Sad poems and anxiety

I am in the middle of moving and it is giving me anxiety. My life is changing and getting better but the weight of it all is overwhelming. My school work is piling on and I need to kick my depression's ass because I am getting left behind. I like overworking myself to avoid pain and now it's only bringing me more pain.

I started doing things to take care of myself more and I am still trying to find things I enjoy. 

More things I find enjoyable:

• training and cuddling with Squish
• finding a pair of pants that actually fit
• coming up with my own recipe for dishes I already enjoy
• seeing people be in love 

I have spent quite some time alone with my thoughts and I always ask myself questions when I do this... like:

• "Am I satisfied with life?"
• "What do I really need and what do I just want?"
• "Are all things temporary?"
• "Is this healthy for me?"-this is the one I have been asking myself the most.

I keep overthinking everything, and I mean everything! I overthink decisions that are not even mine. I keep worrying about everyone around me and I haven't given myself the benefit of the doubt. 

I really enjoy reading, and writing poetry so this week I wrote one that I keep going back to and reading. Some of my poems don't make the most of sense, and lately, they have been about what I have been holding within me. I'm starting to notice that I make people really uncomfortable when I talk about my mental health but it is super uncomfortable for me to even live with it so whatever. I had a PTSD episode recently and I have been thinking about it non-stop. I hate when someone tells me "why do you have ptsd?" like if people who aren't in the military can't get it. It is not a hard concept to understand why anyone else can get it. But to clear things up, I have had traumatic experiences all through my life that even happened recently and I just try to cope with it. There isn't just one specific event that is singled out, it is a combination of many. It is the abuse I faced as a child, the sexual abuse, it is A LOT! Almost anything can set it off and I make the mistake of not telling people around me enough. If I hear a loud sound I panic, it reminds me of being hit and my body shrivels up like I am a kid. So I wrote this poem about how I have been feeling. I wanna have the courage to perform this one day but for now, I'll post it on here:

Untitled:

I keep missing calls from my therapist,

showing up late to work,

my hair hasn't been brushed in five days,

do you regret me?

Pacing in an alley,

scattered brain and toothless, 

you stripped me of my dignity,

I remember Christmas,

and then I remember the gift of infidelity.

The brand new baggage that matched my childhood trauma,

I am my mother,

and my mother's mother,

I am their insecurities on a poster,

their fears trapped in pearls,

I am hiding from my own self. 

It's been five weeks since you've put a sheet on the mirror,

Did I die to you?

Is that why you won't call me?

I keep missing calls from my therapist,

but never from you or my dads.

Most of all,

I am myself,

I am backless because my spine got stolen, 

I was four,

bent over,

and my cousin must've confused me for a supermodel,

stolen.

My innocence was stolen from me,

confidence stripped away,

I still wear the blue pants you left though.

With the single touch on my shoulder,

I am back to the garage where you left me,

or on the brick wall where the boy stole my phone for head, 

or maybe in the bedroom of a boy who doesn't know the word "no",

I am PTSD,

I am BPD,

I am bipolar, 

I am anxiety, 

I am AD-HD,

I am annoying to everyone around me.

Afraid of sex but always wanting it,

Hold me but don't touch my lower back because you'll remind me of my cousin,

kiss my cheeks but be careful,

don't be surprised when I fall in love with you,

you can spend the night but I cry myself to sleep,

I am on a constant search for happiness. 

Don't ask me my favorite color,

I'll just tell you yours,

I am every lover I've ever had,

I am my father's one night stand,

I am the scars on my legs, 

and my deported grandpa because heroin was a little more important, 

Who knew drugs looked like diamonds?

Who knew love was supposed to hurt this much?

Maybe loving isn't easy,

maybe I am more than I bargained for,

maybe I am not myself,

decisions need to be made,

and promises must be kept,

I am indecisive,

so I'll keep sending my therapist to voicemail.