To Write A Poem

To Write A Poem

     There are many times in life when the world presses down upon us and the feeling of Atlas, all alone and holding such a incomprehensible weight, is adopted by our feeble minds. It is a romantic notion that many of our heads love to entertain, though it is one that is rarely true for most of us. As the wise words of Jon Donne recall, no man is an island, yet we still isolate ourselves from the love and care from those that love us, and indeed we create many of our own nightmares in that regard. I suppose that is what makes depression so incredibly disheartening, because it is not so much a negative world seeping into an innocent soul but rather a negative mind feeding a fearing soul. We discredit those that love us because we do not love ourselves, and how can anyone deal with that? We feel that we are a burden, a mask that so quickly lifts to reveal nothing more than pain and future regret.
     And yet, it is so much more than just that... Like any true emotion, no amount of elaborate language can satisfy the simply complex depth. Let me try though.

When decisions must be made

Often our hearts turn heavy,

Entrenched with man-made levees

     It was a cool day, which was typical for New Mexico at this time of year, almost like it was not able to decide what it wanted to be, a cooling rainy shadow, or a sweaty hot mess. The atmospheric ambivalence played to my heart though, and as our little Jeep rambled along the dusty dead road, I felt my fears swell up again. The dirt's earthen hues combined with the dry grey sky seemed to adopt my melancholy, and the Jeep's inadequate engine was quiet enough that the whole scene seemed like a morbid montage played to the tune of death itself. And yet, I mused to myself, here I am, as alive as ever.
     The past few days had been some of the worst in my life. Even retrospectively, I still have nightmares and still regret those days with a sense of guilt that only the Lord could ever hope to relieve. I had been misunderstood, mistaken, and taken advantage of by others as well as myself. I had been stripped of everything I thought I loved and cared for, and everyone seemed so quick to continue the hate, myself, most of all.
     My companion knew all too well that there was nothing to be said at this time. While he was more than supportive, without the exonerating diagnosis I would receive much later, there was no way of understanding the situation. It was like looking for the final puzzle piece when the manufacture agonizingly forgot to include it with the others. Hope, as it seemed, had released its final petal and only working with blindness was left to continue.
     While he worked hard to be accommodating, understanding, and even content with the situation, I could not be. I had been stripped clean of all preconceived notions of who I was and what I was doing here, and there was not a minute that ticked by that those pervasive thoughts assaulted my already fragile mind. Insanity was at its peak, with all sorts of absurd philosophies and ideas starting to swirl around me, until I could no longer discern them from the truths I was sure of only weeks ago.

These scenes so quickly I can recall,

Hauntingly clear and vivid

Painfully reminding me of how hard I did fall

And how the trauma bruised my heart livid

     Quickly after the worst episode of the complete abandonment of my senses (because of my continuing and untreated depression and anxiety), my Mission President gave me what we both thought must be the answer to this issue, simply do not worry about myself, but get lost in the service of others. The doctrine had been drilled into me for all of my entire life, but never had it struck a cord so harmoniously in me that I thought that this must be what it was referring to. For a brief moment, my identity crisis seemed to be averted, cured, and completed, leaving me to go to work yet again.
     It seemed that, for the following few days President was right; I was indeed making leaps of progress and was functioning nearly to the degree that I thought I would be, right up to the minute it all collapsed yet again.
     We where in the hospital visiting a good less active member. The room was what I thought every hospital room was like, an ironic place that had the power to sustain and save lives, yet was devoid and sanitized of any character and soul itself. The whir of pumps and the hum of machines dominated this sterile habitat, and always it made me unnaturally uncomfortable. Maybe it was the help of the room's infertile and aseptic atmosphere that helped push me beyond the brink; Maybe it was the question that this inquiring man asked me. Either way, after hearing about his condition (which was a decidedly uneasy stability) he turned to me specifically and asked if I could give him a blessing of comfort and peace.
     The irony of the cold, calculated room started to immediately deafen me, and for what must have been multiple eternities I was engulfed in such a fiery pit of doubt and hate that I could not see what was in front of me. The small and overworked bottle imprisoning all of my fears, doubts, cynics, and paranoia burst into oblivion as they rioted back up to their rightful spot, in the forefront of my thought's focus. While even now, over a year after it has happened, I can scarcely recall the details with any of the vivid accuracy; I was at a complete loss of what on earth had just happened at the time. Tears uncontrollably streamed down my cheeks as I chocked on my words, finally having to shake my head a very solemn and weighted "no." Today this is probably the single worst moment of my life, not only the loss of my testimony at the time, but the failure to help another keep his. After another couple eternities of the most hellishly heavy silence, I found the words to B.S. my way out of the situation and quickly closed our eternally brief meeting.
     I have often reflected on this moment, naturally being the time when I could not be any less sure of what I knew and how I knew it. Today I can (to a reasonable extent) illustrate this with Descartes's introduction to Meditation I, where he admits that he has no idea how he knows anything and how he could know if any of it was possibly true. Again though, at the time I could not explain what had happened and what I was feeling. It was a truly out of body experience for me. I had no idea who I was, what I was to do with myself and what was important to me. I was so apathetic that it felt like I was viewing myself from the third person. This sounds dramatic (even by my standards) but it is exactly what I was feeling. There was no outlets I had discovered to safely and productively bleed and release the tension. When I was trying to work harder after my Mission President's counsel, I was not taking my pains and stresses to the Lord while I was trying to help others, I had kept them to myself to carry as well as the burdens of others. It was only a matter of time before I collapsed from the near infinite load.

Further and further

This little road descends

Darker and darker

'Till my hope seems to end

     This was my Atlas moment, where I was burdened with what seemed to be my entire world, no help, just criticisms all around. I had effectively completely isolated and alienated myself from even my own peers. I had defeated myself, and the ache of failure came upon me yet again. The Jeep was heading home after a long day of work, and the failures squeezed every bit of interest and love right out of me.
     The sun had started setting when we arrived back at our humble apartment. Darkness began to grow from the far east bends of the sky, slowly though consistently defeating the fragile last line of sunlight. Our apartment was also dark, and the few lights inside where quite inadequate with warming up the place. My companion and I bowed down into a kneel and prayed, planned and then set off to get ready for bed. Instead of slumping onto my mattress though, I went to my desk and sat, knowing that I could not go to sleep. Truly I had no idea of what I wanted in this mission, or even in this life anymore, but I knew that I could fight these feelings. I just needed the right outlet.
     My desk was cluttered with all sorts of my stuff, so I started to look through it, trying to find something that could explain me, and give words to my feelings. I opened up my scriptures, and verse after verse I felt no comfort, connected with nothing said, and discouraged I put them under my desk and began looking again. After clearing some missionary paperwork, I noticed my journal under all the clutter. Curiously I picked up the small, leather bound book and flipped through its pages. All of the passages were rather lifeless, dull, and purely explanations for what happened that day. I vocally snorted at my past self's writings, was this who I was? Day after day of nothing else but the same thing? Soon though I saw the days start to grow shorter in description, and many days were not accounted for at all before I finally stumbled upon a fresh, blank page.
     I can write better than that, I told myself. Gripping my pen I started to write. In my hilariously childish handwriting, I began by saying who I was and what I knew. I started to try to talk about my fears and pains, my goals and aspirations, and my dreams. When what must have been an hour had passed I was finished. I had put all that I thought I could possibly put into this, and was eager to read the results.
     With each word read, and each paragraph digested, my smile started to fade. I did not make it all the way through.

Back in my burnt down remains,

The dregs of my soul begs and pleads

Confined in this misery, Though with hope to evade

My hell seems content to be

     Though it was not poorly written, it had no weight to it. It was all just a story, a retelling of events and thoughts. A flat, emotionless, indifferent and cold work that did more harm than justice to my broken self. Even through my rage it seemed to make sense, one cannot try to describe the hopelessness of a situation by merely writing what happened and expect to feel it. No, I needed something more powerful. I resolved to abandon all physical context to get a pure sight of what I was feeling. It would be a journal for the mind, I mused to myself as I again began writing.

     It was not too much later when I decided to take a look at what I had created. Again, My hopeful ambitions, like a light from a flare, quickly faded before being completely extinguished. It had made even less sense in reality, not only denying me something to connect to and comfort myself with, but also mocking my struggle. Anger flared as I mercilessly ripped the page out and threw it as hard as I could away from me. The paper seemed determined in its campaign to humiliate me however, as it did not soar across the apartment but instead whimsically and almost calmly flipped around my airspace, again proving I had no control and no idea.

     It was enough for me. I rested my head against my desk, accepting my loss. Tears unwillingly strained from my eyes as I sat there alone. After five or so minutes of this, I sat up, wiped my tear stained face and looked down at what was left of my violently violated journal. Again, through some of the rough rips of the previous attempt I saw a white blank page, almost begging me to try just one more time.
     Hesitantly I picked up my pen, and wrote a simple sentence. It was just a statement, nothing elaborate, just a plain, crafted sentence. Again, I wrote another sentence to follow up the first one, still as spartan. Carefully I inspected the two, and found something interesting; I had accidentally rhymed the two, and noticed they flowed better. In fact, it kind of stirred something in me, like this elementary literary device had somehow sparked a kind of emotion inside me. Intrigued, I abandoned the novel narrative and instead tried my hand at poetry. I had never been a huge fan of poetry; I had tried it a few times as a child but never really found much interest in it before. Now though, it seemed very different.
     I wrote a simple A-A, B-B form, only writing what came to my mind. It was quick, and even fun. It took only a couple seconds for me to think of words that rhymed while still staying true to what I was feeling, and the rest was just simply writing it down. 

     I knew exactly when I was finished, because I said what I was feeling. I looked over it, soaking in each word and each line, and for the first time in months, I felt... understood. It took me by such surprise and force that I found myself literally crying at my desk. Part of me was just so impressed that a simple rhythm and rhyme could trigger such a meaningful response, and the other part of me was nearly ashamed that it was so. All of the time I had been praying and pleading to not only my Heavenly Father, but also my mission president, companions, and family back home had not yielded half of the results that this stupid piece of paper with ink on it seemed to. It was a rudimentary poem, primary by nature and so poorly written that I dare not share it, but there it was, the painting of my despair, my hope, and my dreams, both broken yet at the same time alive and well. At this time even music could not hold a candle to this intrinsic poem of mine, partly because I could not listen to the music that probably would have. That was acceptable to me, however, because I had found something new to work on and enjoy. I had written a poem.

Personal Insights

     One might say that this was a proof then that God could not exist. He did not answer me when I had asked Him, even begged for an answer, right? And yet I feel so strongly the opposite, that this was God's way of showing me how to help myself out. This was the beginning of my new testimony, a stronger, more heavily wailed upon armor that had stood the test of time and will continue onward. It is battle hardened and has many cracks in it, but still provides just enough of the strength required to get the job done.

     Another argument that could arise is the fact that despite me finding poetry, I still went home early, and even attempted to take my own life before that. Surely these would not have happened had the Lord taken away my pains and sorrows, or given me a silver bullet to defeat them all, and yet I am still inclined to disagree. You see, if I had not found poetry, I would have killed myself months before. God knew it would be a close call, but He also knew that if I chose to that I would come out with the tools necessary for my life. It was not a gamble on His part so much as it was on mine, I was the one with the choice, I decided (with a lot of help) that ultimately I did not want to die and leave behind a legacy of terrible pain. I had felt that before, and it was not a warm and welcoming feeling. He knew that I would come home early because He had only called me for 11 months. It is still hard for me to speak on, and you better believe that putting this into writing is no easy task (I have been writing this post for well over a month now) but I know that one day it will make sense. Until then I have my poetry, blog, friends, school, work, and family to help me out.