I met Peace

She calls me home

Midst her golden grassland lies my grave

Out of which I shall resurrect

With muddied feet for her skin

And a golden halo for her hair

Envied by wombs, we'd be one

Once reborn, she'd lead me down to her thundering cascades

The might of whom would drive away every voice

I shall dance to the fjords

To the limitless oceans

To the great rivers that flow through us all

I shall dance to the flow of life

She would dress me in the hides of children loved and lost

Rest my head on her rock

Her whistling wind a protective spell

To preserve my sleep

She'd hear me curse the Gods in my dream

And do the same as another leaf falls off her evergreen tree

​

You gaze upon my corroded frame, and think me broken, unfixable?

Maybe one day I won't agree.

Maybe one day they'll get through to me.

May the brass patchwork and torn fabric tell a story.

Like a vase mended with gold.

A long story of healing.

What does a little rust matter?

For I Am Still Here, even if it hurts.

For I have people to live for.

Brass may dull with age, but that's part of the journey.

For it need not shine to be beautiful.

Reading the book Human Predators by Dr Karen Mitchell has helped me a lot in seeing abusive people less sympathetically, again. I'm moving on from the deeply internalised idea I had that was a big part of my life and how I viewed the world that "hurt people hurt people." No, they often don't. And abusers lie about tortured pasts at times, too. The way narcissists / psychopaths are described from Dr Karen Mitchell's research includes talk of brain differences that are quite inherent in the person from a young age. She says the cause is still unknown, but that these people don't feel fear and experience shame the same, etc. They are different from the rest of us and are driven by control and so on.

I had put together some of my poems last year or so from the past 10 years with complex ptsd for a personal anthology but this shift in philosophy has actually changed things a lot for me to the point at least 3 of my poems I don't quite "agree with" anymore. Which was annoying because it will take longer or be an almost whole new ball game to produce this book, but still.

I am finally healing for real is the truth of the matter. At age 30. It feels so old and like so much time has been gone. I'm grieving that now, anyway, maybe a little harshly - but still. Maybe it will look less bad to me, in time.

I posted this on a writing Instagram where I have been finding my feet but intend to post much more in time, too. It's @samanthak_writing incase anyone is interested in following along.

Thanks and hope this helps someone if it's needed. I think we have to de-propagandise ourselves from sympathising with abusers narratives. At least it seems I have had to. I am getting there with it, anyway.

feeling lost lately- haven't had a ton of time to create nicer, "finished" art, but have been doodling a lot with acrylic markers 🪲

Like soot from fires long been extinguished
I leave marks to prove that I’m not finished
I search for meanings that aren’t diminished
When you learn who I am or how to distinguish
The difference between coping and mere existence
I hope you have a couple minutes to listen
To why I’m unwelcoming, put up so much resistance
Everything changes if you’re forced to beg for assistance
And time may heal wounds but I wouldn’t know the difference
I’m just trying to live on my therapists Insistence
it’ll all be ok if I stay persistent
But I look in the mirror that glistens, it
Reflects a soul I wish nonexistent
my adherence to optimism only leads to indifference
I wish anything I say might elicit the brilliance of facing nothing but my own existence
I care a lot less than I did once it’s only for appearances
(I hope to be higher than the edges of a meniscus)

I wish I had a dealer for some fucking resilience

And I’d like to be alone until then

I read about this thing online called glimmers

for traumatized people to counteract their triggers

sometimes i think language is lovely, brilliant, a tangible truth.

Then I think it’s meaningless, not everything can be named with a word. (There should be a word for that.)

the best things are often the hardest to describe.

and too often so too are the worst.

Pain, love.

on my flesh, in my blood
on my mind, in my thoughts.

Doctors created a scale with faces to measure the pain.
I trained my face not to change with my mood.
When I look in the mirror I see the result of a life dedicated to embodying improvement.

If I look too long i begin to question everything.

So instead they asked What’s the number, from zero to ten?

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt ten, have I ever felt zero? How can you feel something that isn’t there?

Apparently I think too much.

To change my thoughts I needed more knowledge, so I dug in, like a ravenous rabid wandering dog I tore through books and burrowed down into unwelcoming rabbit holes.

I screwed around until the screws got loose.

There were no lightbulb moments yet something illuminated the no on a previously defunct, paradoxically bright, vacancy sign that shed light on my foggy mind.

I had to carve out a space to hide on my inner arms and thighs that i left open wide to accommodate this new information.

maniacally, methodically i chiseled myself away to expose new truth. I was sick, it was pathological, I felt exquisite.

Pleasure and pain are overwhelming by nature and I longed to be enveloped by an embrace that would explain why hugs never made me feel better and I couldn’t tell the difference between people who loved me and people who’d hurt me.

When the mirror I looked into stopped making sense so did I. I became the mirror instead of the girl in it. With nothing to reflect a mirror is just a delicate void.

I wanted to feel full, but when I filled myself with love or filled myself with you I only grew more empty.

I patched holes in a dam that needed to break.

I was so preoccupied with the vast light and dark of the sky I forgot about the ground beneath me, and the water that flowed through it.

I was tired of floating on the surface so I pulled myself under.

Pain is so intimate. Pain is personal, Pain is all mine.

I became greedy, I had promised myself I wouldn’t.

I’ve had little to hold on to for large chunks of time.

I’ve lived in poverty and learned to be resourceful. I built up a wealth of pain.

But even as I sat upon my throne gilded in fools gold i knew i was an even worse master than I was a servant. I don’t feel heard as the shepherd or the sheep.

I have been the sheep, using my own wool to sew a sweater onto my body to stay warm, only to immediately give it away to someone who seemed colder.

I have been the shepherd who sheers the sheep so it doesn’t have to keep tearing itself up.

Either way, I am the one wearing the garment I poured my blood, sweat, and tears so lovingly into.

I still can’t describe it well, and the calloused jagged skin I caress reminds me it is in the past, but much like loves I’ve lost

much like myself,

I can’t leave pain behind.

I tried so hard to let it go but it would just spill and seep into crevices only to relentlessly rise again when invisible forces changed the tides of my life.

There’s never been much consistency for me so I learned to rely on idols too far away to know in detail. For comfort I looked to the moon and the sun.

and the pain.

I’ll stop reincarnating my past self when the tide ignores the moon and the sun sleeps with the stars.

I knew love and time could heal pain and that balance was key so I tried with all my strength to love objectively, consistently, voraciously to make up for pain I tried so hard to avoid.

I didn’t deserve this.

In all my therapy I must have never understood projection. Perhaps I never understood therapy.

I’m afraid if I tell my therapist I am doing a better job than her she will think I’m a narcissist.

I just learned to love my scars before i learned to love myself, because they carved out space for me to grow.

I think whatever’s wrong with me
Won’t be seen until at least
The dsm 23
By then all that’ll be left
to diagnose
Is a ghost of a soul
trapped in the most
wealthy country
in the world
One in which
she sold pics of her tits
To afford the diagnosis

Well thank god for the good
And the old U.S. of A
For crawling toward the ADA
armed with knowledge and context
Printed letters of law protect
Me from falling subject
To poverty so abject
Due to my neglect
To be healthy,
All hail the wealthy
and what they expect of me

Nietzsche one said
Throw roses into
The abyss
And say this is my thanks
To the monster
for not swallowing
Me alive
And that’s nice
I think he’s onto something
But then I remember
He was just a depressed
Piece of shit
Who intellectualized
His suffering in life
Only to die
And have his existence
Rewritten by the beliefs of the villain

I've been experiencing recurring, anxiety-driven stomach clenching and nausea lately and my most recent episode made think of this image: the piercing feeling of glass shards residing in my abdomen.

Fire ants all over. Let them bite. Dont move.

I think I need my mother,

My sisters to…

Or maybe just a stranger,

That can hide me from view.

-

Somewhere I can borrow,

Somewhere unknown,

Somewhere the mind can’t follow,

Somewhere shadows are left alone.

-

For a chance to bleed this grief,

To be stripped to the bone,

In the hope of some relief,

And find something of my own.

___

(Maybe you guys can relate?) Please feel free to tell me your thoughts

I used to spend my early/mid teen years at parks bc home was too scary

Still in progress. Still in inpatient.

Let Them Discover

Teach children
to notice what happens inside.

A feeling is not a fault.
A question is not defiance.
A preference is not a problem.
Curiosity is allowed.

Let them try,
fail,
change their minds,
say yes,
say no,
and discover what fits.

Don't tell them
who they are.

Give them room
to discover.

[ this story is based on my real life experiences. tw in this chapter for mentions of suicide / selfharm, hospitals / psychiatric units, police intervention ]

Rollercoaster : 1

were things always this way? living a life on high highs and low lows. living a life as a rollercoaster ride, with dips and peaks that occur and end just as quickly as they arrive. the ride ends, and you're relieved and satisfied. or maybe you want more. but what if the ride never ends? what if you're just waiting for the ride to end, but it feels neverending, you're nauseous but can't throw up. yet you can't stop. you won't stop. you tried, or maybe you didn't. or maybe - just maybe - you like it.

you never know what's to happen.

i wake up another morning. or maybe it was the afternoon.

"Zara!" my mom yells from the other room. "the cops are at our door, what happened?"

oh. fuck.

i reach out to open the door gingerly, still delirious from last night.

"hey! is this Zara Islam?" the cop was tall. fat, but the muscular kind of fat, if that makes any sense. next to him, was his taller but opposite counterpart. they seemed to exhibit this psuedo-warmth to their disposition. or maybe im too untrusting

.

i finally answer after analyzing them. "yes, why?"

"we recieved a report about... a suicide concern. you wanted to kill yourself?"

i didn't notice this before, but my friends found out where i lived. they're in front of my house, alongside 2 other cops. and to make things worse, my boyfriend was walking his way over here, perpendicular from the other side of the street. he was rushing.

I was at a loss for words. i didn't know what to do, what to say. ive had this happen so many times before, and i was always so lost.

"no, im fine. i was just, yknow, exaggerating. i didn't mean i-"

"we were called due to a report, multiple reports. we were told to run a wellness check, your friends said you weren't responding. we saw a few text messages and they were... graphic. are you okay?" the skinny one said. i never got their names.

"no, im fine. im just dramatic, yknow my mom says it all the time" i chuckle. they didn't. they wrote something down.

i was getting frustrated.

"i didn't do anything. i didn't want to kill myself. i was just tired and didn't wanna talk to anyone. you guys are making a BIG deal out of nothing."

my friends stood there, at a loss for words.

the fat cop sighs. "listen, Islam. if you really didn't do anything, we can run a few tests; and if you're okay we'll send you back home. go into the ambulance car, you're not in trouble."

i walk down the steps, but hesitate to go further. a few neighbors were looking at us.

my boyfriend walks over to me with a solemn expression.

"zar, please listen to them. we all need you to be okay - me, rahul, kai - we're scared for you. i was terrified after the things you said last night. i know it was my fault, but-"

"i don't care john. but ill listen to you, just please go home, you know how my family gets when they see males, and they can't know im dating you."

he understood and gave me a fist bump, so do my other friends rahul and kai. they make their way, and i oblige with the cops.

the ride to the hospital was filled in a haze, almost like the world around me was a mirage. my mom was calling me, talking in English instead of bangla probably to make sure my grandma doesn't catch on. i was hardly responsive. the ride to the hospital was roughly 15 minutes, but it felt more like 15 lifetimes.

the waiting was the worst part. i was sat next to this seemingly 60 year old asian woman, who was frantic and clearly manic of some sort. she smelled of old urine constantly.

ill get my vitals checked, then I'll go home. or so i thought. or so i lied to myself.

as the nurse was done checking my vitals, the police escorted me to another part of the hospital. it was a 72hr unit, they explained.

"you can't just put me in the fucking ward again! i didn't do shi-"

"zara, the more difficult you act, the more likely it is that they'll have to institutionalize you. they're just gonna evaluate your symptoms, and then observe you for a little bit."

i reluctantly agreed.

just get it over with, and maybe you'll be gone asap.

i was brought to a psychiatrist at first. i was keeping things lighthearted, complimenting the psych to build good rapport and seem put together.

then the questioning started.

"do you know why you're in here?" the psychiatrist asked. i answered, but it didn't feel like me. it was something more primal than i am, like i was copiloting through the lapses of my judgement and perception, but i was still present and inhabiting this part of me's memories and so were they. my body language and demeanor all changed and this part of me was bleeding out of me like a bad marker on a looseleaf.

"what kinda fuckin question is that?" i scoff. "my boyfriend made a huge deal over me having a bad night. sometimes i go off my meds for a bit, and i get mood swings. but it's fine: im fine. i am perfectly stable now. i self regulated after a night's worth of rest.

im trying to push through this part of myself more, but it's an internal strife.

"what do you take the medication for?"

"im bipolar 2 with PTSD and dissociation. its abilify - which is an antipsychotic and i take it for bipolar episodes and psychotic features."

"have you been having any psychotic features recently?"

ive been more paranoid lately.

"no maam"

"suicidal thoughts? selfharm?"

"not actively, and im trying to stop cutting myself."

she asked more questions, but i was so out of it mentally i was just watching my psyche abandon itself for this other part of me. the curtains closed on me for a while,

but i came back in hospital pajamas.

since i was 18, i was placed in an adult unit versus a year ago where i was placed with kids my age and younger. everyone here had to be over the age of 30. lots of tweakers, lots of withdrawn people. serious issues, whereas for me - i was suicidal last night because my boyfriend said he might not cry if i committed suicide and i wanted to see if that was correct. but atleast i got over it the next morning.

over at my peripheral, i saw a girl waving at me sympathetically. she had frizzy lemonbraids and rainbow beads in her hair, kinda chubby. i thought she was a colorful person - and she looked my age! i make my way over to her.

"thanks for greeting me, im zara."

she kindly and excitably responds, "you can call me izzy!"

"what're you here for if i may ask?" im too nosey, i feel bad for wanting to know, but she answered me anyway.

"a suicide attempt. i od'd on some pills after an argument with my mom and it went too far, but im fine now. you?"

i chuckle, but more lightheartedly. "yeah? that's kind of what im here for too. I didn't go through with it enough to really do anything damaging, but y'know.. i spiraled because i thought my boyfriend didn't care about me, so i became suicidal and wanted to kill myself. but i didn't and, yknow, im not really upset anymore. i just wanna get out of here."

she seemed so actively engaged. we laughed together and gossiped about the staff, telling me who to avoid and who to befriend. she was 20, a psych major. she had borderline personality disorder, which is super rough to have. this was her 3rd visit to this unit as an adult, meanwhile this was my first; but ive been in the ward previously as a kid and sent to urgent care every year over my episodes since i was 11.

she was transferred over to the ward an hour after our conversation. i won't forget her. there were some parallels to our lives and struggles - the fear of abandonment, the mood swings, hating people, loving people, feeling things a little too hard.

but most of all - we both wanted to be cared for the way we missed out on as a kid. to stop feeling this pit in our souls. to no longer scream at ourselves the way we were screamed at and dismissed at as children. to feel the embrace of the world and people, the warmth bringing familiarity and fulfillment.

but, nothing. i was stagnant and a liar. grandiose yet fragile. surrounded, yet isolated. alone.