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My Words.


ThePetPerson
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Mental illness is a disease. It starts with one cell, it goes unnoticed until it begins to multiply and then we experience symptoms. We try with all our might to treat it, we force bitter pills down our throats, we speak foul words we didn't know we had inside of us, we try therapy to return us to normality but it is often too late, our brain is decayed by suffering. It spreads further, it travels down the spine and takes over the nervous system, so that with each move we make we feel a burning pain that consumes every nerve in our body. It reaches the blood stream and it feeds into every cell, it passes through our veins and nourishes us with its evil. Sometimes we cut ourselves, deeper and deeper, trying to release the poison. We scream, trying to force the demons from our lungs. We cry, the pain overwhelms.

I could sit here and tell you that when I stare into the flames of a lit candle, I find some peace as the wick burns down and the acrid smell of burning eases me as I know everything must come to an end. That I see stars overhead and that the knowledge of their existence comforts me because it is such a simple pleasure that we feel from their light. But I'd be lying.

It's poetry, beautiful poetry. One day, it becomes lost on you. You can no longer relate to those meaningless words. You fall out of love with the monster inside of you, you no longer find comfort in your pain. You just exist in a world of lost souls, trying to find their way home, a home that never has been, never will be. The only knowledge you are left with is the certainty of death. Isn't your hope already dead? You don't crave it, you don't want it, but you feel that it's the only way out, when the world no longer holds promise, you are disenchanted with life and with all that you have learned, it will never enchant you again.

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For someone who isn't interested in beautiful poetry, your description of mental illness is pretty poetic. So beauty in the service of a description of progressive decay is acceptable, but beauty for its own sake isn't?

Not all mental illness is progressive, and much of it is reversible. You won't totally forget that you've been ill, just as people never lose their physical scars, but someday it won't be central to your experience of life.

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For someone who isn't interested in beautiful poetry, your description of mental illness is pretty poetic. So beauty in the service of a description of progressive decay is acceptable, but beauty for its own sake isn't?

Not all mental illness is progressive, and much of it is reversible. You won't totally forget that you've been ill, just as people never lose their physical scars, but someday it won't be central to your experience of life.

Beauty for the sake of beauty is the best kind, often the most beautiful kind, but only to our eyes, to our brain, never to our soul. Poetry is most definitely beautiful, but sadly, it can't only be beautiful for the sake of it, it must have a meaningful subject, otherwise it becomes mundane. So I write with a meaningful subject, on how mundane poetry is, such a paradox. It's more about this love people have for destroying themselves for the sake of poetry. Maybe everyone idolizes Sylvia Plath? ;)

I have no comment on that right now, as an acutely suicidal person, I'm sure you know my answer would be along the lines of "I'll be dead before that happens" or "nothing will get better I just want to die" but if I'm honest, I can't begin to tell you how bored I am of it. I'm going to become a suicidal optimist.

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I think, for me, beauty deeply touches my soul. Sometimes I find poetry beautiful too, just for the sake of it. I like how the words flow and feeling the sense of another person's heart. Such expressions are always beautiful to me. Though they may express pain, they also express humanity. I feel it offers a sense of connection to another and within that connection there is always a chance for healing.

Thank you for sharing your words and thoughts with us. Sorry you're struggling so much, Pet. :(

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"Maybe everyone idolizes Sylvia Plath?"

Well, not everyone, but I do understand the attraction. ;-)

You feel that beauty doesn't reach our soul? Or are you saying that it has to be beauty about something, in order to reach it? I could agree with that, but then every beauty is about something, even if you just made it up: then it's beauty that's in you, wanting to be recognized. That's not "for its own sake", really; that's for your sake. And ours, as its recipients.

What's a suicidal optimist, exactly? I was one, in the sense of normally being an optimist but somehow not being able to find my way out, at the time. But I suspect you mean something else ...

I'm glad you can be honest with us about what your answer would be, at the moment, though. You're letting us share a bit of your world, and that's valuable. We care about you, Pet; it would be sad if you felt you had to leave. You have more to say.

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