Samantha Schutz's Blog

For many years, having an anxiety disorder shaped nearly every bit of my life…

For the last few years, whenever I tried to talk about my experience with anxiety disorder, I ran into the same problem. I couldn’t describe myself as having an anxiety disorder because I’d gone months without having a panic attack. And I couldn’t say I had an anxiety disorder because I still felt its effects.

Trying to find the right verb was more than just semantics. For many years, having an anxiety disorder shaped nearly every bit of my life—where I went, who I went with, how long I stayed. I do not believe that anxiety disorder can be flipped off like a switch, and accordingly, simply using past or present tense did not accurately reflect how I was feeling. The body has an unbelievable capacity to remember pain, and my body was not ready to forget what I had been through. It was only about a year ago that I settled on saying, “I am in recovery from anxiety disorder.”

I was diagnosed with panic disorder only a few months into my freshman year of college. My first attacks were scattered and seemingly without pattern. But it wasn’t long before the attacks picked up speed and I was having several a day. I often felt nervous, not in control of my body, and convinced that I was going to die. As their frequency increased, it became difficult to do normal things like go to class, the dining hall, or parties.

It was textbook panic disorder. Only I didn’t know that. I thought I had gone crazy and that all the things I hoped for in my life—that my parents hoped for—were gone and that I’d become one of those stories (the one about the nice young girl who goes off to college with a bright future and comes home with a fistful of pills and a blank look on her face).

I am thankful that I possess two qualities: being forthcoming about my feelings and being proactive about my health. I believe that these qualities are a big part of the reason that I was able to ask for help. And getting help was surprisingly easy. One fall afternoon I went to my college’s counseling center and asked for an appointment. Within days I was seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist and was on medication.

That was more than ten years ago. Since that fall, I have seen more than a half dozen therapists and taken as many different medications. I’ve had two episodes where I nearly checked myself into a hospital. I have been to yoga and meditation classes, swung tennis rackets at pillows, practiced the art of breathing, tried hypnosis, and taken herbal remedies. I’ve done things that once seemed impossible—like going to crowded concerts or sitting with relative ease in a packed lecture hall. I’ve also gone many months at a time without panic attacks or medication. Most recently, I published I Don’t Want to Be Crazy, a memoir about my experiences with panic disorder.

People want to know why I’m better. They want to know the formula. Again, this is not a simple question with a simple answer. For sure, fluctuating hormones, growing older, moving out of my parents’ house, and becoming more confident and secure with myself have all impacted my recovery. The only thing I can say with certainty is that my commitment to therapy and my willingness to try new medications has made the most difference.

You Are Not Here–now in paperback

Hey Friends, I’ve been busy working on my second novel which should be out Summer or Fall 2013. But I wanted to take a second to say: Hooray! The paperback of You Are Not Here is out NOW! And don’t forget about the ebook, too.

I’m relinking to one of my favorite posts–a photo essay about the real places that inspired You Are Not Here.

Also click here to listen to me reading a bit from the beginning of You Are Not Here.

-Sam

WINNERS: National Poetry Month Contest

I am thrilled to announce the three winners of my National Poetry Month Contest. I got loads of submissions on all sorts of topics: relationships, self-injury, depression, anxiety, medication, self image, violence, racism, and more. But the common theme was hope…and that things get better.

Check out all the submissions here on my blog. And, of course, take a moment to read the three winning poems below.

The grand-prize winner is Anonymous, age 22 with "Fall."

She'll be getting a great prize pack of books including: It Gets Better by Dan Savage, I Don't Want to Be Crazy and You Are Not Here by Samantha Schutz (signed by me!), It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini, Cut by Patricia McCormick, and Talking in the Dark by Billy Merrell.

Anonymous, age 22

Fall

I try to suppress the grin on my face

As I rush, alone, to my next class.

The campus is graceful in its nature

and colors and I'm alone, not

lonely, thanking the empty sky for

getting me to this place.

I'm in awe of the bag on my

shoulder, heavy with overpriced

books. Proud that my four successive

classes give me some place

acceptable to be.

I take notes and study and wear a genuinely

rehearsed contemplative look. I can't understand

the groans around me at another assigned chapter

or announcement of an upcoming test.

This is it.

What I've been struggling to attain for four

excruciatingly long years.

To sit in a class and learn, to abandon my corner

of safety and pain and thoughts designed to

derail me at every haphazard venturing out.

I spent the better part of my first two adult

years screaming on a locked ward,

but the piercing shrieks have faded,

and I don't think I have to be so afraid

anymore.

I don't think they can control me anymore.

* * *

The two runners up are Anu B., age 18 and Stephanie Faith Sizeland, age 19.



They'll both get signed copies of I Don't Want to Be Crazy and You Are Not Here by Samantha Schutz (me!).

Anu B., age 18

Maybe



Maybe I'm not who you want me to be,

But I'm me. Incorrigibly, irredeemably, painfully

Me.

Maybe I'm not where you want me to be.

Maybe my hair is too long for your liking,

Or too short for your delicate sensibilities.

Maybe my pants hang a little too low,

Or I hold my books a little too close.

Maybe my eyes are too sad for you,

Or my hips too wide,

My arms too long, my smile

Too blithe.

Maybe it's just that I'm too tall, too short,

Too skinny, too fat, too strong, too smart,

Too loud, too quiet, too immersed in my thoughts.

Maybe.

Maybe I'm not everything you want me to be,

But I'm me. Incorrigibly, irredeemably, painfully

Me.

But, maybe it's not me.

Maybe you're too…too.

Maybe you're heart isn't big enough,

Maybe your heart only feels its own pain.

My heart will have to be big enough,

I will survive your incorrigible, irredeemable,

Painful Disdain.

Stephanie Faith Sizeland, age 19

Stop the bleeding

As she heads for the book shelf

She apologizes to herself once more

"I'm sorry, I can't take it anymore."

She lifts up her book titled "Glass"

"Story of my life" she whispers…

Underneath hides a secret kept from the world

The story of a broken girl.

She picks up the translucent piece

Sharpened edge

Sharper than the rest

In need of one more release.

Glass to skin, she carves

Another scar

One more line to match the rest

Closes her eyes and lets it slide

"This is the last time." She lies.

As the blood runs, she weeps

Always abides by her one rule

"Never too deep".

The lines are straight

She holds her arm to the light

Studying the horizontal cuts

Always left to right.

Never does it for attention

Or sympathy from anyone

Does it for herself

Because she feels she has no choice

Not tonight, not ever.

It's about stopping.

It's about having the courage to stop.

Having the strength.

Relief is possible without the knife.

Don't cut your life short.

Make an effort to stop.

Make an effort to get better.

Tell someone you love.

Help someone you know.

Stop the scars.

Stop the bleeding.

Nat’l Poetry Month contest submissions: Part IV

Here’s the final batch of submissions. Check back Friday when the winners are announced! Who do you think should win?

Anu B., age 18

Maybe



Maybe I’m not who you want me to be,

But I’m me. Incorrigibly, irredeemably, painfully

Me.

Maybe I’m not where you want me to be.

Maybe my hair is too long for your liking,

Or too short for your delicate sensibilities.

Maybe my pants hang a little too low,

Or I hold my books a little too close.

Maybe my eyes are too sad for you,

Or my hips too wide,

My arms too long, my smile

Too blithe.

Maybe it’s just that I’m too tall, too short,

Too skinny, too fat, too strong, too smart,

Too loud, too quiet, too immersed in my thoughts.

Maybe.

Maybe I’m not everything you want me to be,

But I’m me. Incorrigibly, irredeemably, painfully

Me.

But, maybe it’s not me.

Maybe you’re too…too.

Maybe you’re heart isn’t big enough,

Maybe your heart only feels its own pain.

My heart will have to be big enough,

I will survive your incorrigible, irredeemable,

Painful Disdain.

Anonomyus, age 22

Fall

I try to suppress the grin on my face

As I rush, alone, to my next class.

The campus is graceful in its nature

and colors and I’m alone, not

lonely, thanking the empty sky for

getting me to this place.

I’m in awe of the bag on my

shoulder, heavy with overpriced

books. Proud that my four successive

classes give me some place

acceptable to be.

I take notes and study and wear a genuinely

rehearsed contemplative look. I can’t understand

the groans around me at another assigned chapter

or announcement of an upcoming test.

This is it.

What I’ve been struggling to attain for four

excruciatingly long years.

To sit in a class and learn, to abandon my corner

of safety and pain and thoughts designed to

derail me at every haphazard venturing out.

I spent the better part of my first two adult

years screaming on a locked ward,

but the piercing shrieks have faded,

and I don’t think I have to be so afraid

anymore.

I don’t think they can control me anymore.

Laura, age 22



Hidden vines are intertwined

Grapes turn into wine

Alcohol vapors rise

And sink my heart into abandonment.

It’s now numb.

Yet it bleeds happiness,

It pounds and echoes long, forgotten beats.

I’ve never felt more alive.

This can’t be erased

Nor forgotten.

Nothing can move me more.

Roots grow deeper and stronger

Leaves aren’t rusted anymore

Pure, green life has just revived

Insects no longer pierce the wood

Winds and storms make the tree stronger

Lightning doesn’t strike it,

Thunder doesn’t bruise it.

The aching, sharp thorn from my wrist

Is now soft and blunt.

 

It can’t hurt me anymore.

Looking back i smile at my disaster

And i embrace it with content.

The garden has finally blossomed

After a long, rough winter.

Allie Marie Birch, age 15

My Love Came From The Earth

One day I dug my fingertips into the soil of my secrets

Swept by the air, a moist feeling covered the atmosphere

A tear that escaped my heart found it’s way to the barren ground

One after another I let them flow

A pain that swelled deep within finally unveiled

Splitting my memories and tearing them apart

I can see they’re faces of lies

They’re mouth’s move with tales of sorrow

I can almost feel them still…

My hands dig deeper into the dampened Earth

Then a power possess me to scult my dreams

Forming from the dirt I created a man with pieces of myself

Containing everything to make me whole again

Soon I lost track of time and maybe my mind

But then he came to life

Hand in hand, we walked down the shore

Away from all my memories and into what I think, feels like home

I was always afraid to find love

But maybe it will be better this time

I can already see the sun

Isabelle, age 18

Solitude Unrest

Leaves turned to red…

Thoughts annihilate 

’til the leaves were green.

Jordan Beasley, 18

Judgements



A homeless man holds a sign saying “I’ll be grateful for anything”.

Do you pass judgment on how he got there or help him find his wings?

A woman with five children comes out of an office labeled “WIC”.

Do you understand her struggle or say that she makes you sick?

An interracial couple walk together in a store.

Do you turn your nose up, or treat them like your couple next door?

A girl with many bruises sits alone with falling tears.

Will you walk right by her or help her with her fears?

Judgments…

A Caucasian female in the “ghetto” struggling to make ends meet.

Would you have ever guessed she spent all her life getting beat?

A female becomes a mother at an age you hate to see.

But I bet she’s the best mom that she knows how to be.

Two females walk hand in hand with a smile on their face.

They’re so in love, they don’t worry with the looks of disgrace

A teenage kid has scars and cuts up and down both of his arms.

Will you be the one who bullies him or stand up to take charge?

Judgments…

The society we live in can be twisted in more ways than one

But being a survivor of rape, abuse and depression I can tell you that I’ve won

If you’re going through it don’t be scared to speak your mind

Because you never know who’s listening, it will get better, you will find.

I didn’t take their judgments but I see them every day

So be the one to stand up and speak, not the one who got away.

Adelana, age 20

Silent SoulThere is nothing divine

in the stir of silence amidst this soul

Pain was left to heal

Scars suddenly trodden with relieve

A drop of Liquid per minute,

rows rumbled with columns

for this bucket is far from half-full

A jagged aura of Venus

hovering with a wondrous grin

farewell, there is no cause to worry,

like the quote of good demons

A world without worry

a world in a lone glory

This wonders of beauty

Growing and puddling with danger

in the mind of solitude

Despicable and deadly volt

safe and secured for it will never get out

A word that was left unspoken

is now a sword cutting through the downtrodden

Nat'l Poetry Month contest submissions: Part IV

Here's the final batch of submissions. Check back Friday when the winners are announced! Who do you think should win?

Anu B., age 18

Maybe



Maybe I'm not who you want me to be,

But I'm me. Incorrigibly, irredeemably, painfully

Me.

Maybe I'm not where you want me to be.

Maybe my hair is too long for your liking,

Or too short for your delicate sensibilities.

Maybe my pants hang a little too low,

Or I hold my books a little too close.

Maybe my eyes are too sad for you,

Or my hips too wide,

My arms too long, my smile

Too blithe.

Maybe it's just that I'm too tall, too short,

Too skinny, too fat, too strong, too smart,

Too loud, too quiet, too immersed in my thoughts.

Maybe.

Maybe I'm not everything you want me to be,

But I'm me. Incorrigibly, irredeemably, painfully

Me.

But, maybe it's not me.

Maybe you're too…too.

Maybe you're heart isn't big enough,

Maybe your heart only feels its own pain.

My heart will have to be big enough,

I will survive your incorrigible, irredeemable,

Painful Disdain.

Anonomyus, age 22

Fall

I try to suppress the grin on my face

As I rush, alone, to my next class.

The campus is graceful in its nature

and colors and I'm alone, not

lonely, thanking the empty sky for

getting me to this place.

I'm in awe of the bag on my

shoulder, heavy with overpriced

books. Proud that my four successive

classes give me some place

acceptable to be.

I take notes and study and wear a genuinely

rehearsed contemplative look. I can't understand

the groans around me at another assigned chapter

or announcement of an upcoming test.

This is it.

What I've been struggling to attain for four

excruciatingly long years.

To sit in a class and learn, to abandon my corner

of safety and pain and thoughts designed to

derail me at every haphazard venturing out.

I spent the better part of my first two adult

years screaming on a locked ward,

but the piercing shrieks have faded,

and I don't think I have to be so afraid

anymore.

I don't think they can control me anymore.

Laura, age 22



Hidden vines are intertwined

Grapes turn into wine

Alcohol vapors rise

And sink my heart into abandonment.

It's now numb.

Yet it bleeds happiness,

It pounds and echoes long, forgotten beats.

I've never felt more alive.

This can't be erased

Nor forgotten.

Nothing can move me more.

Roots grow deeper and stronger

Leaves aren't rusted anymore

Pure, green life has just revived

Insects no longer pierce the wood

Winds and storms make the tree stronger

Lightning doesn't strike it,

Thunder doesn't bruise it.

The aching, sharp thorn from my wrist

Is now soft and blunt.

 

It can't hurt me anymore.

Looking back i smile at my disaster

And i embrace it with content.

The garden has finally blossomed

After a long, rough winter.

Allie Marie Birch, age 15

My Love Came From The Earth

One day I dug my fingertips into the soil of my secrets

Swept by the air, a moist feeling covered the atmosphere

A tear that escaped my heart found it's way to the barren ground

One after another I let them flow

A pain that swelled deep within finally unveiled

Splitting my memories and tearing them apart

I can see they're faces of lies

They're mouth's move with tales of sorrow

I can almost feel them still…

My hands dig deeper into the dampened Earth

Then a power possess me to scult my dreams

Forming from the dirt I created a man with pieces of myself

Containing everything to make me whole again

Soon I lost track of time and maybe my mind

But then he came to life

Hand in hand, we walked down the shore

Away from all my memories and into what I think, feels like home

I was always afraid to find love

But maybe it will be better this time

I can already see the sun

Isabelle, age 18

Solitude Unrest

Leaves turned to red…

Thoughts annihilate 

'til the leaves were green.

Jordan Beasley, 18

Judgements



A homeless man holds a sign saying "I'll be grateful for anything".

Do you pass judgment on how he got there or help him find his wings?

A woman with five children comes out of an office labeled "WIC".

Do you understand her struggle or say that she makes you sick?

An interracial couple walk together in a store.

Do you turn your nose up, or treat them like your couple next door?

A girl with many bruises sits alone with falling tears.

Will you walk right by her or help her with her fears?

Judgments…

A Caucasian female in the "ghetto" struggling to make ends meet.

Would you have ever guessed she spent all her life getting beat?

A female becomes a mother at an age you hate to see.

But I bet she's the best mom that she knows how to be.

Two females walk hand in hand with a smile on their face.

They're so in love, they don't worry with the looks of disgrace

A teenage kid has scars and cuts up and down both of his arms.

Will you be the one who bullies him or stand up to take charge?

Judgments…

The society we live in can be twisted in more ways than one

But being a survivor of rape, abuse and depression I can tell you that I've won

If you're going through it don't be scared to speak your mind

Because you never know who's listening, it will get better, you will find.

I didn't take their judgments but I see them every day

So be the one to stand up and speak, not the one who got away.

Adelana, age 20

Silent SoulThere is nothing divine

in the stir of silence amidst this soul

Pain was left to heal

Scars suddenly trodden with relieve

A drop of Liquid per minute,

rows rumbled with columns

for this bucket is far from half-full

A jagged aura of Venus

hovering with a wondrous grin

farewell, there is no cause to worry,

like the quote of good demons

A world without worry

a world in a lone glory

This wonders of beauty

Growing and puddling with danger

in the mind of solitude

Despicable and deadly volt

safe and secured for it will never get out

A word that was left unspoken

is now a sword cutting through the downtrodden

Nat’l Poetry Month contest submissions: Part III

Here are a few more posts for the Nat’l Poetry Month contest. Have you sent in your submission? You have until the end of the month.  Click here for info about how to enter and PRIZES: http://samanthaschutz.net/site/?p=597

MAW, age 18

My hands shake

Violently

My body turns itself into a

Rocking chair

My legs

Bounce

I sit in this stall

Rocking

Shaking

Bouncing

I huddle over

My breasts brush against my thighs

And I rock

And I beg myself to breathe

And I beg myself to stop these tears

And I dare not make a sound

Not even a

Gasp

Because there’s this paranoia that if I do a

Gasp

Will turn into a

Whisper   

Which will turn into a small

Whimper

Which will morph into a

Cry

Which will heighten to a

Sob

Which becomes a

Wail

Which finally creates a

Shriek a

Scream a

Sound

That is so loud that it’ll simply

Take over everything and never

Stop.

Monday is bad.

I’m starting to loose track of when they start.

I hate it when they ask me

“When did the attack start?”

because I never have a clear answer

for them

or even myself.

I’ve given up on trying to tell myself

that this is tied to a certain class

and I’m tired of wondering what

the precedent is.

When I leave in the middle of class

I want to give up completely

on ever trying to leave my room again

because nothing ever seems worth

this struggle.

I go to the counselors office

and I crumble in the chair

and start sobbing.

I want nothing more than to run away

to run into traffic

or maybe off a bridge.

I tell him that I’m having suicidal thoughts

and that I have urges.

I tell him I’m scared

because I know that this

isn’t me.

He writes this all down

I know that he is staring at me

and I want to scream at him to

advert his eyes

to not look at me.

It’s making me nervous,

and I feel like his eyes are judging.

He tells me that he needs to call my parents

because I’m having these thoughts.

That makes me cry harder

because I don’t want them to know this.

I

want

crave

need

bliss.

The Celexa

gives me

Hell.

I mistakenly went off it

because I forgot to refill my prescription

and then I went back on

full strength.

I

want

to

die.

I cry

more than I’m

not

and I’m tearing up my skin

with my knife.

I wake up

and I cry

and then I scream

because something inside me is dying

and it’s releasing a poison

that’s leaving me dead.

All I can do

is stare lifelessly

at the world

and wait for time

to pass me by.

Zoloft

is better.

I feel as though the curtains are opening

and my depression

doesn’t seem as smothering

and my “death”

doesn’t feel permanent.

For the first time today

I saw Brad

and I cried

because in the first time

in what feels like never

I feel so

alive

and an overwhelming

amount of love

and life

pounds through my veins.

I can only kiss him

and I didn’t realize how much

I missed him

this past month

even though

he’s been by my side

this whole time.

Bliss

is fearing less

and loving

more.

For the first time

in my life

I feel

alive.

The future

doesn’t feel

unreachable

but instead

it’s around the corner

filled with

love

life

and art.

I began drawing

the panic attacks

my tears

becoming the

paper

and my fear

becoming the colors

and ever since

I’ve let it out

I feel as though

it’s not a burden

but instead something to harden

this weak shell

and instead of making me permeable

it’s letting me bend

with every curve

of my life.

I’m still

afraid

of leaving my bed.

But I remember the depression

and of how I died

and that scares me more.

I’m terrified

of these panic attacks

but I’m terrified

of fear more.

I may never be

free

of anxiety

and there are days when I just

cry.

I’m nothing more

than a girl

who fears much

but loves more.

This is

enough

because I know

that I’ll wake up

and have the

bliss

that I didn’t have

before.

Alyssa H., age 17

HURT

Hurt,rejected,depressed
are ways of how people hurt today,each day of our lives
They hurt others around them to take away the pain.
by taking there emotions and dumping them onto someone else,
pushing their wait onto someone else’s shoulders.
they cut to take away the pain
but in the end it was a total waste
Hurt,rejection and depression starts all over again.
hurt is what every one in the world feels,
no one lives without pain,
Its everywhere


E. Hall

So Much Hate

Whites against Blacks

Daughters against mothers

Sons against fathers

Brothers against sisters.

Why so much hate?

Where is the love for one another

Where the morals and the guidance?

Where is the unity and peace?

Where is the security and brotherhood?

Where is this nation headed?

When will be united as one family

When will prejudice and racism be erased?

When will neighbor truly love his neighbor?

When will Martin L. King Jr.’s  dream come true?

It starts with the golden rule,

“Loving others as you love yourself.”

Nat'l Poetry Month contest submissions: Part III

Here are a few more posts for the Nat'l Poetry Month contest. Have you sent in your submission? You have until the end of the month.  Click here for info about how to enter and PRIZES: http://samanthaschutz.net/site/?p=597

 

MAW, age 18 

 

My hands shake    

Violently   

My body turns itself into a    

Rocking chair   

My legs    

Bounce   

I sit in this stall   

Rocking   

Shaking   

Bouncing   

I huddle over   

My breasts brush against my thighs   

And I rock   

And I beg myself to breathe   

And I beg myself to stop these tears   

And I dare not make a sound   

Not even a   

Gasp   

Because there's this paranoia that if I do a   

Gasp   

Will turn into a   

Whisper   

Which will turn into a small   

Whimper   

Which will morph into a   

Cry   

Which will heighten to a   

Sob   

Which becomes a   

Wail   

Which finally creates a    

Shriek a   

Scream a   

Sound    

That is so loud that it'll simply   

Take over everything and never   

Stop.  

   

Monday is bad.   

I'm starting to loose track of when they start.   

I hate it when they ask me   

"When did the attack start?"   

because I never have a clear answer   

for them   

or even myself.   

I've given up on trying to tell myself   

that this is tied to a certain class   

and I'm tired of wondering what   

the precedent is.   

When I leave in the middle of class   

I want to give up completely   

on ever trying to leave my room again   

because nothing ever seems worth    

this struggle.  

   

I go to the counselors office   

and I crumble in the chair   

and start sobbing.   

I want nothing more than to run away   

to run into traffic   

or maybe off a bridge.   

I tell him that I'm having suicidal thoughts   

and that I have urges.   

I tell him I'm scared   

because I know that this   

isn't me.   

He writes this all down   

I know that he is staring at me   

and I want to scream at him to   

advert his eyes   

to not look at me.   

It's making me nervous,   

and I feel like his eyes are judging.   

He tells me that he needs to call my parents   

because I'm having these thoughts.   

That makes me cry harder   

because I don't want them to know this.  

   

I    

want   

crave   

need   

bliss.  

   

The Celexa   

gives me   

Hell.   

I mistakenly went off it   

because I forgot to refill my prescription   

and then I went back on   

full strength.   

I    

want   

to   

die.   

I cry   

more than I'm    

not   

and I'm tearing up my skin   

with my knife.   

I wake up   

and I cry   

and then I scream   

because something inside me is dying   

and it's releasing a poison   

that's leaving me dead.   

All I can do   

is stare lifelessly    

at the world    

and wait for time    

to pass me by.  

   

Zoloft   

is better.   

I feel as though the curtains are opening   

and my depression   

doesn't seem as smothering   

and my "death"   

doesn't feel permanent.   

For the first time today   

I saw Brad   

and I cried   

because in the first time   

in what feels like never   

I feel so   

alive   

and an overwhelming    

amount of love    

and life   

pounds through my veins.   

I can only kiss him   

and I didn't realize how much    

I missed him   

this past month   

even though   

he's been by my side   

this whole time.  

   

Bliss    

is fearing less   

and loving   

more.   

For the first time   

in my life   

I feel    

alive.   

The future   

doesn't feel    

unreachable   

but instead   

it's around the corner   

filled with    

love   

life   

and art.   

I began drawing   

the panic attacks   

my tears   

becoming the   

paper   

and my fear   

becoming the colors   

and ever since   

I've let it out   

I feel as though   

it's not a burden    

but instead something to harden   

this weak shell   

and instead of making me permeable   

it's letting me bend   

with every curve   

of my life.  

   

I'm still   

afraid   

of leaving my bed.   

But I remember the depression   

and of how I died   

and that scares me more.   

I'm terrified    

of these panic attacks   

but I'm terrified   

of fear more.   

I may never be   

free   

of anxiety   

and there are days when I just   

cry.   

I'm nothing more   

than a girl   

who fears much   

but loves more.   

This is   

enough   

because I know   

that I'll wake up   

and have the   

bliss   

that I didn't have   

before.   

Alyssa H., age 17

HURT   

Hurt,rejected,depressed
are ways of how people hurt today,each day of our lives
They hurt others around them to take away the pain.
by taking there emotions and dumping them onto someone else,
pushing their wait onto someone else's shoulders.
they cut to take away the pain
but in the end it was a total waste
Hurt,rejection and depression starts all over again.
hurt is what every one in the world feels,
no one lives without pain,
Its everywhere
 
 
E. Hall

So Much Hate

 

Whites against Blacks

Daughters against mothers

Sons against fathers

Brothers against sisters.

 

Why so much hate?

 

Where is the love for one another

Where the morals and the guidance?

Where is the unity and peace?

Where is the security and brotherhood?

 

Where is this nation headed?

 

When will be united as one family

When will prejudice and racism be erased?

When will neighbor truly love his neighbor?

When will Martin L. King Jr.'s  dream come true?

 

It starts with the golden rule,

 

"Loving others as you love yourself." 

    

Nat’l Poetry Month contest submissions: Part II

Here are a few more posts for the Nat’l Poetry Month contest. Have you sent in your submission? You have until the end of the month.  Click here for info about how to enter and PRIZES: http://samanthaschutz.net/site/?p=597



BPD in OKC, 29

I can’t sew



I’m lost,

but I know I still love you.

I may be dead inside,

but I’m still living for you.

I am broken,

but you don’t know you broke me.

My heart keeps bleeding,

but I can’t sew myself back together.

I see no hope,

but I am not giving up.

Times are tough,

but things can always get better.

A.M. Young, age 22

Curious

Confused in the tug of war,

The emotional war that I fight with

Everyday, every movement watched

Like a hawk preying on the weak

The confusion never ceases

Even when I think I have it “figured out”

And the emotions run high

Whenever one becomes curious

My sanity is my warfare

My sexuality is my battle

Just one of those struggles

The one that never controls me

That cannot keep me down

So I ask myself

Do I have it “figured out?”

No, but I don’t want to…

Because the hawk

So strong and harsh

Never caught up to me

KLP

[young hunger for beautiful]



she looks at her pale skin and her beautiful eyes

and she loves her bones and her skinny thighs.

she idolizes her way of being barely there

and she is captivated by her stare.

she looks at her with disgust

as she so clearly does not add up,

and she feels the purge coming on

as she rids herself of bodily harm.

she is empty and light,

begging for beauty to grasp her

and hold her tight.

she loses inches off her waist

as she sees her gaze fade away.

she runs miles towards her direction,

desiring more attention.

she wants to see her reflection in her eyes.

she is only skin and bones,

the image she craves most.

she is beautiful,

and she sees her.

she looks just like her,

and together they waste away.

someday hope will speak confidence to her disbelief,

and she will see new beauty.

i will recognize her smile and know

she is happy and healthy.

someday she will find healing.

beauty is on its way.

Nat'l Poetry Month contest submissions: Part II

Here are a few more posts for the Nat'l Poetry Month contest. Have you sent in your submission? You have until the end of the month.  Click here for info about how to enter and PRIZES: http://samanthaschutz.net/site/?p=597



BPD in OKC, 29

I can't sew



I'm lost,

but I know I still love you.

I may be dead inside,

but I'm still living for you.

I am broken,

but you don't know you broke me.

My heart keeps bleeding,

but I can't sew myself back together.

I see no hope,

but I am not giving up.

Times are tough,

but things can always get better.

A.M. Young, age 22

Curious 

Confused in the tug of war,

The emotional war that I fight with

Everyday, every movement watched

Like a hawk preying on the weak 

The confusion never ceases

Even when I think I have it "figured out"

And the emotions run high

Whenever one becomes curious 

My sanity is my warfare

My sexuality is my battle

Just one of those struggles

The one that never controls me

That cannot keep me down 

So I ask myself

Do I have it "figured out?"

No, but I don't want to…

Because the hawk

So strong and harsh

Never caught up to me

KLP

[young hunger for beautiful]



she looks at her pale skin and her beautiful eyes

and she loves her bones and her skinny thighs.

she idolizes her way of being barely there

and she is captivated by her stare.

she looks at her with disgust

as she so clearly does not add up,

and she feels the purge coming on

as she rids herself of bodily harm.

she is empty and light,

begging for beauty to grasp her

and hold her tight.

she loses inches off her waist

as she sees her gaze fade away.

she runs miles towards her direction,

desiring more attention.

she wants to see her reflection in her eyes.

she is only skin and bones,

the image she craves most.

she is beautiful,

and she sees her.

she looks just like her,

and together they waste away.

someday hope will speak confidence to her disbelief,

and she will see new beauty.

i will recognize her smile and know

she is happy and healthy.

someday she will find healing.

beauty is on its way.

 

Nat’l Poetry Month contest submissions: Part I

Check it out. The first poems are coming in. What do you think?



Colleen Kennedy, age 15 

The Unknown

I don’t know what’s going to happen next
And that alone makes me scared to death
My hands will eventually start to sweat
I’ll lose my breath
And all the while my heart will be beating fast
I wish I could make this calmness last
 
But not now 
Not again
Inside I’m screaming
Can you hear me?
Am I going crazy?
‘Cause I can’t think clearly
I’m losing control
I feel like letting go
How can I cope?
Tell me 
‘Cause I don’t know
 
Right now just leave me alone
I don’t want your touch 
You can hold me later on
God know’s I’ll need it then
When the after depression starts sinking in
I’ll just wait for these feelings 
To subside 
These tears 
To dry
The  fact they always have 
Brings me hope

Stephanie Faith Sizeland, age 19

Stop the bleeding

As she heads for the book shelf

She apologizes to herself once more

“I’m sorry, I can’t take it anymore.”

She lifts up her book titled “Glass”

“Story of my life” she whispers…

Underneath hides a secret kept from the world

The story of a broken girl.

She picks up the translucent piece

Sharpened edge

Sharper than the rest

In need of one more release.

Glass to skin, she carves

Another scar

One more line to match the rest

Closes her eyes and lets it slide

“This is the last time.” She lies.

As the blood runs, she weeps

Always abides by her one rule

“Never too deep”.

The lines are straight

She holds her arm to the light

Studying the horizontal cuts

Always left to right.

Never does it for attention

Or sympathy from anyone

Does it for herself

Because she feels she has no choice

Not tonight, not ever.

It’s about stopping.

It’s about having the courage to stop.

Having the strength.

Relief is possible without the knife.

Don’t cut your life short.

Make an effort to stop.

Make an effort to get better.

Tell someone you love.

Help someone you know.

Stop the scars.

Stop the bleeding.

C.S., age  15

Some days

All I want is to end it.

End the pain

in my heart and from the blade.

Some days

I don’t feel like I can live.

I cannot breath

I think this is the end now.

Some days

I do not have any hope.

“Look at yourself.

Your goals will end in failure.”

Days like these,

I have to cut myself up

To put things back together.

There is no other way.

But TODAY

I will persevere through it.

I will beat this.

There are ways for me to win.

Today

I will smile.

I will put down the blade.

I will survive.

Today

I will live.

 

Kelcie H., age 13

Captured In Hiding:



When he leaves it’s already black

struggling to breathe but there’s no turning back

i find myself frozen when he turns around

he takes a little step closer

i spin down

hoping it will only be a pound….or two

here he comes closer and closer and

takes his shoe and chucks it at me

i try not to cry as he tosses me around

with not even a doubt

i hear him shoot

something which sounded like a gun

but he gets closer and closer and aims

for what seemed to be me

so here i am straining to breathe, i whisper

no daddy please

but one big bang can do it all

i am getting dizzier and dizzier..

then it all seemed to be……

over.

Nicole Easterwood, age 20

Because We Were Different

I remember when eighty-four pounds

made me feel obese.

And looking in the mirror

was excruciating.

Not being able to see

what Jo saw

and her not being able to see

that the cuts gracing her ankles

were killing me.

Turmoil.

Not believing that people cared.

Not believing that they could see

through translucent skin.

Masquerading through,

jumping at inconspicuous apparitions,

both tangled within a web

positioned in a fool’s paradise.   

“Fucking loser.”

“Fat ass piece

of worthless shit.”

“Ghost.“

“Why

don’t

you

just

die.”

“Robin

is

dead.”

All slashing away

at a heart

that was fighting

not to bleed out.

Remembering the time when I didn’t know

That Jo was cutting,

because someone was abusing her

when they drank to forget.

All of the beer cans she discovered

stored underneath the house,

like no one would ever uncover them.

Dirty little secrets swept under the rug

when they were already written on the walls

and displayed like a painting in a museum. 

The time when I wasn’t honest with her

when I was starving myself

and my skin was fervent.

When depression devoured me

and I couldn’t pull myself from bed.

When I wouldn’t talk

to doctors out of shame.

Feeling guilty for lying to Jo.

Wondering if she knew.

The real reason behind the scars

made into a fairytale

with a happy ending of healing

without risk of madness. 

The times I could hear

voices talking about me.

Being betrayed

by people I trusted.

Putting up with it,

so I wouldn’t have

to sit alone at lunch.

Getting pelted with objects

in bathroom stalls.

Silence.

Loneliness.

The force-field surrounding

everything I loved

being destroyed by meteors.

My mouth numb,

mind howling. 

What would everyone think

if I admitted I was what I was?

What would they think

if they knew the truth?

Fifteen years of age,

high school freshman.

Depressed,

anxiety ridden,

suicidal,

possibly anorexic

and/or bulimic.  

Problems,

problems,

problems solved

by the warm side of a lighter

or blazing heat of a stove eye.

“I’m such a klutz,”

used as a ploy.

Coming home everyday

feeling worse than the last.

Multiple failures, pleading

each would be enough

to be released.  

Because we were different.

Because we couldn’t find

ways to deal.

Because the pain

was too immense.

Time is all we have.

It’s been almost six years.

Ages ago we believed

that healing was nowhere.

Love and light were gone

and there was only one way out.

To feel nothing,

to give into

a twisted minds

hankering.

Now, there is only a vast ocean

swimming with possibilities

and we are digging

our feet into the sand

trudging towards it.  

It’s still there.

And I don’t know

when it’s presence

will fully vacate our chests.

There is always the fight.

We will tussle,

because we are worth it.

Always together,

never apart. 

We will be grateful for this day,

feel the wind hit our cheeks

and sun’s warmth on our backs

and just breathe,

breathe,

breathe.

Shannon Bradley, age 40



Death by volcano takes many forms:

the boy who lived within might fly out and attack,

perform the rituals designed to appease

But she had been asked inside.

She knew searing lava, suffocating mud,

seismic restlessness

She sucked in a breath

She let herself imagine

the expansion of his chest.

Everything’s going to be all right.

Everything’s going to be.

Danielle Alison, age 14

Presence in the Sunset



The beautiful oranges,

reds and yellows.

They form over the

crystal blue waters.

The waves,

calm as the breeze.

The breeze feels nice

in the warm air.

The warm air brushes

upon her face.

She looks to her right

and sees him.

He is walking in the

beautiful horizon.

She cannot see his face,

but knows it is him.

She becomes excited

to see him,

but has to quickly hide

her expression.

Looking back out

to the waters,

She pretends not

to realize his existence.

They are the only two

on the beach.

After a few minutes,

she forgets he is

even there.

The waves start to rise,

splashing at her feet.

The warm waves

are soothing.

She feels a presence,

suddenly remembering

The boy she was

once in love with.

He sits behind her,

wrapping his arms

around her waist,

and kisses her neck.

“I’m so sorry,”

he whispers softly.

“Forgive me?

Take me back?

I’ll make everything

better if you do.”

His voice is hopeful.

Watching the sunset,

and feeling the waves,

who could not forgive him,

for his sweet presence?