What is this?
What is this thing
in me?
What are these ideas
which spin around in our mind,
and how is it that they mutate or multiply,
at least a thousand times or more
and then they drive us mad
or crazy or,
they send us off
or drive us away in different directions?
And meanwhile, all we want is peace.
Isn’t that it?
And you . . .
Yes, you, My Chaos,
or should I say culprit of all culprits,
how is it you seep in so deeply,
sewing your way in-between
the meat and potatoes of my mind
and how is it that I allow you the time of day;
when in fact,
it is me who opens the door to you
isn’t it?
How is it that I can be so sane and so smart
and so absolutely unsound in the same way
or at times, and dare I use this word
which I will
but I say this with hopes that you
(and by you,
I mean you who means the most to me)
will not hold back or pull a trick
and use this as a spear when we fight or
argue,
or if at war, I say this with hopes that you
will not use this as your defense
and treat me or call me something
as if I am some kind of emotional lepper or pariah;
yet, let me dare by exposing the following:
how can I be as sane as I am
and supposedly understanding of so many things,
or open, or “in touch” and empathetic
or emotional by nature, yet
with all of my so-called wherewithal,
how is it that times like this can come to me?
I find myself in the frays
or the throes of some unstoppable insanity—
whereas, the heart beats,
the chest gets tight,
the walls are closing in and the world
is none other than a stream of ideas
which lead my thinking towards
and impending doom; and thus,
how is it that I come
to these mental catastrophes?
What is this?
What are these things called
thinking errors?
I think I like saying it this way,
thinking errors . . .
it’s more accurate
and less intrusive
and certainly less harsh
from a judgment perspective.
But, let’s be honest here –
who cares?
Anyone?
Does anyone?
Of course people care the same as I care.
We know they do; however, the mind-tricks
or the mind-fucks are a series
of lonesome lies.
Or wait,
perhaps this is much too daring to expose
such an unwanted truth
But who cares.
Or wait,
who understands?
Anyone?
Of course people understand,
at least from their own perspective.
However, I have learned that there are people
who need you to fit in a certain box, selfishly,
as it relates or applies to them
or they do this
to validate themselves or their existence because yes,
everyone has their own shit,
and everyone has their own agenda
and their own compulsions
or pathology, or science
just like me (or you) and yes,
I have my own shit too, which,
for the record — there’s a name for this.
Are you ready for it?
It’s called being human.
They say mental illness is a silent disease . . .
I say, really?
How silent are the statistics?
How silent are the numbers
of preventable deaths?
How silent was my friend
who slit his wrist
weeping alone
out loud
or
how silent was the pain of a mother
who lost her child
to an untimely death?
I have been told
that more than half of people
who live with depression or anxiety
will fail to reach out
or ask for help.
Well, then let this stand
as a sworn testament
or if nothing else,
let this be a word from the other half.
Me . . .
I am not ashamed of who I am (anymore)
nor am I ashamed of my chemistry,
nor am I ashamed of my challenges,
nor am I ashamed of my past
or my past rejections, crimes,
losses, or mistakes
nor am I ashamed of what I’ve done
(anymore) because although
I am far from perfect
at least I can say
that I’m taking a stand
trying
and waking up every day
to defy the odds or the statistics
which say,
sorry kid
but you’re never going to make it.
I do not suffer from the disease of addiction.
I am not what the media depicts
of some sad recluse
who finds himself in the basement of churches,
hanging on for my own life.
I do not suffer with depression
nor do I suffer from anxiety
or my social or general anxiety disorders
and most importantly,
I do not identify with the labels
or the diagnosis or the so-called stigmas
given to me
and lastly, I do not suffer in silence
nor am I dwindling away, or fading,
or slipping back into the cracks of old thoughts
or worries or facing the fight of waking up,
every day, and finding something to pin myself to,
just so I have a reason or a purpose.
I do not suffer from any of these things.
However, I do live with these things.
The difference between the two is crucial
or critical
because one way is living
and the other way is dying alive.
And while I have lived this way
for a very long time,
and sure, I have been counted out before,
and I have been shamed before,
and yes, I have lost to my thoughts
or drowned in the swamps
of my own emotional quicksand;
I am not haunted.
I am not sick.
No.
I am only me.
I have challenges.
I have obstacles to overcome
and turn into opportunities
and problems to part
with and turn into possibilities.
I am not a word or a label
or a name or any of this; and yet,
I am aware.
I am known and counted and here before you
I am speaking out loud and, on the record,
stating my truths and claiming my facts and yes,
I am the other half, unsilent about this
and daring the universe because in fact; yes,
I have challenges.
And there is a word for this,
which is simple, but not a diagnosis
or a stigma by any means, which means that yes
I am human after all
or wait . . .
maybe being human is a worse stigma
than being depressed
(if we think about it).
It doesn’t matter
what anyone says or sees or points out (anymore)
It doesn’t matter who is on my side
or against me.
Mr. Chaos, I know you.
We go back like car seats,
you and me . . .
So does anxiety
And that’s fine.
I know you.
And I know why you sneak in from time to time;
its to let me know
that there’s a big bad world out there,
just outside my door
with danger lurking
at every corner
and depressive ideas, abound and waiting,
but please, if you don’t mind
I think I’d like to face it (this time)
instead of cowering away, too afraid to dare,
too scared to dance,
and too timid to sing.
God, I want to sing . . .
I want to be happy . . .
Or spend an evening at the movies,
like say, a drive-in somewhere, a bag of popcorn,
a soda, a straw poking out from
some clear plastic, slurping the last sip
and a hand in my opposite or vacant one
which says to me,
You’re pretty okay, Ben Kimmel.
And even if someone tells you different . . .
don’t worry. I know the truth
about who you really are
and that’s why I love you.
Understand?
Dear Anxiety
I have work to do.
I’m nowhere near the drive-in
yet . . . But if you can
please,
stay out of my way
Signed, the current management
Me,
Mr. Benjamin J. Kimmel
The Written Addiction 