From night to day

I often find that within the depts of my mind. I am lost at sea during a terrifying lighting storm. It is often rather dark in my head and perhaps that is why I am so good at poetry. After all when your brain is constantly on fire yet presents a never ending world of rain. It isn’t hard to be poetic.

It was often a daily reality for me. Consumed in deep dramatic thoughts. Wishing for magic and adventure at every turn. Instead of the mundane life I was living. And so in my own little world, I turned my head into my own personal novel. Instead of simply being Lane. I wore a million faces. Of brave girls on adventures, navigating through the storm to find the treasure at the end of a golden dawn.

Instead of simply going to school. I was studying with Hermonie. When I was off I was battling orcs with Aregorn and Legolas. Going through wardrobes into magical worlds. And in my own stories, I was the girl who could control fire.

And when my friends got in on the antics. While it was a blast. Who doesn’t love to play make believe?

Instead of rainstorms and fire. My brain was a creative bubble of safety. Where every story had its happy ending. No matter how terrible the pain was. I painted characters within each book and movie I encountered. It was beautiful.

But reality cracks in. It pushes into even the most well layered cushions of protection. And the horrible brain fire would come back. Those lively worlds I made up would crumble into dust and in their ashes reality would light a flame within my brain.

How am I going to get good enough grades?

Why do all my friends hate me?

Why does everyone leave me?

Why can’t I make my little sister better?

Will my parents be proud of me?

What if I don’t write a good enough essay for class?

What’s wrong with me? Why am I not like my parents? Why haven’t I found my forever now that I’m 16… 17…. 18?

The councillor thinks I’m looking for attention?

Maybe my life isn’t that bad?

Why does my skin feel like it’s on fire? Why can’t I stop scratching the skin?

Why do I want to hurt myself…. Why does it make me feel better?

Why am I not good enough. Why am I not good enough…. Good enough… good enough.

And then my brain goes back to the everlasting rain. Where even Fred Weasley cannot save me from my sorrow. I always did have a thing for red heads.

But while I was growing up, everyone was anxious and sad. It was a right of passage. A stereotype on the tv. And I was a nerd. So it made sense that I was bullied and not the popular girl. Depression wasn’t real. Everyone goes though this. It’s all in my head.

And that was the problem. It was all on my head. Each escapism place was all a figment of my imagination. And the swirling windstorm of thoughts would push up to the surface of my skull and threaten to crack it.

And then I met Emily Dickenson. My beatiful poet. She spoke of how her brain drummed and hummed. Similar to how mine stormed and burned. Her work was a safe haven for my brain. For if someone who could write such beautiful poems understood it… then maybe I was saved. But then of course we called it madness… and men will always say something along the lines of female hysteria.

And so on the outside I was as cool as a cucumber. While in the inside I was burning up and scrambling. So I wrote it down into poems in a brown leather notebook. My version of a diary. And the need to turn my worried little flow of thoughts became my next project of art. If I couldn’t play pretend anymore. Then I could create lovely works hidden away in a notebook. Just like Emily.

After Emily came a boy name Andrew…. Hozier. A songbird of lyric beauty. I listened to those songs on repeat and dreamed of different life’s to each song. And even dreamed of hills in Ireland. I was already so obsessed with Scotland and England. It made sense to picture and dream of Ireland too. More magical places to fill up my head.

And after those two artistic divines of my mind. I started to learn new words. Like depression, anxiety, bi-polar, Nero-divergent….

And my brain light up and responded in wonder. See. This isn’t so normal. You’ve really been lost at sea and no one bothered to give you a compass. My brain drew up storms and lashed out at misdignosis and improper meds. Storming and brewing. Until I had to shut it off. And sleep instead.

Sleep was the new drug for me. A new form of escaping away from my internal crisis. You got a b- go to bed. The cat died… go to bed. You’re overwhelm and feel alone. Go to bed.

A new place of safety. For the same old storms and floods.

But one day. The storms lifted within my brain. And I breathed in. Was this what it was like to have a moment of peace? No need for mass production or creation. Instead of a storming sea. I found myself beside a willow tree. With two wolves. One deep dark grey almost black. And one a silvery white. The two sides of me. The light and creative form. And the shadow lingering and watching. And I needed them both.

I needed happiness and calm to feel alive and smile in my internal world. And I needed the depression. Because it was a layer of myself begging to be understood. I needed to understand why it was there what it was doing. And that it couldn’t be bandaged with magic or sleep. It couldn’t be tucked away into the pockets of my mind. Into dark caves never explored. Because when it was pushed to the back. It became wild and hurt. Prone to lashing out and striking at everyone that dared to crosses its path.

And so I sat by that tree and hugged both of the wolves against me. Knowing that there would be more storms and seas. But they were all a part of me. And not going to be the death of me.