The Daisy’s Seed

“There’s no way I’m surviving this!!” My voice rang out across traffic and froze midair in the piercing cold. I was panicking as my body trembled with rage and my heart shattered, spilling shards onto the street that I had to cross to reach my friend. I don’t know that there’s any worse feeling than to be completely overcome with rage, grief and heartbreak all at once. My entire being was completely overwhelmed and out of control. I had absolutely no idea what to do but shake in the headlights with my eyes shut and mouth ajar, chin to ground.

I stood there frozen, wildly misunderstood and left to rot. All. Over. Again.

Of course, to anyone, especially my new friend, my circumstances and reason for crying out in pain and panic were overdramatic, but what most don’t know is that it went so very much deeper and she barely knew any of it. This pain and heartbreak goes back 12 years, after my boyfriend of ten years, off and on, left me right before engagement. And although I am well beyond over that individual, the residual pain was at the forefront of my psychosis three times, in a six-year span after being diagnosed with Bipolar 1 in 2010. Even that went so much deeper than simple heartbreak. It was more about an unfolding of self through diligent and vigilant prompting and coercing and falling deeply in love with the process, only to find out you are not good enough in the end. It was about trust being destroyed. Trust in love and trust in self.

I couldn’t handle being torn from root to tip, yet again. I couldn’t bear being so utterly wrong once more. I just couldn’t survive it. Not. One. More. Time. I remember lying on my bed in the hospital in NY, where I was diagnosed, after a manic and psychotically fueled run. I remember telling myself as tears streamed down my cheeks and saturated my gown, “If this time isn’t it, I’m going to kill myself. Not one more time.”

If only I knew then of what was yet to come. Those words have haunted me twice more since that moment. Each time, more severe. Until this last time in March, when I finally swallowed the pills to end a nightmare spanning years, from which I couldn’t wake.

My suicide note was short the night I attempted to take my life. It simply said, “Bye.” But for months, I had been writing an endless cry for help, yet no one came. I don’t blame them, as I wrote dark and deep most days, so it wasn’t new. I had written this new man everyday and in my delusional state, I thought he was reading every post, every letter, every word. My last poem the day before I finally gave up in a panic, was this:

Pushing Daisies

There’s a pill box on the counter as the fool takes the stage.

There’s a river that won’t catch my fall, but a man that teaches me to turn the page.

There’s a train that runs dragging me under East, but a conductor that is headed North and West.

A tapered, razored – edge lies in my coat’s pocket, yet there’s a lady at my door who’s just confessed.

There’s booze on every corner but a cop that’s flagged them all.

I have three full prescriptions left to end this life in peace, but angels that stand round my bed to break my fall.

Which way to go or which way to choose is a troubling thought indeed.

It’s planting me six feet under or it’s pushing up the flower planted by a daisy’s seed.

I don’t know what spurred this post, but I feel yet another wave of unhinged sadness and I cannot pinpoint it’s cause. Maybe something as simple as the crispness and smell in the air that reminds me of that night. It will pass, as most things do. I am not buried six feet under.

I am in touch with this man now and that was all I needed – closure. Turns out he wasn’t galvanting across the country with other women and ignoring my cries, as his mother led me to believe. He had been locked in a psychiatric hospital since the moment we said, “Goodbye My Love,” on the phone in November. I had no idea. This one hit harder than most because I had allowed him to crack me wide open and just completely disappeared. The first man to do so in 12 long years. And as with the last, it went so much deeper than heartbreak. I thought he had died, ran off, betrayed me…a whole host of ideas ran through my head making my psychosis last much longer than it would have otherwise. I had lost nearly everything on a bet that this time would be different because he said it was. And it is true…it was, because I have a an enemy, turned friend, who knows our stories inside and out. There is now a deep understanding, empathy, and mutual adoration and respect. But this is where it ends, despite similar promises.

In any case, I am ready to just unravel and let it all go. And that feels phenomenal after years of holding back and skimming only the surface. If I don’t, I fear I’ll be in for another round and I’m just not willing to go through it again. Meds and therapy can onky do so much. I need healing and healing primarily comes through writing and spitting out the story.

I am ready to write every last dirty detail of the last six years of my life after diagnosis, psychosis, and over 15 psych ward stays. Every little, dirty, beautiful, adventurous, humiliating, grandiose, hilarious, dangerous, heart wrenching, musically inspired and maniacal detail. To the bone I will cut. To. The. Bone.

It’s planting me six feet under or it’s pushing up the flower planted by a daisy’s seed.


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