When suffering from depression, or mental illness; it can be very hard to live in domestic partnerships.  This is especially true, when the partner of the sufferer, has no interest in gaining coping skills to off set some of the dramatic emotional upheavals that are bound to occur.

We don’t plan our depressions; it can take years and years of self awareness to pin point all the potential triggers, as often times they tend to be more subconscious programs.  Dates, places, and phrases can, and often times, will set off a new bout of despair.

When the despair hits, it leads to an overwhelming feeling of being misunderstood, and alienated.  These feelings amplify self criticism; making the already annoying self critical response clock in off the charts.  A pervasive weight of ” I can do nothing right.” and “It’s all my fault.”

The thoughts and feelings that you may have had on “good days” now are second guessed and reduced to illusion.  That voice of illusion, says “No one really loves you.  No one ever will.”

It’s hard not to feel crazy when logic and emotion collide in the confusion of depression.

This is a piece I wrote while in a domestic partnership, that led me to spending a night in jail for domestic violence.  I started attending drug, alcohol, and domestic abuse classes for court.

Many times through the 7 months that I attended, I asked my partner to come with me; as I felt they were sharing a lot of useful information.  I also thought it would put  us on the same page, so that we could move forward, together.

However, he was not interested in those classes; which said to me, he didn’t really care about Us.  It broke my heart, and inevitably we split up.  For years, I wondered, “what if?  What if he was invested in my desire to get better? ”

I have since had to move on from that, and accept where I am, and who I am today.  I know that not just any one can handle the unforeseen upsets of the future.  It will require strength, patience, and cooperation.

When Words Signal the End.

This frustration builds. This love, a lie. And I am burning for more than this disappointment.

I am yearning for more than this fear of abandonment.

Alone with these thoughts and feeling, despite the activity around me; this soul is closed. All the doors are closed.

We can’t communicate. You say my reality isn’t valid.

It really isn’t yours to judge, but you do; constantly.

You blame me for being some fucked up artist.

It isn’t that, at all.

Can’t you see, sometimes we are both wrong.

No. You control. You blame. Nothing changes.

You bribe the master, waiving possibilities in my face. Nothing is ever manifest; it finds itself as watered down truths, dripping lies from your lips.

I am down, because you keep me there.

I am mad, because you show you care, in the most fucked up ways.

Days later, you apologize; so we keep riding the storm.

Love borne Hate. Emancipation is evident. All of this too late.

I am debating my hate; trying to hold my love, but I am drowning.

It’s astounding to watch from the wings, as I take swings at your face.

Wasting time, like it’s easy to buy; when really it’s hard to replace.

I want for you to show me something real; but the wheel of life turns and this heart burns with heartache.

Love is a dish best served cold, old and mouldy upon a paper plate. Swarming with fly larvae,

It isn’t tangible; it causes vertigo as my brain starts to go south.

My mouth a cesspool of verbs and curving words; they slice like a knife, through this paper flesh.

Should I regret this venture?

It’s too late, this path paved with good intentions, gone awry.

The repetitive question; Why, why, why me?

Why this mess? Why?

I confess; I am the mess. I am the beast with talon feet. I am the rage and the endless sadness. The builder of madness and tears that never seem to dry.

I try, but you call me the catalyst… The baddest bitch, you know.

Blow by blow your words knock me down, and add to the scowling.

Sweet inner child caught in the frowning, forgetting recollections; the brief reflections of innocence.

I am just an artist, with nothing to show; but a hole in my head where I’ve let these words go.