A poem about the pervasive Black Cloud (OCD, depression, “God,” rumination, past pain, anxiety, shame), the stress and limits of scrupulousness, feeling powerless, and eventually learning to contain it.

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Reprieve

I can see today.
It's June seventeenth, 8:12am. 

Yesterday I couldn’t. 
Oh, how blinding those boxes were. 
The lines drawn everywhere... 
They were never ending lines. 
"Never enough, more, more, further...” they said. 
Insatiable, heavy boxes made of mind-drawn, hand-drawn, mind-drawn lines.

Demanding as the gods, confining as prison,
I’m so glad it’s over.
I’m so glad I’m free. 
I’m so glad there’s space. 
Today.  Right now.  This moment.
It’s June seventeenth, 8:12am.

The lines that draw the boxes -
The Buddhists call it Vritti.
The hipsters call it Ego. 
The doctors call it Mental Illness. 
The Christians call it Sin. 
The drunks call it Alcoholism. 
All of them call it a disease. 
Am I dirty?

Oh, how tiring anorexia was...
So much math to stay clean.

The boxes and lines and numbers -
They’re like pressured speech in my body that can’t get out. 
Explosive. Implosive. Failure to thrive.
They are like concrete poured on my chest, holding me helpless.
Tired but wired. 

"How do other people do it?” I wonder.
"How do they handle these heavy, heavy lines?” 
I see them walk around with lightness.
“Are they delusional or free?  What about the boxes?  Where are their boxes to carry?”

The Have-To’s and the To-Do’s and the Should's and the Don't's.
Purpose and Meaning and Death and What For?
The Vastness of Pain and Children's Tears.
The Measuring Sticks.
You-Should-Have-Known-Better.
Done Better.
Been Better.
Don’t Mess-Up or Forget or Run-Out-Of-Time.
Hurry.
It’ll Get You.

These are all in the boxes.
The Black Cloud. 

Sometimes the boxes tell you they’re God, and you get confused.
They are very tricky.
They have lots of clothes.  And a sewing machine.
They play dress up and don’t wear name tags.

Yesterday I couldn't see -
They were pervasive and expansive as the universe.
All the boxes melted together.  Broken lines like iron spaghetti. 
So I slept under the weight. 
Concrete on my chest, in my lungs.  Remember?

All my senses muddled with darkness.
What else is there to do but surrender?
Nihilism. 

Today is June seventeenth.
A crack in the concrete, 8:09am.
God disappeared, because he never was.
And it was “god” -
Like a word in my hand.
Suddenly it’s not The Black Cloud.
It’s "the black cloud" - 
Like a thought in my brain.

So I put lines around the black cloud. 
The lines made a box. 
The black cloud was trapped, contained. 
Ah-ha. 

I picked up the box and put it in a bucket. 
And it shrunk to the size of a pebble. 
And I am me again now. 
And it can’t get me today.
Ha.

It's June seventeenth, 8:13am...