People tend to lean on cliches when they don’t know what to say or they don’t say anything at all….particularly in response to a depressive due to people taking the person at face value… A non-recognition/understanding that a person who doesn’t look ill is actually ill.

There’s Inner mind stuff,

Personal physical connections

and Transpersonal/Personal external world obligations.
Depressives have a hard time shutting off stuff of the inner mind because inner mind is what needs to heal from illness. No one can see this. Depression is not physically noticeable except for self-mutilation and dissarayed personal & transpersonal functioning.

Difficulty in shutting off the inner mind is why personal physical connection and transpersonal/personal external world obligations are overwhelming for depressives. They have to take on the added sphere of simultaneously figuring out how to stabilize inner mind, meanwhile typical people do not.

Depressives are often particularly creative (as well lacking in reason/logic). It is this inclination along an artistic or musical avenue that must be channeled productively to relieve the impetus and balance the chaotic inner mind.

 Typical minds are no where near as complex as a depressive. They are not stricken by such creative impetus to the degree that the depressive is in desiring to contemplate and act upon myriad ideas. It is this blow to time management that’s likely to inhibit a depressive from thoroughly advancing in any given sphere. This is why typical minds function reasonably & abidingly within confines of society.  
There are different severities of depressives.

Depression is influenced by many factors: upbringing, extent of trauma, physical health/genetics, development & usage of skills, social interrelationships, circumstances, etc.

Not all depressives encounter severe hardship in necessarily every sphere of life, but the spheres effected are by far suffering. Some are depressed due to specific circumstantial reasons, but they placate circumstances because they have no other option to survive.

A person who grew up with an accelerated development can function up to societal standards, albeit they may be depressed because they hate their job, but need to keep working at it to support their self & family. 

A person who grew up with an arrested/sheltered development differs in severity of depression & functioning. That person is simultaneously doing work on the self from the implications of poor parenting/minimal exposure to physical social world. He/she was not adequately prepared during their formative years to get along in life as an adult (severe example: a feral child/human). Thus, adulthood is complicated by internally learning how to parent the self to coexist within civilization. Meanwhile, adults who grew up around healthy parenting and support were modeled how to meet their own needs, and the needs of their offspring. 

The depression an arrested development experiences is a sadness that gradually & painfully learns to accept the loss of time & voided nurturing that was supposed to be their window of opportunity to meet developmental milestones toward sound mind & bright future. It is sad because they have to meet those milestones on their own in adulthood, all while constructing realistic discernment of what potential & opportunity are left for them to achieve quality inner/outer states of being.

 Indifferent, indignant, & discouraging social relations provoke insecurities, fears, & comparisons that inhibit progress. As well, the older you are, the less potential & opportunity you have left to deal with it & live a quality existence. Thus, that is one reason why suicide exists: out of the hopelessness people experience from believing/discerning that they don’t have the chance to fulfill the love, goals, & desires they haved aspired… Meanwhile, the same love, goals, & desires just came naturally to typical people who were raised to possess the internal foundation to make their love, goals, & desires happen to live a quality existence.

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​My beautiful broken brain’s insight from therapy:

Any tragic story is just another tale of woe.

Any joyful story is just another tale of happiness.

We’re all a blend, but some deviate toward one more than the other.

What makes the story special is subjective nature (the individual) & to whomever that person matters…

Like an endearing couple 

walking down the street– 

side by side, holding hands, pausing,

 adoring, embracing 

under streetlight glory 

illuminating their limerance…

Someone’s elegant wedding reception– 

Family joy, smiles, fresh union, 

the dawn of lifelong courtship…

Waking up to a special face sharing in mundane trivialities.

Anymore, it’s hard to bare.

Love

 I have never known…

don’t know if I can… Just an ego pain–

Like pathetic frame of reference

tethered to comparison sector of mind…

These external & internal sources 

& forces 

that made life the way it is… 

And have been keeping it that way

like a macabre haunting…

Ghosts… They’re everywhere all the time. 

Everyone has ’em, 

and I don’t mean otherworldly entities. 

I mean all those unvirtuous, volatile, & debilitating byproducts & obstacles 

of personal circumstance—

arrested development 

that no one can see & no one knows about, 

but are always there…

So what’s this ghost? 

Divorce grief? 

Atrophied sexuality?

Self sabotage? 

Social disorder? 

Relationship incompetency? 

Painting self in corner?

The wretchedly blissful delusions of love illusioned?

Identity communicated like sap, 

s t i c k y 

with specks of grandiose dirt and pine needles…

Anhedonia, depression, fear, 

hypervigilance, 

holding back & giving in to

 reoccurring hormonal digressions…

Alterative this. Alternate that.

Ketamine trials. 

Temporary relief.

Anesthesia from psychosocial disease. 

Undertake dismantling of trauma,

obliterating fear enhanced memory.

Discover more & more… 

I’m no one. I know nothing. 

I have no expertise except THIS…

Pretend friends never really went away…

Just became more parts 

of my broken identity 

embedded within 

the spacetime of shattered adulthood.

Social efforts go by 

a tragic background’s metastable foundation…

 What I was born into… 

Just some excuse breathing in a body…

Judgers. Subconscious judgements… 

A meekling too weak to own up to accountability…

 the grand love life has to offer…

What’s the purpose of 

quasi-sane cryptic banter this time?

Please, show me why

this ambivalence from the best of both worlds?

Awry genius & good intentions 

of one lonesome woman’s retrograde cycle.

Just spews out like paint splatters 

projectiled off fan blades that can’t salute shut the fuck up.

Nothing new.

The eccentricity…

Wanting something…

Temperance, tolerance, 

courage…

Striving for joy unknown if can ever be pleasurable. 

Jabbing awareness it is for typical people–

Fortunate ones…

Do you leave more good memories in people’s minds than bad ones?

That’s all that matters.

For some, it’s a real gamble of free will & compassion, heart & mind.

 I don’t know where I stand…

If it’s up to quality life standards & expectations… best wishes…

Maybe it can only ever be hope.

Ghost tales & dancing skeletons of psychosocial living

What do you want your life to be?

Why do you want the experience to see?

What’s your essence? What’s your vibe?

What does your presence bring alive?

What is best for you

and is this what you want?

What is the balance

you were never taught?

I want my life to be quality & free.

I want the experience of beauty to see

wholesome essence, dynamic vibe,

the grounding to earth I bring alive.

What’s best is pure, steadfast, & true:

It’s what I want & need to heal new.

What’s best teaches balance & pace,

shows strength & love,

and yields happiness with grace.

Q & A

I’m walking with my shadow

around the block.

She’s taller than me.

Then she fades into a rock.

She reappears around the bend,

only to fall behind

over the pavement’s end.

As I walk forward–

straight down the street,

she resurfaces

to the right of my feet.

Once again, she grows taller.

Then, soon enough,

the night engulfs her.

Now, she’s gone.

No trace of her in sight,

until I converge, again,

with the light.

Shadow

This is my facade:
A creative distraction from 

the ways I am flawed.

I’m not owning up

to virtues of exchange–

I’m deluded in disarrangement.

I’m estranging while I’m estranged.

My blood, my tears,

my heart’s desire 

were trying for pipedreams

I can never acquire.

It’s a shame not having

the self-love to do

what’s right by others,

yet what’s right by you.

It’s agony to attempt escape

from nobility’s calling–

all wrapped in red tape.
-iridescent.musings-

7/30/2017

​Nobility’s Calling

There is that character tree,

funky fonts of fabulous…
In drawers, 

I stash imperfect spirals–
sketchy, surreal interpretations

from subconscious soul.
Curvaceous quotations,

detailed extravagance–

   symptoms of my disease.
Splatters, smudges, 

depricating marks I didn’t intend.
Fingerprints that take away my value…
The frustration with potential,

manners, emotional sanctity…
I am the vestige of death.

Vestige

This is life. 

This is damaged essence still breathing

upon plush paisley couch cocoon–

meshed weakness of drive.

That confused boredom of sentience–

quicksand paralyzer.

Lackluster soul, sore core–

Trying to animate life

under inanimate conditions.

Sighing roots deep

& falling branches to sleep.

From the boredom of sentience