"sinks to rest"

TW: self-harm, suicidal identity

September was morbid. It put me in the dark tunnel without the light in its end. It showed me visions of suffering, luring me into thinking that in pain I find a solution. But there wasn't any answer, because I wasn't a problem to solve. It gave me a fever, but it couldn't keep me warm from the cold abyss I held inside.

I was lifeless, I couldn't understand why my family insisted on talking with me. That wasn't me. It was an empty shell in scarce resemblance of my true form. I was lost. I was dead. I was desperate.

One day I saw the flight of birds travelling to the South and I screamed for help. I only scared them off.

___

October was cruel. It tossed me between despair and anxiety and enjoyed watching me desperately grasping for hope. It laughed at me when I tried to calm myself down. It laughed when I switched meds for the fifth time. It couldn't let me sleep, set my synapses on fire. It brought me madness and fear.

It tortured me with false future and present projects and responsibilities. It gave me an ounce of ambition without any energy. I was exhausted. I was so tired I couldn't stand up for myself, so I took every hit from this bully. I've made plenty of mistakes. Every time I tried to fix one, I only make the situation worse. In the end, I've stopped trying.

I was disappointed in myself.

___

November is patient. It wakes me up gently because it knows how difficult it is for me to break from the realm of dreams. It takes care of me, giving me enough energy to tackle my day, to try new things, to gain back control over my little universe. Taught me once again how to appreciate the silence, a cup of tea, a book. It lets me weep in the evenings, simply because I have to. Like an autumnal rain which must fall, I let my tears to flow. I don't fight with gravity anymore. I don't fly, but neither I crawl.

It helps me accept my new diagnosis. It showed me the crowd of kind, brave minds who lived before or with me, who didn't let to be defined by their illnesses. I gained strength from them. I trace their faces, taped to my wall and wonder about their courage, their weaknesses, their victories. I think about Novembers and Octobers of their lives. I think about mine.

I endure.

___

Title of this post is taken from the poem by Clyde Watson:

November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.

With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.

The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.