Here I am.

In a place that I dread coming to,

in clothes that hide the slump in my spine, 

with fingers that are bloody, picked apart, and chewed open.

Here I am. 

In a place that I know all too well,

a place that used to scare me,

and sometimes it still scares me before I arrive. 

Here I am. 

At the bottom of a hole that I dug for myself.

A hole that I actively participated in creating. 

I picked the placement, the depth, and the tool to use to create it.

I’ve been here before. 

I’ve had many depressive episodes. 

Some have been longer than the others, 

some have pulled up before I arrived at the bottom. 

Every time I’m here it gets less and less scary. 

The fear is replaced with frustration. 

I’ve built a toolbox of coping mechanisms to help me navigate the landscape before arriving here.

Yet, here I am. 

Frustration is valid, or at least I tell myself that it is. 

How and why? 

How could I have allowed myself to land in this position when I know my way through the darkness? 

Why didn’t I do the work to plant some flowers instead of digging the hole? And if planting flowers was too daunting of a task, why couldn’t I maybe water the grass, or hell.. even just lay in the grass under the sun? 

Why does helping ourselves seem like such a chore sometimes? 

Darkness has always been an acquaintance of mine. 

Even in the brightest of days, I know that darkness is just behind the other door. 

That doesn’t bring me discomfort, rather it allows me to experience the full spectrum of emotions.

Perhaps I don’t pull up because this is the space where roots are planted. 

A plant that has already sprouted roots, or has been uprooted, needs a hole dug before you put it in the soil for new growth. 

While it appears to be a dark place, this deep hole is the exact place to begin again.  

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