My name is Samantha and I am 25 years old. I started writing poetry around the age of 9 or 10. I have suffered from addiction since the age of 13 and I have struggled with mental illness for even longer than that. I have been clean since August 25, 2016 and this is the first poem I have written in sobriety.
My diagnoses are BPD, PTSD, dysthymia, GAD, anorexia, and body dysmorphia. I am finally learning to live life on life’s terms, and to appreciate the fact that I am still alive. Recovery is not always easy but it is beautiful.
The poem below reads more like spoken word poetry, I am not into the frilly stuff. Every word is true and every word is real. I hope I can connect to a few readers. We are not alone in this journey.
I am trapped in a body of darkness surrounded by light. The me that you see isn’t the me that I see. I am a soul eater. A criminal in the court of love. I demand nothing and I want it all. There’s nothing that can stop me. But you can.
I write in riddles and I speak in tongues. I feel alive and I miss feeling dead. The chaos used to consume me until I choked on sad, sick, rotten air. I picked my face better than I could pick the good from the bad. I hated everything about me. I still hate most things about me.
I can’t even sit here and let the words flow. I want to impress the devil. Make him lust for me like I lust for a hole in my vein. An escape from the world that has never been good to me and never been better to me. I feel like I am owed something. Pay me for my misery. Reward me for not giving up. Fall under the spell of ugly seduction.
I judge everything. I want for everything. I need nothing. My man told me he loved me today. Why do I want him to hate me? Love is beautiful and I cried after I said it back. I waited for him to say it for so long. Why do I want him to hate me?
I got caught lying to my parents. They are sad. I am sad. I feel guilty and I also feel entitled. I want to do whatever I want. Can I continue to live in my false world of no consequences? My stomach drops when I think of their faces. The ‘why do you keep hurting us?’ face. The ‘you are a piece of shit’ face. Does it drop because I am sorry, or does it drop because I now found my excuse to suffer?
I haven’t gotten high but I want to get high. I can feel the meth in my throat. In my chest. In my arms. My track marks are fading and I am grieving. That’s a sick way to feel. I am so ashamed of everything. I’m not wearing makeup today and I keep thinking that everyone thinks I’m tweaking because of my face.
I still think the Feds follow me, but here I am wishing there was still meth scattered in my car. I don’t miss the insanity of thinking there was a demon following me around. I still remember his face. I used to ask him questions but he would just smile at me. Sitting outside of my house or floating above me in the hospital. He was so real. He was so scary. I welcomed him though. I thought he was there because I was going to die soon. I thought he would hold my hand and deliver me to hell. I cried all day because he scared me, yet seeing him was comforting since I knew his presence meant I was high. Too high.
Sometimes I still hear the radio when it isn’t on. Sometimes I hear people screaming when there’s no one there. Sometimes I look for the demon, but he doesn’t come around anymore. It’s telling that when I feel afraid, my first thought is to look up to find that mother fucker hanging out on the wall. I look for the evil before I look for the good.
I put myself in painful situations to validate the belief that I can’t do this. That I don’t deserve this. I am surrounded by love and I can’t stand it. How can I love love and at the same time I want to cast it away? There is so much beauty on this planet. The reaction I get from my dog when I come home. The hugs I get from people like me. The warmth I feel in my family home. The calm I feel when my guy looks into my eyes.
I am so important to other people, yet I am so expendable to myself. I would rather end this entry on a poetic note than get the madness out. I can appreciate a warm breeze today. I can look up at the night sky and find joy in counting the stars. Why do I want to destroy it? I’ll save everyone else before I save myself. I argue with myself until the next best thing is to shut myself up.
I am queen of the jokes and I analyze everything too much. I feel like a whale at 105 pounds or 89 pounds. Will I ever feel at peace or will it always be synthetic? Will I ever learn to trust or will I die alone wondering if people really only loved me out of guilt?
I am running out of time and energy to write. My veins are on fire; my brain wants what I do not. This is the most sincere I’ve been in a long time, yet it isn’t edgy enough for me. Creative enough for me. Good enough for me.
I wonder if I’ll ever see that demon again. If I do, I’ll ask him for forgiveness.