6.1
April 10, 2020

A Poem on Depression during the Pandemic.

 

 

Check out Elephant’s Continually updated Coronavirus Diary. ~ Waylon


Depression.

Has been my experience
The last few days.

Wanting to just sleep,
And numb
It all away.

I want to feel like myself,
But I don’t.
Maybe, you don’t either.

I thought feeling the highs
Was who I really am,
But then the lows
Come in again.

The overwhelming desire
To check out.

Depression is hitting
A lot of us hard.

No outside source
To tap into,
Only this deep underbelly,
Undercurrent of emotional current.

It feels so heavy,
So downright…depressing.

Some distractions
Have appeared,
Some moments of joy,
Some inspiration.

But it feels like sludging
Through mud,
Or concrete that’s just been laid.

Sticky,
Stiff.

How do we find our center?

To be present in the heaviness,
To be compassionate to the one
Who doesn’t want to be here,
Doesn’t want to pretend
It’s all okay.

That it’s all light and love,
And blessings,
And time to meditate,
And craft,
And explore.

Because none of this is a choice.
Maybe that’s where we feel
Cut off.
Forced into this.

How can we still feel our
Personal sovereignty and choice?
To be okay
With freedoms not being
So close to grab onto?

It isn’t easy.
None of this is.

Times when we want to
Crawl inside the darkness,
And not come out.

I too, feel that,
Especially lately.

Perhaps we can lean
Into the heaviness,
Give ourselves permission
To not be okay.

Keep granting
Permission to not be okay,
When we don’t feel okay.

Depression may be
Creeping up,
And it doesn’t mean
We have done something
Wrong,
Or need to fix it.

It’s okay to feel this way.
And to not have an
Answer as to how
Things may shift.

How things may lighten,
Or not wanting
To be optimistic
Right now.

Be okay with not being
Okay.

That is our only duty.
To show up,
To how we perhaps don’t want to feel,
And to be gentle when we don’t want to.

To acknowledge when we want
To check out,
And give ourselves grace,
And permission.

There is no guide for how to deal right now,
Other than our own,
Stumbling,
Fumbling our way through.
It’s not pretty,
But it is real.

~

 

~

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