Rebirth from Anxious Ashes E-Book

Yasmeen Amer

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Writing is my emotional outlet. When my walls are closing in on me so much that I can’t breathe anymore, I grab my pen and start putting everything in words. Writing about my feelings and thoughts, to me, makes them real and thus helps me identify them, address them, talk about them, and sometimes even accept them.

Although I am aided majorly by therapy and proper medication, I firmly believe that writing is as significant to my stability and high functionality as they are. It makes me feel in control of my monsters, even if temporarily.

This is basically why I am releasing this book into the universe. I’ve always kept my writings private and rarely shared then with anyone, but I decided I want others, similar to or different from myself, to connect to it and benefit from it. If I can help one person feel less alone or more encouraged after reading any of my pieces, then I can honestly and happily declare that this book has served its purpose in full. If I am able, through my writing, to help one person reach out to someone who has mental difficulties and genuinely try to help them have an easier life, then I can confidently say that all the pain that ensued from the process is definitely totally and utterly worth it.

Whoever and wherever you are, I do not pray that you find your passion, but that you find what can help you keep your demons tame and quiet for as long as possible.

Leseprobe

Yasmeen Amer

Rebirth from Anxious Ashes

Face to Face with My Mental Monsters

Primarily to anyone who relates to any parts of this book & To My Family To My Best Friend To My Late Friend To My Therapist To My Dog Every single one continues to make my life easier every day in different waysBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

8 September 2019

Where do I begin with my anxiety? It’s a textbook toxic relationship; I hate it so much but I cannot stop thinking and writing about it.

I wrote this piece at a time when my anxiety was extraordinarily out of control. It remains one of my favorites and that’s why I chose it as my opener.

You’re my exact opposite of a drug. I never shot you up in my veins but there you are bringing my systems down. I can feel you building yourself up from the remnants of the body you’ve chewed. Despite that, I can’t stop you or slow you down; & like the exact opposite of the stimulant you are, you find your ways right to my fingers which start to shake as if bowing to your glory.

My stomach can feel your might as well as it watches me retch my remaining drops of dignity.

Now my head is somewhere else, not in the clouds – it’s some place dark. The walls are all lined up with all my traumas, scars, nightmares, & angst. Somewhere further there are unfamiliar corners; seemingly foreign but disguised as memories. Later I recognize them as all the scenarios that you planted in my head as facts; I accept them as they are not knowing whether they pertain to my future or my past.

I sit there with all these illusions of my identity & attempt to exorcise them, but like an epidemic they coldly convince me it’s far too late. You are in too deep now.

I am shaking, standing, sitting, & pacing. My controlled breathing seemingly heightens you as everything feels worse now.

My futile trials of breaking your cycle push me down in your hole a little bit further. I talk to myself some more but end up hurting myself, & I talk to a friend but end up making a foe.

I surrender & powerlessly wonder when your fucking false high will wear off. I hold myself like a child who hates herself while your venomous thoughts hammer me down.

I hear the faint sound of my music drowned out by your hateful screams.

I reach the bottom of your bottomless pit. You’re euphoric. You’re in a perfect state of ecstasy because I’m in a perfect state of helplessness.

The only way is up now for me, but you linger, and I submit to the fact that you haven’t decided to rid me of you just yet.

As I start to make a home out of your pit, I realize I’ve been here before. The stuff around me are barely recognizable but I can see traces of myself here. It’s all covered in black & grey but it’s there.

My feelings are faintly visible in my art. I find my identity in the broken records on the floor. I step on my trapped soul as I observe a family photo. I remember a state other than isolation when I recognize the handwriting of my best friend on a torn-up letter.

I celebrate the remnants of myself in your miserable abode and you start coming down. I remember what it’s like to not be possessed & you continue retreating. I start climbing back to light as you start to disappear.

I’m coming back to life as you leave me alone, for now.

I await, unfortunately without patience, when your withdrawal forces your way back inside me & I try again.

10 June 2020

My relationship with depression is quite a complex one. I hate it and all the flood of saddening emotions it brings with it but at the same time I sometimes feel sorry for it. It’s like an uninvited guest that shows up to a party and dulls it down. Everyone hates it and wants it gone but it sticks to the place just like a very clingy stray.

I often feel like there’s always a part of me that longs for that depressed disposition. I don’t quite understand it but I think it has to do with familiarity.

In this piece I attempt to clarify some of the complications in our relationship.

I missed you. No, I didn’t. I genuinely did not miss you. I hate your presence & all you bring. There’s this part though; a black square, as I imagine, that could feel your absence.

There had been this lingering annoyance that felt like an intermittent stranger’s breath on the back of my neck. I wanted it to disappear but couldn’t tell it to stop.

I ignored it. Over & over. I was convinced I’d managed to pave that black square & shut it for life, but now that you’re here I can feel its existence settling down to a calm.

My black ghost. My monster. My forced companion. My sadness.

This one masochistic part of me had become addicted to you, I think.

I’d thought by abstaining it would feel safe & I could get some real sleep but the dreams you’d been forcing on my futile mind were the messages you were sending to the black square & I. You were shouting, “I’M STILL HERE!” but we couldn’t decode your ominous presentations.

No matter how much acceptance I learn to give you, your insatiable nature always prevails. Your evil existence never rests, it merely gets fiercer & stealthier.

You love building up an endless wave & watching it swallow me whole.