I do not feel shame when I am in pain; I feel grace.
Pain gives you the opportunity to create something authentically great from a negative space and it shows the utmost grace when you can find honor in an unfavorable mental state.
All I want in the big scheme is for you and me to be able to speak about how we feel freely. Where ideas are allowed to differ in a crowd without shutting each other down with a buzzword to block the profound just because one person has self doubt. Because I might be bitter inside from personal bad times but that doesn’t give me the right to say you cannot vocalize all of your good times.
The right to speak is the right to feel and the right to feel is the right to be and if we can’t just be then there is no point to humanity.
I own exclusive legal rights to the words from this mouth drawn by my tongue always right and never wrong because I feel how I’m meant to in the phrases that come through they’re from me to you. If you love it, I do too but if you hate it, I don’t know you.
I don’t want to be known for my pain, I want to make the most of my pain, and if that entails emotions to prevail in a story that parallels my particular mental hell and I can make you understand a specific circumstance then all will be fine ’cause baby, I’m one of a kind.
This has been a really devastating year with more loss than our brains can comprehend, some said with goodbyes some with unfinished sentences. It’s not that we’re okay with the loss, it’s that we didn’t have a chance to lament. It’s not that we’re dwelling in the past, it’s that there was no proper end. And it’s not that I’m mad or insensitive, but there are some goodbyes I simply cannot accept. Some explanations are not just explanations but a farewell, my dear friend. And I guess the collective conscience within all of us is learning a very hard lesson, that the world will keep on turning no matter who’s lost interest.
It’s just lonely… when you’re not allowed to express pain because you’re the mentally ill girl who can’t be taken seriously, when you’re not allowed to drive the freeway because no one has faith in the skills you’ve achieved, when you’re not allowed to paint your face because you never give in to a normal level of intimacy, when you’re not allowed to respond to hate because defending your mental state is a luxury, when you’re not allowed to remember heartbreak because normal people don’t take this long to grieve, when you’re not allowed to cut to the chase because only crazy people act with so much honesty.
It just gets kind of lonely inside my brain when even your loved ones can’t understand how you operate, because I know that my honest-to-God pain only frustrates, adding a whole new layer to what should be normal heartbreak. I guess what I’m trying to say is that ordinary things like a broken heart or a common sickness are a lot harder to cope with when you have a mental illness because people always have a million rational reasons for why you’re incorrect but your hyper-sensitive mind has never been dictated by such logic.
Nothing makes me believe in the divinity of the universe more than the synchronicity between art and the subconscious; because I could write and write and have no idea what I mean but when I take a look back I can see what I needed to see and to think that I initially didn’t understand what I was referencing in my piece yet it found a way to acknowledge and explain my mentality that to me is proof that the universe and all its cosmic incredibility is responsive and alive even inside the deeply hidden facets of my mind.
I wrote this poem, “Like Fine China“, without fully understanding what my subconscious was trying to tell me. After reading it a couple of times I realized the meaning behind the words. Fine China is the symbol for making art (something beautiful) out of sadness. The sadness is a constant cycle that manifests itself like patterns on fine China, royal “blue” (sad) details that I’ve etched upon the surface (my writing). When I have days that I break down, the porcelain breaks down, and I could use the jagged pieces of sadness to hurt myself but instead I choose to use them to build a display out of the broken pieces in the form of a porcelain vase (art from my mental breakdown) and there I show off pretty flowers (rhymes through poetry). The problem that arises from creating art out of sadness, sometimes sadness that a 3rd party might see as “old news”, is that these emotions I’ve recited are as good as dead to the world, hence why the flowers in the fine China vase I’ve built are decaying. The wonder in this, though, is that those decaying flowers offer me, the writer, solace. The cycle of sadness and creativity continues as the decaying flowers become a beautiful floral tea that I turn to for comfort as a grieve the ongoing pain I’m still in. Other people don’t see the benefit of the flowers (writing about perpetual pain), but I do. The entire process from fine china to a floral tea is cathartic, as is the artistic process, and in the end I feel okay and like I can survive my own mental state. Alas, a new day comes, the sadness inevitably returns as I am overwhelmed with reminders from the real world, and the pretty pain goes back to being “too pretty to comprehend” (commentary on not fully understanding what I was writing in the poem itself “Like Fine China”). Thus the entire breaking down of fine china (delving into an artistic outlet) occurs again.
Isn’t it incredible how art can be completely mindless but reveal something so profound in the mind it spawns from?