journey to recovery · mental health · mental health blogger · mental illness · personal journey · Uncategorized

A Girl Called Ana [POEM]

I found this poem a few days back on my old blog and it gives me goosebumps every time I read it. I wanted to share, because it explains the grips of an eating disorder well.

I’ve seen a girl called Ana,

She’s pretty, thin and tall,

She has the smallest frame I’ve seen,

And not one single flaw.

I’ve met a girl called Ana,

she introduced herself one day,

She seemed so very nice at first,

and said she wants to stay.

I’ve known this girl named Ana,

She’s so perfect and it’s true,

I’m fat compared to her,

But she’ll make me skinny too.

I’ve become friends with this girl named Ana,

I’ve started eating less,

Hating the person in the mirror,

My life’s become a mess.

My best friend is a girl named Ana,

I just want her to stay,

All my other friends have left,

But she will never stray.

I always listen to Ana,

She’s smart and full of advice,

I’m starting to get smaller,

my health is the only sacrifice.

I’m scared of this girl called Ana,

I can’t get her from my head,

It always occurred to me,

that Ana wants me dead.

I despise this girl called Ana,

She makes my life a hell,

Someone hear my silent screams,

cause she won’t let me tell!

My worst enemy is this girl called Ana,

She’s a demon in my head,

She seemed so nice at first,

But now I am mislead.

I’m a prisoner to this girl called Ana,

I’m captive to her will,

I can’t help but do what she says,

How can I be so fat still?

My murderer is this girl called Ana,

She starves me to my grave,

My heart will stop beating,

When I can’t continue to be brave.

This is about Ana,

She’ll take your life away.

If you give her any chance,

in your head she’ll stay.

journey to recovery · mental health · mental health blogger · mental illness · personal journey · Uncategorized

Dear Society

I found this poem on tumblr and couldn’t help but share it to you all. Society has a big impact on people’s views, opinions and thoughts. It helps shape stereotypes and judgement which really doesn’t help those who suffer from mental health problems. The poem explores how society impacted one girl’s decision to submit to social recommendations and how eventually it made her lose control and take her own life.

You told her if she wore that dress,

she’d be the prettiest of all,

you told her she should wear high heels,

because she needed to be tall.

You told her how to cut her hair,

and how much skin to show,

you told her exactly what to wear,

“trust me because I know!”

You told her if she wanted boys,

she had to change her ways,

you told her to wear make-up,

because plain skin’s not okay.

You told her who she could love,

that anything different was wrong,

but you made her feel secluded,

like she would never belong.

She hated wearing dresses,

and she couldn’t walk in heels,

she couldn’t live to your standards,

and all of your ideals.

So you told her what she felt,

was the furthest from the truth,

she couldn’t be depressed,

because she was in her youth.

You told her she was a freak,

that she never would fit in,

but then you told her nothing,

as she pressed a blade up to her skin.

And once she had decided,

that you would tell her nothing more,

you wish you’d told the truth,

as she collapsed onto the floor.

She didn’t need the make-up,

that just being her was fine,

she could wear what made her happy,

that she could not be defined.

Then when you came to realise,

that she never knew you cared,

you wish that you’d have told her,

the world was better with her there…

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journey to recovery · mental health · mental illness · personal journey · Uncategorized

POEM – The morning after I killed myself

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbours’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few day lilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach. The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

[Credit: Meggie Royer]

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