poetry

I am here.

/ amynotdorft / 1 Comment

So I’ve been on hiatus for… a while.

I’m okay.

I wasn’t okay.

But I’m mostly okay now.

I’ve had depression and anxiety for a very long time, but there’s always been a good reason to push it aside. To tell myself that I’ll be alright as long as I keep moving. That I don’t need help. That it’s “normal.” That I can handle it.

I’m sure I’m not the only person who has had those beliefs shattered in the past year. My existential crises suddenly found themselves with some very real material, and my coping mechanisms — social events, going out by myself, getting someone to watch the kids — went flying out the window.

To be honest, it didn’t feel like what I was experiencing was even related to the pandemic, and in some ways it wasn’t — my mental health wasn’t great to begin with after all — but whether I acknowledged the pressure bearing down on me or not, it was still there. In the way I couldn’t take my children to the park or to the grocery store. In the way I hadn’t been away from them for more than half an hour in several months. In the masks I saw hanging from rear-view mirrors as I walked down the street. In the way that walking those streets had become a sick strategy game — weaving back and forth or meandering blocks out of the way so that I didn’t have to go within two metres of anyone else.

I felt it in my core even if I didn’t acknowledge it. I stopped doing anything. I stopped being anything. I wanted to just stop altogether.

So I got help. For the first time. And just… thank God. Why the hell didn’t I do this sooner?

Please, whether it’s been a lifelong thing or it’s a new thing… if you feel empty, overly anxious, meaningless, like your entire self is about to implode… tell someone. Preferably your doctor. Look for community resources if you don’t have access to paid therapy and can’t afford it. Online therapy. Just, ask for help. I promise you deserve it. (For the record I signed up for a government-funded online therapy clinic and used a free CBT app called Woebot while I was waitlisted.)

And if you are in crisis, please call a crisis support line or stop by your emergency department. Your life matters and I swear you are strong enough to get through this. You just haven’t been given the tools yet. You’ve been climbing a mountain with your bare hands and you’ve still gotten this far. Imagine where you’d get if someone gave you some climbing equipment (and taught you how to use it).

Anyway. Therapy and mental health supports aside (but seriously, access them if you think you need them), I thought it was about time for an update.

Even before the pandemic, I was really struggling with my creativity. Not so much a writer’s block, just a lack of passion for… well… anything. Writing included. This of course, caused extra anxiety as I thought to myself… will I ever be creative again? Will I ever feel again? Despite the way we romanticize mental illness, that poetic melancholy or artistic moodiness, it is NOT conducive to creativity. I am a much better (and definitely productive) creator when I am mentally well.

While I was recovering, and within the pressures of parenting during a pandemic, the only thing I’ve consistently found time for has been poetry. It’s short, I can write and edit it on my phone, and it’s cathartic as hell. I’ve actually started a poetry Instagram with the tag @amnotpoetry. You can see the feed over there —>
I’ll do some poetry posts to update any new ones to the site and file them under the Poetry section up there. ^

I also quit twitter for now, because who needs that negativity?

An example of the kind of stuff I’m doing over on insta

As for what comes next… well, I’m trying to take it easy for now in terms of setting goals, but I AM working on a few stories again. I’d also still like to work on finishing the voice recordings of Ganymede, but ultimately that comes down to finding a period of time and a space where I can consistently create a quiet enough environment. Worst case, it’ll happen as restrictions from the pandemic ease off and I can book a space. The focus right now is on creation, and eventually the debate of going the webfiction route again, or trying for traditional publishing. But that is a ways off (though I’d love to hear what you think!)

I’ll try to do more consistent blog posts. I have one mostly written already about media that’s kept me sane and helped me deal with my depression over the past year. Books, podcasts, video games, etc. So stay tuned.

Anyway, I’m back. It’ll take some time for me to fall into a regular habit of posting, but for now, I am just so ecstatic to be creating again. I hope everyone out there is doing alright and taking care of themselves as best they can. It’s okay to take a break, sometimes just getting through the day is enough. We’ve got this, one day at a time.

Thoughts at 1 am

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This is for the moms
whose vacations were taken
in the aisles of grocery stores,
at the tables of cafés,
in efficient trips to the shopping mall
or gym.
Whose nights off
meant eating out
or leaving the kids with Grandma.
Who see no end in sight,
no relief,
no breaks,
no peace.
Who hate to complain
’cause they signed up for this right?
It’s a sacrifice they have to make
and damn,
but they’re good at those.

This is for the people
who’ve found all exits blocked,
trapped in homes
that threaten to consume them.
With partners
or parents
or whoever it may be
that beat
and belittle
and go off like bombs
leaving nothing but ringing silence in their wake.

This is for everyone
whose schedules,
consistency,
and routine
were medical requirements
abandoned in the crossfire.
Kids and adults
panicking,
lashing,
crumbling
because suddenly their needs
come last.

For Asian communities forced to carry a weight that isn’t theirs.

For those without homes
and those with no one else to share them with.

For those who can’t work
and those who can’t stop.

For those stuck with their families
and those kept away.

For adults and children
with mental health conditions,
or disabilities,
or everyday worries and fears.

For seniors,
and in-betweeners.

For health care workers
and delivery drivers,
small business owners,
grocery store staff,
the helpers
and the helped.

This is for you.
Whatever that’s worth.

It isn’t a promise that things will be okay
because I don’t know.
I suppose it’s a wish —
a midnight thought,
an hour (probably more)
of lost sleep
imagining I could reach you.

All I can say is:
I will do my best to see you.
You deserve to be seen.
Your needs deserve to be met.

I hope you find safety
and peace
and justice
and connection
wherever you are.

And if you’re lucky,
I hope you find a good night’s rest.

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Some Days

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Some days
I give so much of my love away
that I forget to leave any
for myself.

Some days
I give so much of myself away
that I become a walking
human-shaped absence,
defined
only by the space
of where other people are not.

Some days
I have no one to give to
and in that freedom I expand
so far
that I lose
all
cohesiveness.

Some days
I cannot remember who I am
only all of the things I should do
and all of the things I have failed to do.

Some days
I make lists about myself
so that I cannot forget:
what I’ve done,
what I like,
what I want.

Some days
I look at those lists
and wonder
where that person went.

Some days
I am certain
that some crucial part of me
has died
taking with it:
memories
and dreams
and desires
and
and
and

Some days
I want to be struck by lightning —
not to die,
but on the off chance
that I might reanimate.
Or at least
feel that rush of electricity
down my spine.

Some days
I can pretend that I’m okay,
end this on a note about
hope.

Some days
I give so much of my love away
that I forget to leave any
for myself.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Thieves’ Guilt

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my love,
we live
in a den full of thieves

each of us
pilfering and pinching,
one from the other,
back and forth
and around again
in a merry-go-round heist

our children
plucking the hours
from our pockets
and the sleep from our beds,
the heat from our meals
and our drinks
and our kisses —

not that it keeps us
from stealing them anyway

after all,
you and I
are just as guilty as they:
every breathing moment
an ill-gotten prize,
an impossible debt
we never intended to pay

our guilt
evidenced
in the tipping of toes
and whispers in the dark,
in quiet tears
and the protests
of little voices

every moment we call
ours
is one taken from
them
every second I claim
mine
means one less for
you

these very words
counted and hoarded,
concealed around a corner
while the authorities
call my name

they are written
with borrowed minutes,
a fleeting currency
that dissolves
before it can ever be
repaid

we live
in a den full of thieves,
my love,

and I fear
taking more
than I’ve
lost

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

A Safe Distance

/ amynotdorft / Leave a comment

There is a space between

you and me

that measures
the exact distance
required
for a wild animal
to turn from deadly
to cute.

It is the kind of distance
that plays tricks on the eye —
blurring harsh edges,
leaving only pointillistic impressions
that tickle the most palatable of memories.

It is the size of
scribbles
coalescing into sense,

kitchen knives
mistaken for
wooden spoons.

Ours is the distance of i n e b r i a t i o n.

An astigmatic blur
bloating e’s into o’s
and misjudging lies lines.

The time it would take to travel from

Point “me” to Point “you“

is comparable to
that satisfying span
of autumn and summer
before we begin to pine
for the pleasures of the other.

Or the time
it takes a new mother
to break that promise
she made to herself:

“Never again.”

It is the breadth of forgetfulness,
of longing,
of doubt,

but not of forgiveness.

There is a space between

you and me

and it is not enough.

Only —

/ amynotdorft / Leave a comment

It seems to me
that there’s been some confusion

in the news, in the media
in the comments sections,
and around the family dinner table

about where to aim
the blame
for our every disappointment,
every perceived — and rarely felt —
economic threat,
every culturally-dictated fantasy
that failed to come to fruition.

It’s the immigrants, they say.
The welfare collectors.
The addicts.
The poor.

But I say:
You’re all too cowardly
to pick a fight you might lose.

Sure, you’ll land your blows.
You’ll leave bruises.
Pull out hair
already thin from worry,
and malnutrition,
from living a life you refuse to value
simply because it is not yours.

You’ll pick their bloodied pennies off the floor,
put them in your pockets,
and misjudge the weight
of that blood and copper
as wealth.

But you were born
in a human pyramid —
somewhere around the middle
maybe —
and you’re stomping on the heads
of the people holding you up.
Blaming them
for the weight
of the person sitting on your shoulders.

But that person took risks, you’ll say.
Worked hard to climb to the top.
To deserve
to withhold
the necessities of life
from those who do less.

Those who only–

sleep in the streets
in weather that gnaws at their bones,
because that’s all the hunger has spared.

Only–

weigh their life on the tip of a needle
against a pain
the world tells them doesn’t exist.

Only–

risk their safety
trading the scraps of their self-worth
for a few guilt-ridden dollars.

Only–

work triple shifts
skipping meals and doctor’s appointments
so their families don’t have to.

Only–

leave their violence-ridden homes
for a place that will hate and envy them
for their will to survive.

Only–

carry their children on their backs
over the corpses
of the ones they couldn’t save.

Only.

Only imagine the strength —

in those backs
and those shoulders
and those hearts
and those bones.

The power in those hands.

If you would only pull them up
high enough to reach
the very peak of that pyramid.
High enough to shake from those pockets
the blood and copper
we’ve been letting weigh
us
down for so long.