Making Light of Things

Over the past few weeks in my poetry class, we've been delving into light verse. This has been something quite new for me, since I've never crafted humor through poetry - nor have I felt compelled to attempt it. Plus, the comedian slot in the family has long been well-filled by my wonderfully strange little imp of a sister, Kerry. 

Hence, I've gotten used to generally doing the laughing rather than causing the laughing.

See what I mean? However, our assignment for class this week was to write a light verse poem about a serious/dark topic. It wasn't much of a task to pick the subject matter; what better topic for me to make light of than depression?

So on today's bitter, gray, rainy morning, I set out to my favorite coffee shop, which houses my favorite writing nook (shoutout to Fuego; you guys are the best), to try my hand at light verse. 

I've written a great deal of poetry about depression in the past, but it was about as far from "light verse" as poetry could be. I often struggle to wrap my head around the stark contrast between who I am now and who I was exactly one year ago now. I don't feel like I've returned to the Annie who existed prior to depression; instead, I feel like an Annie who has been put back together in a new, happier, healthier way.

What a difference a year can make! 

I wanted to share that difference by posting 2 poems on depression: the first written about a year ago, and the second being the light verse poem that I drafted today. 

To anyone reading who may be struggling themselves: it will get better. Be patient with yourself.

I.

I saw you once, some time ago –

a year I can’t recall.

You smiled gently, breathed with ease;

free of demons; calm.

Darkness saw you from afar

and stopped midstep in fear;

an unmistakable, blinding aura

of glowing light appeared.

I saw you once more; time had passed,

you looked of later years.

But more than that, upon your face

were etched the paths of tears.

Doubt had seen you, coming closer

till you were consumed.

Esteem fell down and made a way

for dour, bitter gloom.

I saw you last in mirrored shards

of life’s old looking glass.

With tired eyes, my last surprise,

was seeing myself looking back.

II.

I suppose it’s not all bad – depression.

Now it isn’t my most prized possession,

as it makes me a bum, and it’s usually glum,

but free coffee’s in therapy session.

I’m no longer a good first impression,

so I won’t become someone’s obsession,

yet since it’s the season of campaigns, there’s reason

I’d rather be viewed with discretion.

And now I will make a confession:

I hate the "down in the..." expression,

but down in this dump, there are no words of Trump –

just a perk of my social secession.

I, too, sing of feeling oppression –

less renowned than that one Great Depression,

and less famed than the blues of the great Langston Hughes,

but perhaps leveled with the Recession.

This illness won’t help a profession,

save for leading a funeral procession.

But hey – on the upside, (sans carbon monoxide)

I do Sylvia Plath’s best impression!

*Stanza 4: referenced Langston Hughes and one of his most known poems, "I, Too" - if you're interested, you can read it at the following link - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/47558

                  (I had a lot of options when it came to the Kerry pics; here are some leftovers hehe)

Let's sweeten time with poetry.

September: National Suicide Prevention Awareness month.
September 10: World Suicide Prevention Day

1,100: the number of college students lost to suicide each year.
1 in 10: the number of college students who have made a plan for suicide.
20x greater: the increased risk of death by suicide for those who suffer from depression.
18.8 million: the number of Americans who suffer from depression annually.
>25%: the percentage of people with depression who receive adequate care.
#1: Depression is the leading cause of disability worldwide.

(A gem of eloquence, drawn from a poem by a much more artful Annie, but doodled by yours truly.)

The following is the first poem I'll ever share (!) in any sort of public setting. I'll simply preface my poem with what I feel is necessary background information. Just over a year ago, I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Many people haven't known, nor have I strived to make it known. However, this is not because I'm ashamed (though, unfortunately, society still has not quite erased the stigma associated with mental illness).

I promise that not all my poetry is grim- in fact, poetry generally acts therapeutically and makes me see beauty and art in the slightest of things. But I do feel that this is a topic we have no business glossing over or cringing away from. This is by no means an anecdotal poem and certainly is no depiction of my own life or experiences. It simply stemmed from a comment made by a customer at work who, upon learning I struggled with depression, exclaimed, "You?! But you seem like the happiest person in the world!"
Don't make assumptions. Remove the stigma. 
And please read with kindness. 
(I'm hesitant to declare titles for poems, and therefore often don't).

I moved to a city, which needn't be named,

yet to find what it may hold for me.

Of neighbors and locals, I asked for advice,

directions and places and faces I’d need,

but all told me most, and with uncontrived guise,

of the happiest girl that you ever did see.

One following other fell flummoxed to words

in vexing pursuit of veritable epitome–

was it grace? Magnanimity? Her rose colored frame?

They grasped in the air, though to capture a breeze;

elusive, essential, freely uncontainable–

tacitly felt before consciously perceived.

Cynic and skeptic each long had a shanty

upon a hunched shoulder, both of which I leased.

Yet one dour day as I held hands with shadows,

and grey was the only hue tinting my sight,

I sensed her. I saw her and thought, She must be

the happiest girl that I ever have seen.

I tried, in that moment, to comprehend she:

impossibly radiant, blinding, confounding.

Around her, an aura I felt embrace me

erased and renewed darkened passes with light,

a countenance showing what I’d ceased to see,

reverting me freely to childlike belief.

Returning each day, pulled like tides in the sea,

I watched and I pondered, supposed and observed,

and found myself wondering at night what she dreamed.

In transient moments, her eyes would cast down,

dimmed by despondent, anomalous cloud,

but ceasing before I could verify the scene.

A fortnight passed till we crossed paths on the street;

the hour was such that the moon watched drowsily.

With stature appearing to bear leaden grief,

she looked like the saddest girl I’d ever seen.

But when her eyes rose and beheld my advent,

my worry was quelled by her resplendency.

That was the last of her bearing I saw,

the night she’d proclaimed as her life’s apogee.

"A stunned city tries to make sense,” so they’d write,

and so in the paper I’d, dumbfounded, read

of the girl who had fooled us all, living to please-

concealment as natural to her as to breathe.

“Hundreds are wondering how this could be;

she seemed like the happiest girl they’d ever seen.”







Suicide Statistics drawn from
http://www.emorycaresforyou.emory.edu/resources/suicidestatistics.html
http://www.nami.org/Get-Involved/Awareness-Events/Suicide-Prevention-Awareness-Month

Mental Health Statistics
http://www.nami.org/Learn-More/Mental-Health-By-the-Numbers