answer
doesn’t seem clear to me, and so the question
remains. How does something bloom from being
ripped apart?

Which part of me is there going to remain in the

end – the leaves or the roots? What then has strength

35
got to do with it? Where is the strength in ripping
yourself apart? Where is the strength in not being
able to tell what part of yourself is you? No, I don’t
feel strong, I feel weak. I feel powerless. I just wish
to uproot and give myself a new chance at
blossoming?

I don’t know the outcome of that, but I deserve it,

don’t I?

36
I Hate the Morning (poem)

I hate the morning, it’s so dull,

For I can barely wake.
I wish I could just break its skull.

Or maybe I could find a rake,

Or something else that I can use
To bury the sod in a lake.

But as I am, I’d just confuse

My own self for the wicked snake,
And through my own heart drive the stake.
I think I may just need a break.

37
I’m Still Here (song)
Each night I wondered, could I make it through?
Each day I cried for fear of losing you.
And now what’s left, are questions in my head
And now my hope is hanging by a thread.

I wish I’d said, exactly what I thought,

I wish that I’d screamed, I wish that I’d fought.
Now it’s too late, the damage has been done
I know back then I had to run.
Well now I’m here, but you are gone.

I feel so alone, I don’t know what to do.

To try to let it out, I wrote this song for you.
It doesn’t seem to help, you’re always in my head
And still I lie alone, in this empty bed.

I wish I’d said, exactly what I thought,

I wish that I’d screamed, I wish that I’d fought.
Now it’s too late, the damage has been done
I know back then I had to run.
But I’m still here, and you’re still gone.

Tomorrow is a new day, I don’t know what it brings

The echo of your voice, inside me still rings.
If I think about it now, I know I would get lost,
I didn’t speak up then, so now I pay the cost.

I wish I’d said, exactly what I thought,

I wish that I’d screamed, I wish that I’d fought.
Now it’s too late, the damage has been done
I know back then I had to run.
But I’ll be here, if you’re not gone.

38
 Hope
“Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgivable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.”
Raymond Carver

I hope for better days. For a long time I thought I

hoped for days long behind me. But that’s not really
true. I cherish the memories of the past, the
moments, the silences, the hugs. But I don’t hope for
them again. I sometimes wish I were back there,
because the present is so devoid of those little things
that I got used to for a while. But that’s what it is,
habit. I wish to get back in the habit of those things
– but I think I’m starting to realize I don’t want them
back.

I want to move ahead, forward; not backwards. I

hope for a future that can be as affectionate as my
past was, perhaps more. I am still not sure what my
future brings, and that’s scary. What if I never
rekindle the same feelings I had before? What if my
reserve has run empty? It certainly feels empty know
– and that’s probably why I spend so much time
living in the past.

But my hope isn’t in the past – my hope isn’t even

in the present. My hope is in the future. And perhaps,
I will one day have the light my heart aches for.
Perhaps one day yet, there is a small bit of happiness,
a warm place waiting for me to just arrive. Perhaps
yet, it is more wonderful than anything I have
experienced so far. Perhaps. I’d like to hope.
39
 Depression does many things to your mind and
body, one of the many insidious repercussions of it
is the abscission of hope from your system. You lose
hope, you are left stranded, on your own, without the
guiding light of what may yet come. Hope acts like a
lighthouse in a storm – without it, you’re stranded in
the open sea, from every side waves smashing your
vessel – in the deep, dark chasm at the mercy of the
forces of nature.

Depression does that to you – it ruins you – it ruins

your body, it assaults your mind and senses and does
a whole lot of damage to your spirit. It then leaves
you there, bloody in the street – wishing someone
would just come and end the pain for you; because
you are either too scared to beaten up to do it
yourself.

I think I am slowly regaining the hope I thought

long gone. Finally the light at the end of the tunnel
seems to be approaching. And maybe, just maybe –
there is something waiting for me at the end of that
tunnel. Something perhaps which is unfamiliar,
unknown but from what I’m learning I should no
longer be afraid of the unknown. For although it may
seem scary, although it’s something that seems out of
reach and out of control, it’s something that
inevitably happens. We are confronted with the
unknown every day, in small unnoticeable moments.
And when it is presented in such a way it doesn’t
seem that daunting. We deal with the unknown on a
daily basis, and perhaps even when it presents itself
in a larger light, a more serious force to be reckoned

40
with, perhaps it is not so unimaginable that one can
deal with it. That I can deal with it. After all, the
unknown can also bring with itself a new light.

Maybe that light is for me? Is this what hope feels

like, is this what it actually is; believing that there is
something waiting for you, something better, yet to
come, within your reach? I think I am finally starting
to understand. And more than just understand, I
think I am becoming more open to the kind of
change that is coming my way, more prepared to deal
with it. And above all, more prepared to accept the
possibility of a new light existing just for me.

Perhaps, hope is not “the thing with feathers”, as

Dickinson once wrote, rather, hope is having all
your feathers plucked, and still wanting to fly;
believing you still can. Perhaps that’s what hope
truly is.

41
A Cageless Bird (fragment)

Why does the caged bird sing? Are its mellifluous

sounds contained within the confines of its own
prison? Is a cage a prison really, or is much more like
a safe harbor; shielding the bird from outside? Would
the bird still chime melodiously if it knew what was
waiting for it outside? The cage acts as opium for the
bird. A fog whose curtains protect the knowledge
that no one cares for the singing of the birds outside.
The cage may be a prison, but it is also a doorway, a
path to understanding why the caged bird sings.
Without the cage, birds sing no more. For to sing is
to hope and what has a free bird to hope for?

The question then becomes not why does the

caged bird sing – but rather, can a cageless bird sing
at all? Would anyone truly care? It seems as if the
world is turned towards great adversity, we root for
the underdog and we celebrate the hard-fought
freedoms. But what of the daily challenges and
struggles, those invisible to the broader crowd, and
sometimes even to the close onlookers. Do they
count for nothing? Is your adversity only measured
by the measure of the odds that you beat? Perhaps
even the cageless bird has something to teach us with
its song.

Hope for freedom is what sustains the song of the

caged bird, for once that hope is gone, so to shall its
voice be gone. While it has a voice, it must use it –
the lungs filled with hope of freedom; a yearning to
one day fly free amongst its kin. Even the cageless
bird can be stranded, without kinship. Perhaps that is

42
what its call symbolizes, a need to be with your kind.
A painful song of isolation that reverberates through
every single note in its melody.

Am I like the cageless bird, hoping, dreaming to

one day be amongst my own – without burden,
without grief, without pain. I have to have hope, it is
what sustains every effort on my end to continuously
tread this tight-rope towards a potential future which
might never come. As I navigate the rope, it
somehow seems to be getting longer and longer. Yet
my hope remains – that one day I shall reach the end;
without falling off.

For though it persists, my hope has ebbed and

flowed with the coming of the tidal wave – hitting,
encroaching ever nearer. I fear what might end up
happening if my well runs dry, if I am parched for
hope, like I am starved of positive emotions. This
fear returns intermittently as if by whim, when it
wants and takes control of me – the great
encroaching what if? Many a time have I considered
this grave possibility, many a time have I
contemplated the severity of the situation. Many a
time, have I been without hope. What if I shall never
fly with my brethren, unburdened; guiltless? What if
my wings have been clipped way too short for them
ever to recover. What if?

In the end, I still have hope that this is not the end.

43
I Only Wish (poem)

Dad, I just wish that I could come and play;

To see you and lessen the pain you feel.
I just wish to tell you that I’m okay.

Dad, I wish you didn’t see me astray;

That you could escape when it gets too real.
I only wish to take your pain away.

Dad, you were my ground when I lost the way,

And when trouble came, you were made of steel.
I just wish to tell you that I’m okay.

Unbroken by life, and still hard to stray;

But even when stumbling, you’re my ideal.
I only wish to take your pain away.

I know that strength does not easily stay;

And that so often you get the raw deal.
I wish I could tell you that I’m okay.

If only these simple words could convey,

How so incredibly grateful I feel.
One day soon, I’ll tell you that I’m okay,
And maybe then, I’ll take your pain away!

44
Change (fragment)

What happens to things once they change? Do

leaves ever recover the hue that they lost? I wonder
about change. Can it truly be that once you are
changed, you are changed forever – or do you still
remain fundamentally you? What of slow gradual
change? What of partial change? What of my illness,
will it also change? Will it change to accommodate
my new mind? Will it have a place to go? By taking
medication am I like the soulless landlord, ruthlessly
evicting my illness without a care whether it can
survive without me? Does it really need to survive?

What I am going through right now feels like a

kind of change to my usual mind, and yet, it feels the
same; familiar. It’s like nothing has fundamentally
changed about me. I look outside and I still see trees
and hear birds. They sound different, but at the same
time not. I cannot place it, but something definitely
feels different. Inside me, everything in my body
seems to work the same as it did before, and yet,
something is different. The only difference I can tell
right now, is that all of a sudden my mind is not
yelling at me. What changed – the depression or me?

The medication seems to be working, doing its job

for the most part. My mind is quieter. Now that I
think about it, the birds sound different somehow.
Was it the world around me that changed or was it
actually my depression? If it was, will it change again
and come back? I can’t shake the feeling that
something feels out of place. And yet finally, things
are starting to make sense. It’s a weird feeling, a limbo

45
– an in between space that is neither foreign nor
familiar. A new experience. Could it be that it finally
doesn’t seem to have as much power over me. I feel
less different than I expected I would.

It is still unclear to me where I find myself – but it

is definitely some kind of crossroads, a fork in the
path. Which road leads where – I don’t know. I am
scared to find out, what if neither road leads me
towards where I want to go, what if both of them do.

I question everything, because everything seems

new to me – is this change coming for me. I would
have thought that I would recognize change more
easily than this. But somehow, it is unclear. I am
treading a new path, and new paths usually lead to a
change of some kind. For a long time change has
been an incredibly scary thing for me. Perhaps it’s
time to finally accept it and see what happens next.

Change is happening, and I don’t know how to feel

about it. Maybe in time, this too will change. Perhaps,
as the Persian adage goes, this too shall pass.

46
When I Behold (poem)

When I behold the color of the skies,

I witness there a potential of days,
Unrealized yet in your sorrowful eyes,
And beg the sun to share some of its rays
With those who have had to say their goodbyes
Longing for a time and still searching for ways.
Is it a gift from above to remain?
Or is it a salve to heal all the pain?

When I behold the birds’ such peaceful flight,

And hear the soft calls of their inner peace.
I wonder if there is a hidden plight,
And if there is, does it ever just cease?
Or must they, like man does, muster the might,
Continue onwards in seeking release?
What I would ask them, if I could, of course,
How different are they, regret and remorse?

When I behold the stentorian cloud

That thunder produces – I am in awe
Of its unshakable might – it stands proud
As it should – for it is vigor, it is law!
I picture how it feels to say out loud,
You’re proud of yourself – and not to withdraw
Into yourself – I ask the cloud itself,
How am I able to be my own self?

47
Anxiety Attack (fragment)

My anxiety has gotten significantly worse in the last

couple of years. And it happened again today, I had
an anxiety attack. Every time this happens it deflates
me. It’s exhausting and tiring, for one. But more than
that, it feels as if I have made a full circle back to the
beginning and now have to start over again. This is
of course not true. But try as I might to explain that
to my mind, it doesn’t work. It won’t listen; it’s quite
stubborn that way. Thoughts race by in my head
questioning whether anything I’m doing is actually
working, is it leading me down the right path, or am
I stuck in a maze perpetually wandering the
labyrinthine crevices of my existence. How could I
be getting better, if I feel like this every time it
happens? It seems as if the panic attack itself is
merely a side effect, overshadowed by the looming
colossus that is my overthinking mind that takes
control of the wheel. How do you win, when you are
in constant battle with yourself? Can you even win,
when your enemy is yourself?

One of the nurses told me a story. It was about a

baby learning to walk for the first time. The baby
naturally stumbles, falters for a moment and when it
is finally on the edge of tipping over, it does. Then it
gets back up and tries again, only to have the same
thing happen. Then something magical happens.
After falling and getting up several times, the baby
finally learns to walk.

I understand the message of the story, I really do.

But that seems to be a problem I keep encountering,

48
I understand, but still can’t accept the faltering. The
falling down, it defeats me, drains me of everything I
have, maybe that is why it feels like starting from
scratch. The cloud of depression and anxiety that has
accumulated on top of my head will not allow for
resistance. It will not allow for mistakes. It will not
allow for understanding. Why can I not apply to
myself that which I know to be true?

This is what I hope comes out of my time here.

Not that my depression will be gone, not that I will
suddenly have bursts of happiness interspersed
throughout the bouts of sadness and apathy, not that
I will learn how to walk, but that I will learn how to
get up. How to falter, like a baby. And perhaps a day
will come when I too, much like a baby, can take the
punches thrown at me, mostly from the inside, and
accept that although they are there, they cannot stop
me from getting up. Morning, after morning, after
morning. Maybe I just need to realize that I have
already been doing that. I still get up every morning,
I still refuse to be fully beaten into submission. I am
here after all, isn’t that a sign of me fighting, of not
letting go. Perhaps the goal is not to learn to get up,
but to learn to see and acknowledge when I do it.

Maybe I already have the baby instinct within me to

keep coming up for air whenever you are drowning.
Perhaps we all do. Perhaps we are not meant to sit
idly by while our minds rip to shreds every sense of
self that we might possess. Is that the failing of the
human condition? We have lost ways to fight with
shapeless, formless entities residing deep within
ourselves and come out on top, ways to accept that
49
we are imperfect and will make mistakes, we just
have to get comfortable with stumbling, with
faltering – for that is the only way for us to have a
chance to get back up again and try again until we
get it right. I think we could all learn a thing or two
from babies. Maybe they have the answers that we
so desperately seek.

50
What is (not) Love? (poem)

What is love? The question that eludes all words.

Love is not given freely like a wrapped gift

For you to unwrap – love is made, every day,
With the meeting of four eyes, a soft embrace,
A reassuring feeling that, after all,

Everything might be alright. No, love is not

An expectation of your lonely thoughts – love
Is a bond, created when expectations
Turn into the whisper which you hear before

Going to bed – the whisper that ensures you

Sleep, like you once did, before loneliness snuck
Up on you, like grief, creating a black
Hole where you once kept your happy memories.

Love is not the boisterous dismissal of

Your insecurities – it is the silent,
Unspoken affirmation of your true strength:
Strength to fully become part of a new whole.

Love is not the spun-sugar of naïve dreams

Which lie dormant in some forgotten crevice
Of your mind – it is the hand-knit tapestry
Labored over with threads of mutual trust.

What is love? The word that eludes all questions.

51
Dad (fragment)

I have to tell my dad that I’m at the psychiatric

clinic. How exactly do I do that without hurting him?
I try as hard as I can not to hurt people, especially my
dad. He has given me so much, and sacrificed a lot
for me. I don’t want to disappoint him. But I think
this fear has more to do with me feeling disappointed
in myself than it does with him. I know how deeply
he cares for me and I’m afraid I’m letting him down.
It is me who is afraid, not him.

We’ve had our rough patches, but he tries damn

hard, and I see and respect that. It’s not always easy
for him. He got used to a different time and different
values. It was difficult for him to reconcile with the
fact I was gay. In his own words, it left him feeling
empty inside, when I told him I was engaged.
Nevertheless, I could recognize the struggle in him, I
could recognize that his love for me and the way in
which he grew up were in conflict. I respect him a
lot, for the way he handled that, knowing his
opinions on the topic, how he approached it with
love and care – and the first thing he made sure was
that I knew he loved me. But he also needed time, to
process everything. I could see the pain and the hurt,
it was tangible, and yet he fought through it.

It wasn’t easy for me during this time. For all my

understanding of where he was coming from, seeing
the look on his face when I told, was like a stab
wound. And then the more I tried not to think about
it, the knife kept twisting inside of me. I felt like I
disappointed him, like I was somehow lesser in his

52
eyes – and so I felt lesser in my eyes. Sometimes,
good intentions are not enough to help you fight
through your demons. And my demons were there,
surrounding me. The one thing I had worked hard
for years not to do, I felt like I finally did – disappoint
my dad. The guilt I felt was immeasurable, and yet I
didn’t share it, not fully, with anybody. Because all
anybody could see was how hard he was trying. And
he was. And I knew that too. Everybody could see
him. I felt like nobody could see me. I needed to be
seen, heard, felt.

After this, with all the guilt inside me, I tried extra
hard to build a relationship with him – thinking that
will somehow absolve me of the hurt I’ve caused
him. Especially him not having the best relationship
with my brother at the time, I felt like I had to be the
son he wanted; the one he needed. All the while
carrying this knife in my chest, that just wouldn’t
budge.

However, something happened as my relationship

with him started to get better. As he also opened up
more to me, I started to realize how much he actually
cares. How much he’s actually trying and how much
he has grown in this time. The knife was starting to
slide out. I felt myself feel more confident in myself
as a son, and started to feel like less of a
disappointment.

This is why it was so difficult for me to even

conceive of telling him about this – the memory of
the knife has not yet fully faded from my body. And
I was scared not just for him, but also for myself. I

53
was afraid the knife was going to return. And I could
not handle that. I was not ready for that feeling to
return, not when I was already dealing with so many
other wounds.

But I did tell him in the end. I felt like he deserved

to know and not to be kept in the dark. Although
honesty is hard in such situations, I needed to face
my fear and confront it. I was tired of keeping
secrets, of pretending and of trying to be someone
I’m not just to fit into this tight mold I have made for
myself. I was tired of disregarding what I feel for the
sake of not hurting others. I, too, deserved the truth
– and I needed to tell it.

Although it was difficult for him, I do believe this

opened a new chapter in our relationship and has
only strengthened it. I know he is there for me, as he
always was – and that is a comforting thought to have
as I spend the nights here. He also knows he can rely
on me to be honest, and I do think that is not an
insignificant thing.

I have gotten to know him through these years,

and if I’ve learned anything is that he is strong. Much
stronger then I’ve been willing to give him credit for.
Much stronger than I could have ever imagined. He
has been through a lot, and through all of it, he was
a supportive rock. There is a deep and caring
kindness inside him – and I saw it when I was very
young when he was taking care of my mom, when
she had cancer. And I’m seeing it more and more
everyday – how he is willing to help others selflessly,
how he can be a rock when needed. And I see it now,

54
so I have hope he can manage this. I have hope that
we can manage this, and come out of this stronger,
with a firmer and better relationship than before.

I have learned many things from my parents. I now

hope I can use their example of what strength is, to
help me navigate these frightful waters I find myself
in. They have given me a map, I only hope I am ready
to read it.

55
 Depression
“Here is tedium,
despair, a painful
sense of isolation and
whimsical if pompous
self-regard.”
Robert Creeley

I find it difficult to write about depression. Every

time I try to write something meaningful, something
that makes sense. I find I am unable to gather my
thoughts. The words I need simply don’t come to me.
Perhaps that is because I am scared of acknowledging
the pain I find myself in, perhaps I am frightened of
making it more real. Even now, as I begin writing
this, I’m trembling – a shiver that recognizes the hurt
deep inside of me.

Depression is a difficult feeling to pin down. It

always changes its shape and form, like a chameleon
adapting itself to you and your surroundings in such
a way that you barely even notice it’s there until it’s
too late and it already has its claws deep inside you.
It can sometimes manifest in the form of lethargy,
sometimes it’s apathy and still other times it comes in
the shape of you not being able to get out of bed, or
make food or go shopping or simply talk to people.
Its goal is to make you feel utterly useless. It achieves
this by making you feel alone and isolated from your
loved ones. It can masquerade as anything and play a
different role every day until it achieves its goal of
finally taking over your life.

56
 I wish to say that depression feels like you’re
fighting against an enemy. But in reality that’s not
really true. You’re fighting against yourself. Against a
part of yourself that rejects itself. Depression doesn’t
feel like the enemy it makes an enemy out of yourself.
It makes you reject every decent thing about yourself
and feel absolutely worthless.

Depression, at its core is a thief. It steals friends

from you, relationships, your self-esteem, colors. It
takes all of this and gives nothing in return. It steals
your will to fight back – it debilitates you and makes
you too weak to confront it. It sends you down the
darkest path of your thoughts and then makes you
feel as if there is nothing else but these dark thoughts.
It steals your ability to think clearly.

Perhaps the most insidious thing that depression

does is it hijacks and rejects your most basic human
instincts – above all, your instinct for self-
preservation. It doesn’t care if you don’t eat, if you
don’t get out of bed, or you hurt yourself. And worse
still, it makes you not care about all of these things.
As if these are unimportant things – it assumes all
control. And you have no say in it.

Depression also manipulates your perception of

reality – nothing you have known so far seems to be
important any more. Nothing your friends say seems
to penetrate the wall that depression builds to keep
anything positive on the outside. You don’t perceive
reality any more, you just hyper-perceive a twisted
image of yourself. An image that was carefully and

57
methodically built up by depression in such a way
that makes you think that anything else is merely a
fabrication, a lie. Depression is incredibly convincing.

Depression is selfish, it wants you all to its self, and

will sabotage any attempt of yours to think about or
focus on anything else. It makes you selfish, your
thoughts selfish – for you can only live with it in this
world where finally you are the center of attention –
for all the wrong reasons. It takes everything from
you, then raises a pedestal of desperation and makes
you sit on the throne. This throne sits so high up, that
your family, friends, loved ones can’t reach it. Much
as they try, their voices just become a lost echo on its
way to the top, to you. Isolating you from any kind
of love or affection that others so willingly impart to
you.

I have learned these and many more things about

depression – what I have not learned yet is how to
deal with it. How to manage it. This is something I
have been struggling with for years, it is the greatest
problem I was never able to find a solution for.
Initially I ignored it, that’s how it lures you in, for it
makes you think that it’s not a big deal, everyone is
sad sometimes. It just doesn’t tell you this sadness is
supposed to pass at some point. Not become a
permanent staple in your life.

Having depression feels like you’re constantly

drowning, in an endless sea and as the water keeps
swelling over you, you are unable to swim. While
these waves are crashing all around you and into you,
they drain you of the strength to even try and come

58
up for air. Your lungs are so full of water at this point
that resisting seems like such a futile waste of time.
Having depression is draining, more than anything
else. It sucked the joy out of so many things that I
love, making them no longer able usable to get some
joy in my life. It’s tiring. Constantly being sad,
constantly worrying, and constantly being anxious
and exhausted. I am exhausted and just need a break
from it all.

Coming here, was in incredibly difficult step for

me. Asking for help was an incredibly difficult step.
But I made those steps, I want to be done feeling like
this. I don’t want to feel worthless anymore. No
more. No more will I allow it to assume control of
my life, no longer will I just let it make me feel
insignificant, without putting up a fight. I am slowly
starting to see through all of its lies. I see how it has
deceived me into giving up on myself, I see how
dangerous it are now. And I’m no longer going to be
under its rule. It’s finally time for me to start fighting
back.

I have tried to fight back before, but I thought I

had to do it alone. I was foolish. I thought I could
beat depression with nothing but sheer will power,
and thinking through it. I cannot think through it
when it is in charge of my thoughts. I was utterly
foolish to think I could beat it all by myself. But then
again, that is what it did to me, it made me believe
that I had to go against it on my own because nobody
would care enough about me to help me fight it. For
a long time I believed it, but I realize now that I need

59
help, and I’m asking for that help, I’m on my knees
and ready to do whatever it takes.

I was always afraid of medication. I wasn’t afraid

they would work well, quite the opposite, in fact. I
always thought they would work too well and what if
I get addicted to them what if I need them to
function what if I am reliant on something external
and not just me. I was afraid of losing control – of
my body, my mind, of myself. What I failed to
realized is that I had already lost that control many
years ago. It was no longer mine to lose. But I felt
like I had everything to lose. I was naïve.

Instead, I opted for alcohol. Funny how I didn’t

think I could lose control there. I did. I did, because
it worked – it silenced my mind for a small period of
time and that’s all I needed. Moments of peace,
moments where I’m not in my head all the time. I
needed to escape, I needed to run. So, I would run to
a bottle, then two, then three. In the beginning I
could control myself and stop before I drank too
much. Soon afterwards, I had begun to lose that
control, I got addicted not to the alcohol itself, but
to the silence of my mind. The mornings afterwards
where horrible, the side-effects of my feeble attempt
at self-medication. I completely lost control. I would
drink more and more, and slowly I started to feel
worse and worse. Everything that I was trying to
escape from, came back at me with full force and
double the intensity. Things had gotten out of hand.

After a while my depression learned how to deal

with alcohol. It learned to also exist in that space.

60
Drinking became even worse – it saw an opportunity,
my last refuge where I had let my guard down and it
invaded it, full force. The thoughts I had when
drinking were some of the worst ones. And yet, for
some reason, I still thought drinking was my refuge.
Depression sneaked into there without me noticing.
And I fell right into its trap. Suddenly I found myself
in a place where I could no longer see a way out.
Every attempt I tried to throw at it, not only didn’t
work but actually exacerbated the situation.

This is when I came the closest to actually

committing suicide. I had these thought many times,
but for the most part I never felt the need to act upon
them, they were just there. That all changed. My
impulse to just stop the pain, just make it go away
became too strong. Every single day felt like a
massive struggle just to get out of bed, let alone do
anything else. My days were filled with silent
suffering, crying in my room or in the shower where
nobody could hear me. What I had been convincing
myself, that this was just a momentary struggle and
would eventually go away, seemed like an illusion at
this point. Seemed like a lie. I became painfully aware
that these feelings were not going away, at least not
for a long time.

This realization completely overpowered me, and

I saw no other way out. Jumping off a bridge, or
getting “lost” in the woods somewhere where
nobody could find me became thoughts that were
just not going away. I would spend hours upon hours
every single day considering all the possibilities of
how I could do it while causing the least amount of

61
harm to those around me. Would they prefer to have
some closure, a handwritten note perhaps, would
they like to have my body, or would it be easier if a
just disappeared without a trace and nobody would
ever have to worry about finding me? What I did
know for certain that I had to do it away from anyone
I cared about, because I could not bear it if someone
found me and managed to save me. The hurt that
would cause to those who love me, would be
unimaginable and I could not do that to them.

It is still incredible to me, that the only reason I

ended up not doing anything was the fact that I knew
it would break those I love the most. There was no
longer the instinct for self-preservation inside of me,
I couldn’t care less what happened to me, but I had
to think of others. I had to survive, despite all the
suffering for them. Not that I didn’t come
dangerously close to actually doing something. It
happened on a particularly bad day, I was alone at
home, and after spiraling I just remember me
standing in the knife holding a knife and looking at
my wrist. This had never happened to me before but
it felt like I blacked out for some minutes because I
genuinely don’t remember how I came to be holding
that knife. When I became conscious of the situation,
I quickly put the knife down and ran to my room,
afraid of what just happened. The thought that I
could no longer stop myself, and the mere possibility
of me losing consciousness, or whatever that was,
again, scared me like nothing else in the world before
that. This was also the moment that solidified in my
head that I don’t actually want to die.

62
 This is the exact moment I came to the realization
that I cannot fight this alone anymore and I need
professional help. Having talked to some friends
about the possibilities in Bamberg, I learned of the
Psychiatric clinic and decided I needed to check
myself in. I needed help that I felt I could no longer
give to myself. At that moment I was willing to try
out anything.

63
The Wooden Grave (poem)

The roots are winding, entwining

Themselves around my bare chest.
The procession of the labyrinthine bark
Over my sickly body scratches and scars
My worn out tissue.

The hole left there by the morning dew

Of my tears, engulfs and nourishes me.
I lie there, shivering, on the frozen precipice,
As a crown of thorns ornaments
My bleeding forehead.

I feel the sensation of the budding

Stems growing from my pain.
The frosty nakedness of the celibate tree fills
The air with vapors of regret, polluting
My dying lungs.

There is no tree. I am the tree.

64
When Flowers Blossom (poem)

When flowers blossom in the spring and leave

Their charming scent, so all around them can
Enjoy the efflorescence and conceive
A birth more beautiful than any man.

Are they aware that, when plucked, their inner

Glow is taken too. Put on gaudy trials
By cheap men, and which are, after dinner,
Paraded for cheap empathetic smiles.

The flower in turn plants a seed of grace.

It knows the cure is to leave the same kind
Which is still different, but with its trace.
Then can it move ahead with peace of mind.

What if I’m cured, like the flower displaced?

Would I still be me, or someone replaced?

65
Birds (poem)

Can birds confide?

In each other, chat?

Their companionship

As lonely as I

Hide behind a smile

Which aches for

What is missing?

Is kinship ever truly worth

It? Is to blame

For lonely nests

Is/Are full of the lonely

Birds.

66
Thinking of Roses (poem)

Silent, I stand here, thinking of roses

Which fall from above, extending their thorns.
Much like a prophet, the words he discloses,
Reaches the masses he tenderly mourns.

Observing the lily, so tender and bright,

Stretching its petals as if to embrace.
Much like the lovers who hold on so tight,
Hoping, together, they’d face their own doubt.

A glance at the orchid reveals her design.

The whiteness so pure, as if to denote
The orphaned child’s blessing upon the shrine,
The blood of the center, his empty throat.

The hyacinth fare, which blooms in a crowd,

Shows me the truth of the rush of the street,
Where good men die, for being too proud
While others are huddled and brought to their feet.

67
They (Never) Tell You (poem)

They never tell you how easily

Loneliness sneaks up on you,
Like an ever present companion,
It follows you around, and then

Sits down with you through your morning coffee.

Accompanies you as you wash your face.
Looks down upon you as you brush your teeth.
Stands by your side, as you eat your breakfast.

They never tell you how loneliness

Actually likes groups of people.
Like a silent observer it waits for
The chance to approach you, and then:

Teases you the moment you stop talking.

Seduces you as you have your first sips.
Flirts with you in the empty bathroom stall.
Kisses you as you’re about to go home.

They never tell you how loneliness

Can start to get aggressive and like
A wild animal looking for its pray,
It pounces

68
Nature in Denial (poem)

Sitting in silence, so peaceful, at rest,

Around me echoes – birds wandering by.
And still I cannot but sorely detest
The lone freedom of the limitless sky,
For peace is not so easily come by.
And yet, I revere its potential vast.
However conflicting, I still ask why?
And wonder how much longer this will last,
That I am perpetually stuck in the past?

Standing in the park, a swarm of fish swim

Idly by – and I cannot but ponder
How serene they are – how much like a hymn
They group – to meanderingly maunder
Without a care in the world. Thus I brim
At the moment – and still, like on a whim,
Depart in my thoughts to a sadness stern.
Though tranquil the outside, my mind is grim.
And I ask myself: What should I unlearn
When after the dance of the fish I rightly yearn?

Looking at nature, I cannot but think:

Depression seems like such a minor thing.
For how can you, when nature sends her wink
Not dance from joy, rejoice or even sing?
And yet, it seems so strange, for I can’t bring
Myself to laugh – not even for a while.
No matter the beauty, I cannot cling
To its wondrous peace – nor even smile.
Is depression then, just nature in denial?

69
I Long for Excuses (poem)

I long for excuses

To mend the abuses
Of this self-affliction.

This disease, it parades

The misuse it creates
Never daring to leave.

I am bloody,
Watered down,
Waiting for release.

Stumbling and
Falling down
Wearing a medical gown.

When will I
Be free of this?
When does it refuse?

To steal my day,
My body
And the sunshine’s ray?

70
 Letting Go
“Let today embrace the past with remembrance and
the future with longing.”
Khalil Gibran

Letting go is usually seen as a good thing. People

tell you all the time just to let it go. It’s seen as
something you just have to do. But very few people
actually explain to you what letting go entails and
how difficult of a process it can sometimes be. I don’t
think one is ever fully prepared for it, but we all have
to learn how to deal with it when it comes our way.
One of the aspects of letting go that people don’t
often mention or talk about is the fact that letting go
doesn’t just mean letting go of external things. If
you’re letting go of a friend, or a loved one, you are
not merely letting go of them, it is much more
difficult than that. What you are actually letting go is
small bits of yourself. You’re letting go of time, of
shared spaces, of moments and histories. Every time
you give yourself to another person, whether as a
friend or something more, you give yourself to them.
If they leave, they take those pieces of yourself with
them. What you are left with now is a piece of
yourself that they have. Sometimes that piece was
important to you, crucial even. It can be difficult
navigating life without that one piece. This is what
you have to learn to let go off.

71
 The opposite is also true, they left a little piece of
themselves with you. Now you have to learn to live
without the whole, and only that little piece. Now,
you have to figure out a way to protect and cherish
it, for it is the only thing that reminds you of them.
By being overly protective of it, you run the risk of
neglecting the hole left by that little piece of yourself
that you lost. And when neglected, the hole deepens
and deepens, never finding real closure, always
yearning for what was once there. No one tells you
this, no one prepares you to deal with this kind of
loss.
What you have to learn is how to detach yourself
from yourself. You have to learn to cut off pieces of
yourself: the memories, moments, dinner dates, date
nights, songs – all of that changes once you finally let
go. Songs have different meanings, poetry opens up
a whole new world to you, one you could have never
seen before, stories reach a different part of you, one
you never knew existed before. Everything that used
to remind you of the good things, now reminds you
of the end. You have to let go of feelings you once
had and embrace new ones.
Letting go is not something that happens
instantaneously, in the moment, when you decide
things will now change and be different. No, letting
go requires a lot of time, and it is a process that
cannot be rushed. Depending on what was lost, it
could take hours, days, months or even years. It takes
time to heal, to move on and rebuild something in

72
the empty spaces where there used to be pieces of
you.
Letting go is kind of like repainting your walls. It
is putting a façade, a new coat covering the damage
on the wall. You could paint it in different colors,
decorate using new artwork to hang on it – maybe
something that no longer reminds you of what it used
to look like before all the changes. It doesn’t
necessarily mean forgetting what the wall looked like
before, but hopefully signifies a willingness to try
different thing and not cling to it, forgetting to patch
holes simply because they carry specific memories
and have nostalgic moments associated with them.
If there are cracks in the wall, those will most likely
stay. You cannot paint over cracks, much like you
cannot easily be rid of the past. What you can do
however, is give yourself a new beginning and a
hopeful outlook on the future, and maybe someone
will come along who will help you mend the most
stubborn of cracks. Perhaps you realize in some time
that you can do it yourself. But for right now, simply
beginning again is enough, and that can start with a
new color palette.

73
What Will Live On (poem)

Out in the wild, where animals roam, I

Feel at such peace with the natural flow
Of great rivers the Heron’s domain, my
Only concern; if it does indeed show,
Is such that when I leave, and home I lie
The questions I have will remain, and so
Troubled I am that this peace will be gone
What will be washed off and what will live on?

74
Surrendering to Fear (poem)

Can I surrender to the fear?

When it assumes all the control,
And takes my body – All I hear
Is the screaming – the nearing fall
Of my mind – The gears twist in sheer
Agony as I hit a wall,
Where I am greeted as a friend.
Trying to find the painless end?

The never-ending story – the squall

In my head – It scrambles for dear
Life – I think I hear the slow crawl
Of acceptance, starting to near
The beginning – Not a small thing
To be at ease with your own pain
Hoping, one day, it won’t be in vain.

75
I Think about You Every Day (poem)

I know it hasn’t been that long,

But I still think about you every day.
Now and then, I think I smell your perfume,
I think I sense your presence next to mine.
But I know it can’t be true.

I know that I’ve just barely left,

But I still think about you every day.
How I’d wake up and you’d just be there,
How I’d make coffee and we’d drink it, together.
But I know those are just memories now.

I know that you’re no longer here,

But I still think about you every day.
The way you’d pinch my cheek,
The way you’d hug me from behind.
But I know those things are no longer for me.

I know that you’ve found another,

But I still think about you every day.
Hoping to see that tender smile again,
Hoping you wake up to a loving embrace.
But I know that you’ll be fine.

I know that you now have a chance to be happy,

And I think about it every day.
How, if I’m lucky, I’ll be there to see you grow
How I long to hear you say that it was worth it.
But I don’t know how to continue without you.

76
Breathing and Meditation (fragment)

I got a breathing exercise from the therapist today.

This exercise helps you control your breath by
slowing it down, and relaxing your body in the
process. The way it goes is you take a deep breath in
through your nose for 4 seconds, then you breathe
out through your mouth for 7 seconds, and you
repeat it for around 11 minutes. Deep breath in, deep
breath out, and repeat. Ideally you want to practice
this throughout the day.

I was honestly surprised by how much this exercise

really helped me to relax and let go of some of my
anxiety. The act of breathing out, of releasing not
only the breath but everything that is on your mind
at the moment is more liberating then I expected. I
was prepared for this to be another one of those
things that I would try and realize it didn’t work for
me. However, being able to sit with myself really
helped.

Perhaps that is how you should approach life. Take

in the surroundings, the friends, the positive
emotions; release the fear, the anger, the hurt and
other negative emotions. Instead of trying to fight
your racing thoughts, take them in, sit with them for
a little bit and then release them. Let them go. The
more you struggle to get rid of them, the more they
will invade your mind and it becomes that much
more difficult to process them. If you acknowledge
where they came from and what caused them, and let
them just be there with you, experiencing them fully,

77
then they have served their purpose and can be on
their way with your next exhale.

It’s hard to take in that light breath after something

shakes you to your core. It’s hard to sit in silence
when all you want to do is scream. I had an
assignment today to try and put all these racing
thoughts in my head on paper. Although they were
tough to put on paper, I managed to do it. I think
that was my deep breath in. Now it’s time to breathe
out. I just have to remember – breathing out has to
be longer than breathing in. I cannot forget to give
myself time to process the thoughts waiting inside my
head. I need to let them go. But maybe not this very
second. Perhaps they can stay with me a little while
longer, and then I can finally exhale. I don’t have to
forget about them or fight against them – I just have
to let them breathe as well.

I was told I need to observe them – so I let them

float in front of me, at least until I take my next
breathe in. I was told I need to understand them – So
I look at them, carefully, as I breathe out. I try to
grapple with the notion of where they come from and
why these were the thoughts that I wrote down.

For the first time in a long time, I see my thoughts

written on this piece of paper and I don’t want to
fight against them. I have realized how exhausting it
is to always battle with them; them always fighting
with me. For a moment at least, we can both breathe
in and breathe out, without the need to assault each
other, without the need to hurt each other. I just
want, for a brief moment at least, to be able to look

78
at them without confrontation, without judgment,
without guilt, regret or remorse – just look at them
and see them for what they truly are. Thoughts.
Thoughts that come and go, like breathing.

Still I am here, and my thoughts are still here, but

something has changed. They are a bit quieter, a bit
calmer. Something else has changed. I am a bit
quitter, a bit calmer. I don’t know how exactly this
happened, but I feel happy about it. Is this also part
of letting go? Understanding yourself enough to
know that sometimes you just need to feel, you just
need to release everything that’s pent up, and then be
able to sit with yourself and understand why it
happened and be ok with it. Perhaps I’m starting to
slowly let go. I’m ok with that.

79
The Willow Tree (poem)

The vulpine willow knows the only way

To battle strong winds is to surrender
To the whips – For if you only inveigh,
You’re swimming upstream – as a defender,
Against forces impossible to sway.
But, should you observe the willow tender,
You will observe quite a woodland wonder.
A warbling willow never falls under

The boot of the winds – Remarkable feat

To accomplish – Where does the secret lie,
Of the willow sweet, employed to defeat
The thrashing and bashing; the winds outcry?
It seems to me, you must go with the beat.
Accept the flurry, and take a deep sigh.

Only then will tumultuous winds cease,

Turn into a soft breeze, which becomes peace
Echoing through your body, finally at ease.

80
Mom (fragment)

Today, while talking to the therapist, the topic of

my mom came up again. I thought I had dealt with
that chapter of my life – it was painful, brutal, it took
a long while to deal with the realization that she’s not
there anymore. I thought I had made my piece with
the situation – it took years, but finally, I thought I
was done. Turns out, I’m not.

I have this horrific knot in my stomach, it’s hard

to focus on anything else. It hurts, it still hurts so
much. Why does pain cling to me like an old friend?
Why does grief step in when, finally, I think I’m
doing better. Why is it necessary for me to be
constantly thrust into deep sorrow amidst the flurry
of my own unresolved emotions?

I never properly grieved, I understand that now. It

doesn’t diminish the pain I feel. Even as I’m writing
this the realization of what these words actually mean
is starting to sink in. It’s getting hard to breathe and
I can feel the tears are starting to flow again. I know
these tears. They are long-forgotten tears which are
now back. I recognize then, they are all too familiar.
I’ve cried these exact tears before.

I never went to her grave after the funeral. I don’t

fully understand why that is. Was it too hard, was I
not ready? I think I always wanted to go back when I
knew I was doing really well in life. When I had
accomplished something bigger. I think I just needed
to be able to stand there and say – don’t worry, mom,
I’m doing alright. I never went back to her grave after

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the funeral. I guess that moment I imagined in my
head, never came. And so it didn’t feel right to go and
bother her without having some good news. The
more I think about that, however, the more I think
it’s a lie. I think I’ve been lying to myself because I’m
scared. There were plenty of good things that
happened to me since then, and plenty of
opportunities to go there – and I chose not to.
Because I was afraid, and sad, and I couldn’t handle
that. I couldn’t handle her being gone. I couldn’t
handle the fact that I had never properly said
goodbye. I just couldn’t handle any of it and so I
chickened out every time, always coming up with one
or the other excuse in my head as to why that is.

I think I’m now ready to go there. I think I need

to go there, despite everything, I need to go to her
grave and tell her not to worry. I’m still scared, and
I’m still deeply sad – but the time has finally come for
me to own up to my fears and do what I need to do.
I need to tell her there’s nothing to worry about. Tell
her that her little boy is fighting. He’s fighting for his
life, but there’s nothing to worry about because that
little boy is still fighting. He’s not giving up.

And if this boy has half the courage, you did, mom,
he will be alright. He will make it through this.
Because, you showed him what it means to be a
fighter. You showed that to him every single day,
while you were struggling, barely able to walk, eat or
speak. And yet, somehow, anytime I would walk into
the room you’d put on this big smile – and it made
me feel safe, protected by someone whose strength I
will never truly understand. What I didn’t know then,

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is that that was probably your way of telling me not
to worry, that everything was going to be alright,
because you were still fighting.

Mom, I miss you. I really miss you. I’m doing

better, I’m getting better, but it’s scary out here. It’s
scary without you. I’m afraid, mom. Don’t worry
though, I haven’t given up yet. I never truly have. No
matter what I say. And you know why? Because you
raised a fighter. You raised somebody who cares
about other people, a lot. I wish you were still here to
teach me how to love myself, like you loved me. I
wish you were still here, mom.

But you’re not. It wasn’t your fault, you fought like

hell, and you never showed signs of it, all I saw were
smiles. But you didn’t have to fight alone, you had
dad. He helped you out a lot. He was there for you,
and I don’t think any of us really know to what
extent. But I’m glad you had him, so you didn’t suffer
alone. Having someone by your side all those years
must have meant a lot to you.

I admire you, mom. You’re probably the single

strongest person I have ever met in my life. I don’t
know of anybody who went through such absolute
torture, for years and was still smiling through it all,
showing no signs of slowing down or giving up. I
guess that’s why you exceeded the doctor’s
expectations by years. Because you gave everything
you had to that fight, and through all that, you still
had enough of yourself to give to us. For that I will
forever be thankful to you.

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 Do you think if you were here today, you would
admire me too? Do you think you would be proud of
your little boy? I grew up mom. Sometimes, I wish I
was still a kid and you were still here, by my side. I
feel like a lot of things would be easier for me if I had
you by my side, if I had you to help me fight. Maybe
some of that incredible courage could have rubbed
off on me, and maybe, just maybe I could have had a
bit more strength.

I’m not as strong as you were. You set an

impossible standard. I do hope that despite that, you
would still be proud of me and the things I’ve done.
I’ve done a lot of good things in my life, mom. I’ve
met a lot of good people, whom I care about deeply.
They also care a lot about me. I’d like to believe you
would see the friends I’ve made and you would be
happy I have such wonderful people around me. I
think you would approve of them.

I also made a lot of mistakes, I’ve missed out on a

lot of opportunities. But that’s okay, that’s just life.
You don’t always make the right decisions, and
sometimes you will make wrong ones and you have
to leave with them. I have to live with my mistakes.
And I carry them every day. It’s kind of tiring, but I
have to do it. There are days when I’d rather not carry
that burden, I wish to just let go of it and walk again,
freely. I really wish that. But pain is a part of life, loss
is a part of life, heartache is a part of life. I know,
because I felt all those things when you were gone. I
felt them, but I pushed them down because I couldn’t
deal with them at the time. That is why I’m writing

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this to you, I think I’m finally ready to accept what I
feel, to accept what happened.

I carry a lot of sadness within me, too. I don’t

know where that sadness came from, but it refuses to
leave. You never got the chance to teach me how to
let go of my sadness, you were always so good at
doing that. At least, I think. I never saw your sadness.
I just saw you, and I don’t recall any sadness there –
despite everything. Despite the cancer. If only you
stayed a bit longer, there are so many more things you
could have thought me. So many more smiles you
could have given. So many more times that you could
have held me in your arms. And I know you would
have loved that too.

I wish you were here, so I could tell all of this to

you in person. I just wish you were here.

I miss you.

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 Distraction

Throughout my time here, and my journey

through this – I often would have to pause and give
myself a little bit of respite. Therefore I started
composing series of comical verses, meant not only
to entertain but also distract me from the severity of
the situation. Although more serious poetry helped
me a lot to understand my feelings. I think what was
just as important was not getting so fixated on them
but also having these small moments where I could
just play around and smile a bit as I composed stories
of silly animals and sillier people.

These poems are often about animals and are

meant to be completely absurd in every way
imaginable. Despite the absurdity or perhaps
precisely because of it, they would extract a smile
when one was deeply needed. For even in the darkest
of times, it is good to stop and smell the laughter,
even if only for a tiny moment. In that sense they
fulfilled their purpose beautifully.

When I found it difficult to find joy in anything,

these little verses helped me to distance myself from
my own self-consuming mind. By focusing on
writing them and figuring out how exactly I could
make them as ridiculous as possible and as
entertaining as possible, I soon started to get a some
real joy from writing them and thinking what the next
installment might bring.

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 Another great thing about them is that I would
read them out to whoever was visiting me at the time,
which amongst my situation and my more serious
poetry also allowed for a bit of light-heartedness in
the face of the whole situation. I think it put both
them and me at a bit of an ease.

Much like a warm hearth offers refuge from the

cold - they too offered my friends and me some
refuge, which is why I happily include them amongst
the more serious writings. They have proved to be
both my hearth and my safe harbor in some very
trying times and have therefore earned their rightful
place amongst the best of my verses. Which is why I
happily include them here.

They may not be the most poetic, or most elevated

pieces of writing, but they too have something to
offer, I believe. If nothing else, a quick chuckle – the
utmost importance of which I have learned during
my stay here. And I would urge everyone to
remember. Never underestimate the importance of a
well-timed smile. It can truly change your life.

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A Story of a Bird

They told me something queer today

And this is what was said:
“A learned bird is hard to find,
Unless you give it bread,
Just watch out for your head.”

I wouldn’t let a thing so quaint

Just simply pass me by
So, I gathered up my stuff
And went to see a guy,
What could even go awry?

To see the guy was no small task

And it would take some skill.
For people say he eats and sleeps
Atop a lofty hill.
I think I’ll try it still.

Upon the hill I went along

Full of nice supplies
When all at once a cave emerged
And out came a surprise!
A grizzly with a dozen eyes!

I scrambled back at once

But tripped and fell down bad.
I didn’t wince, although it hurt
But I scraped my knee real bad.
My elbow too, if I may add.

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But all was good,
The bear now gone
I think I best be back.
Wait, what the … hang right on,
A bird that’s on a lawn!

I whipped out my supplies,

A toasty piece of bread,
The bird then pounced!
Her eyes were red,
She grabbed the bread,
And quickly fled.
While I had barely saved my head.

I guess the stories all were true,

I really am quite shocked.
For after giving bread,
The bird did walk and talk.

Too bad she had to leave so soon,

I barely heard a squawk!

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A Story of a Chicken

I met a tawny man in town

And what he said was this:
“All the things that I have done
Have been an uphill climb.
But all I ever wanted:
To see a chicken eat a lime,
What a waste of time!”

I thought real hard, I thought real well

And then I had a plan.
I’d fry the lime, so nice and fine
And show the chick the pan.
She took one look and said:
“I’d rather join the Klan.”

I then devised the perfect test,

For the chick I baked a treat:
A lovely key-lime pie.
The chick said no, it’s way too dry
And went back to her nest.

I’d had to have wit, I’d had to be fast

For the chick was way too smart.
I thought again and had a new plan:
To outsmart the chick I made a tart.
After sniffing once, the chick would just depart.

I lost the battle, I lost the feud

But I gave it one last go.
I asked the chick one final time:
“Is it really all so bad, is it such a crime?

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Why can’t you simply eat the goddamn lime?”

“It really is quite simple, see,

You did some tricks, you put a mask
But you never came to me
You never cared to ask.”

She ate the lime,

It was about time,
But all she said was:
“This tastes like grime.”

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A Story of a Turtle

I met a funny lady,

She told a funny tale.
It was over coffee,
While she read her mail.
Opening a letter, I think she broke a nail.

The story goes as follows:

Over by the pond,
There lives a paltry turtle.
When prompted to respond,
The turtle would abscond.

Some say she is shy,

Others call her rude,
Whatever the case,
I was glued.
But I had to intrude:

“What if I went over?

And cast a furtive glance.
Approach the turtle slowly,
And ask about her stance.
There just may be a chance!”

The lady looked me over,

Says: “I don’t see why not.”
But I should bring a camera
And take a real good shot.
Lest it be for naught.

So, on my way I went,

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To find the silent beast.
With camera in hand,
I confided in my priest.
And headed down south-east.

At last I found the fiend

Lying on its shell.
Poor thing was stuck on there,
It must have been like hell!
Much like a puppy in a well.

I helped it up,
It felt so nice,
To aid this poorly fellow.
It stood up and asked my price,
But All I wanted was advice.

When I go back,
What do I say?
There’s a lot of prying ears.
Were you led astray? At play?
Or simply having a bad day?

Then the turtle said to me:

“The men would come,
Kick me around,
Leave me numb,
And then play dumb.”

“I don’t know the tales they tell,

But this here is my plea,
When you go back,
Kick one in the knee,
And tell him it’s from me!”

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A story of a Pig

I met a granny the other day,

She didn’t have a lot to say.
But what she did,
Was call me gay, but that’s ok.

She also spun me quite a yarn

About a pig named Wilfred.
She said he lives there in a barn,
And would often yell out “darn!”

My mind was blown, my eyes went wide,

As I heard this bawdry tale.
I was angry, I was stunned!
For what I’d thought, I’d go to jail.
And yet my thoughts were of no avail.

I gathered the courage,

I gathered my might,
And off I went
To see this blight.
I was ready for a fight.

I got to the barn,

And what should I see,
A surprising sight.
A piglet the size of a bee,
I didn’t expect it to be so wee.

When all at once,

in front of my eyes
The piglet says “darn!”
Then down it lies,

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And suddenly cries.

“I’m so alone,
It’s all a guise,
I cuss and I yell,
But it’s all just lies.
All I want is some fries!”

I couldn’t help
But tear up a little.
I went to town,
And started the griddle,
I even made some peanut brittle.

The pig now fed,

The problem solved.
With no one hurt,
Who was involved.
And the piglet justly absolved.

95
A Story of a Cat

I met a lad today,

He ran past in a hurry.
He thought his cat was sick.
I told him not to worry,
It just had too much curry.

But, his tale was not as simple.

Of that there was no doubt.
For when his cat would “meow”
“Mayo” would come out.
Perhaps a faulty snout?

So, I went on a journey

To help him if I can.
Luckily for me,
I already had a plan!
It involved a van.

First things first,

I had to learn to drive.
The instructor told me six years,
But I managed it in five.
Now, I could arrive.

With a license in hand,

I safely parked my van,
So I could see the cat,
As my mission had begun.
Oh the van? It was a Sudan.

What was the matter?

I asked the little feline.

96
The answer as eerie
As a tickle to the spine.
Out came a “mayo” in the form of a whine.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to run.

But, I did promise to stay.
Upon further inspection,
My god … “It’s fowl play”!
I never thought I’d see the day.

I ran to the chickens

And what should I see,
The culprit comes out
Completely carefree.
It was the rooster marquis!

How did you do it?

I asked in a rage.
“Quite easy in fact,
If you look at the cage,
Your distress you’ll assuage.”

I looked at the cage,

And what should I find.
Bottles of mayo just lying around.
Yet again, with my brilliant mind,
I solved a case that was one-of-a-kind.

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A Story of a Bumblebee

I met a man
Upon a stair.
What followed was quite funny.
His face was bare,
Except for where
He had glued some honey.

This honey man,

A decent bloke,
Forgot what he had done.
So, whenever he spoke,
He’d nearly choke,
It was a lot of fun.

One rainy summer day,

An insect came around.
And told us all his strife,
And how he nearly drowned,
As he flew too close to the ground.
But a beaver saved his life
(I think it was his wife.)

His sorry tale does not end there,

For he was really screwed.
The reason he was flying low
Was to find some food.
But before he could, he was subdued.
His ego took a massive blow.

I had to raise his spirits up,

I had to help him out,
For I could tell, he began to sink

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Into crippling self-doubt.
At least he didn’t pout.
So, what I did was make a drink.

I drank it up,
It was quite nice,
But the matter still remained.
The bumblebee had asked me twice,
If I could offer some advice.
I think I may be scatterbrained.

I thought real hard,

To find a solution,
For our buzzing bee.
I think I may need absolution,
For I suggested execution.
Then suddenly it came to me.

I ran back to my house,

And then checked my money,
When I made sure that it was there
I took out a jar of honey.
Isn’t it quite funny?
I had a jar to spare.

I gave it to the bumblebee

And said next time, beware!

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I Met a Man (poem)

I met a man upon a boat,

He tried real hard, but he was done.
His boat just wouldn’t float.

Then I met a blacksmith’s son,

The boy was eager, but still young.
His task a knife, he made a gun.

Then from thin air a linguist sprung,

But what a mess that turned into.
He barely spoke his mother tongue.

A painter then made his debut,

And showed the portrait he thought best.
Both eyes and ears were quite askew.

Unless they were severely stressed,

Then this has got to be a jest.

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I Think You’re Fun (poem)

I think you’re fun, I think you’re cute,

If I could maybe ask you out,
I’d love to see you in a suit.
I would just like to ask about
What’s in your hands is that a trout?
I guess no one is without sin,
I just did not expect a fin…

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