Anxiety, Depression, and Music


I won’t lie to you Gophs, this one will be hard for me.

Not because it’s upsetting, but because I don’t know if I will have the right words to describe what exactly music means to me.. what it gives me.

These are the voices of my soul when words fail me, even though words are as important to me as the air I breathe.

For most other people, I can pluck words from the depths of my reservoir as easy as I smile when I describe them…

But when it is for me the words are meant to describe…the pool runs dry…and the walls rise high.

But with music..

Ahh, music…

What words could ever come close to sweet sounds that fill my soul? What words could do the silence you grant my harrowed mind justice? What words…could give my demons the same sanctuary?

If there are words… I do not know them.

It is not a lie when I say the thought of going a day without music fills me with despair. Nor is it a lie when I admit that I begin my custom soundtrack from the moment I waken…to the moment I fall into the darkness of dreams.

….with music I feel..with music I am here…

With music I exist, and my heart beats with the reminder I do not want to disappear. It is the lover I hold so close and so dear…and were I given the choice of sight or sound…I would walk in darkness with a smile for the rest of my days.

I laugh and cry and sing as loud as I’m able to Disney, for I have yet to chase the inner child from my being.

I scream and curse and feel despair to the loudest and harshest of metals, with words so twisted in earthly pain my demons quiet themselves in understanding, in remembrance.

But above all…

Above all the other kinds I love and hold so dear to me..

I become whole..and I become colored…and I become a girl with dreams and loves to the sweetest melodies of old.

To the Cello goes my pain..

To the violin my fear…

And to the Piano…goes my mask.

In these simple instruments of wood and string belong my entire being. I would be so lost without you…so entirely gray and broken that I would’ve disappeared from this beautiful and achey thing we call life long..long…ago.

Thank you.

You, music, are my savior. My life, my sanctuary, and my self.

I am forever in your debt.

I love you.

And that ladies and gentlemen, is what music does for a mind as fractured and lost as mine. Music does so much…and it never asks for anything in return..what a love that is.

Until next time.

The Stories I Tell…

Heya Gophs…

I’m here again with another A&D caused worry..

And it’s not new…

Thankfully it’s not always present, and it usually comes about after a delicious read or a watch a wonderfully directed film.

Sometimes, it even comes from the music that is beloved to my soul.

The worry, is that the stories I tell…will never capture anyone the way these things have captured me. They will not inspire the way these things have inspired.

I wonder…if it is a worry all writers experience. If it is a worry all writers stress over and fret about.

Are we all plagued by the same worry that the stories we tell…will never be the stories that inspired us in the first place?

Are we all tied to one common worry, despite our differences of birth or thought, that binds us in our constant deprecating belief we are just not good enough?

Perhaps that is why so many turn to drink…

I mean, just look at Hemingway.

Or am I alone?

Are there other things my fellow writers destroy themselves over that I have no knowledge of?

Or is it both?

Is it possible that we are alone, and at the same time together in our funny little worries?

I like to think it is both. And if that be the case then I am proud to call you all my friends…

My sincerest hope is that, no matter the worry, we all look it straight in the eye and say: you will not defeat me, for I DO have a story to tell. And I will be heard.

Our talent is not as flashy as acting or dancing, or as vibrant to look upon as art, or as enticing to hear, but it is magic all the same.

Just think…in time..someone somewhere, will find your words..and experience what it’s like to be understood. What it’s like to be seen for the first time for WHO THEY ARE.

I don’t know about you Gophs…but that thought makes my worry seem pretty small right about now. What is a short spell of fretful thought compared to someone’s feeling of belonging?

The absolutely gorgeous thing about books is that, even though we all could be reading the same story, we each take away something different.

What a magical talent that is huh?

Until next time.

I Pray: A Short Story

The rain beats against my skin softly, falling beautifully against the old granite steps I now tread. The light within the hollowed house faint, but warm to look upon; warm to my soul.Rain drops trace my face like a lover’s finger tips, leaving ethereal kisses in their wake. The world around me is dark, silent as the graves that dwell a few meager feet away. This is the hour where the divine is truly present, I feel.

I slip my worn sandals from my feet, then reach my hand out to grasp the cool iron handle before me. Despite its size, the large weather beaten oak door swings gracefully outward. The mesmerizing sound of combined heavenly chorus sweetly filling my silent world, and I step barefoot into the house of god.

The candles are burning dimly, filling the hollowed home with a tranquil glow. I walk slowly down the aisle, my finger tips moving over the smooth oak pews and the gentle tang of incense filling my nose.

I am not alone. There is a young man sitting to the left, tears glistening in the candle light. To my right, an old woman whose whole body trembles. Both lost to the world, lost to all but one they feel. They hope.

I can feel him here. He cries along with the young man, and eases the old woman’s bones with his promise of rest. They are not here because they feel they must come. They are here because they want help. They want love. To them, and those like them, he will come.

As the water drips from my soaked clothes onto the polished marble, a smile steals across my face. I stand before the altar, the choir’s combination of notes and grace easing my soul. I slip to my knees, make the sign of the cross, bow before my god’s eyes, and I pray.

I do not pray for me, for I have been blessed with many things. I pray for the young man, to ease his saddened soul. I pray for the old woman, to ease her late years; however that ease may come about. I pray for the little boy down the street from me, to make his sickness weaker or his happiness in what he has left greater. I pray for the young mother, to help her find stability. I pray for the beggar, to save his kind spirit despite his hard circumstances.

I feel a small swell in my heart. A light that has grown ever so slightly, grows stronger again. I open my eyes, knowing I have been heard.

I pray we are all heard, whenever we need it most. If we need it, if we ask, no matter our differences. I pray, we are heard, by whoever is willing to listen.

The Old Wolf: A Poem

I can remember clearly when we met;how my heart beat quickened,

And how my stomach was all a flutter.
I can remember clearly the first obstacle we faced;

How people on the outside disapproved,

And how afraid and lost you seemed.

I can remember clearly how irreversibly you broke my heart;

How hard it was for me to breathe,

And how alone I was in my love.
I can’t remember what your reasons were;

How you fell out love,

And how no longer loving me seemed so normal.
I can’t remember when I realized I missed you during points of my life;

Why I went in search of you,

And why when I found you…how much happier I was to have you with me again.
I wish I knew what I meant to you;

Wish just once I could hear you put your heart into words,

And hear if I’m possibly..maybe..somewhat..important in some way.
I wish I could understand exactly what to expect;

Wether I should keep my heart guarded from your beautiful words and sweet caresses, or if it’s ok to let them fill me with what I think is your love.
I know how funny you can be;

How when we first talk again it’s like it used to be,

But then you later become guarded with your words…your affections.
I know that to me…you are still my old wolf;

How one word from you can make me smile despite everything,

And how simply sharing a few words makes me feel remembered…when I’m so often forgotten.
I know you’re soul is restless;

How the thought of being caged is terrifying,

And the idea of being kept is insulting.
I know my soul is not;

How it likes belonging,

And craves being wanted and loved.
I don’t know if it’s just me;

If one day you’ll find the one you’d change for,

Or if it’d hurt as much as I think it would.
I don’t know what to think;

If I’m a silly little thing that expects to much,

Or if others can see the conundrum I’m in.
I want you with me though, in whatever way.

I want to have you close always,

For however long you’ll allow.
I want to tell you how happy you make me,

And how much more often my smiles bloom because of you.
Am I really so silly to want you so much, my old wolf?

I Wish I Could Stop Loving You: A Poem

I wish I could stop loving you.I do not know how this love came to be, 

Nor do I understand the fervor for which I feel it.

There has been many a star I’ve seen,

But none have brought to me the feeling of which I have grown accustomed to with you.

You, a star so grand and wise that all who behold you are struck with this same passion.

But perhaps, perhaps I am unique in my love for you. 

Me, this small thing of unpolished stone that wishes for you to simply notice my existence.

I am but a child to you…

But I know in my heart I could make thee completely, irrevocably, and incandescently happy…

If only but for a moment I could know thee.

But alas, I fear it shall never be.

I wish…oh how I wish, I could fall out of love with you.

A Penny For Your Dreadful: A Poem

Here they are, the pamphlets of terror. Oh, how I relish in their twisted kisses. The feeling of their filthy pages, licking at my finger tips.The bite of the creature; the warmth of thine blood. The way I rend your flesh with words, and the way I make it crawl with hushed breaths.

Pay a pence, and into my sordid thoughts will you fall. Twisted and broken; made new with paranoia and fear you are.

Yes, a penny for your dreadful. Come forth, and share in this trepidation. Let my words of filth and gore caress you. Let them pull from you a scream so pristine; so perfect is your lost soul.

Come forth, come forth. I wish to be your horror, forever more.

Baby Pendulum


I am so glad you asked! đŸ˜€

First, no. It is not a baby tied to a rope that’s used to predict the future or commune with the dead. They would be too squishy and floppy for that. No no no, far too unreliable.

No, the baby pendulum as I have dubbed it, is when you take a strand of your hair and a ring and make a pendulum. You loop the strand of hair through the ring and trace your hand (it can be your right or left). Now, after tracing your hand, you bring the pendulum over your hand, and based on the way it sways it’ll tell you if it’s either a boy or girl.

If the ring sways back and forth it’s a girl. If the ring swings around in a circle then it’s a boy. Large swings back and forth or large swings in a circle mean twins of said gender. Obviously a blend of both movement would indicate fraternal twins. You repeat the process until the pendulum stops, which tells you how many children you’ll have.

I’ve done this about 13 times with the same results, and honestly, it’s freaky as shit. I did everything extremely slowly, and made sure NOTHING messed with my self made pendulum. So believe what you will, but that shit definitely freaked me out enough to start picking baby names lol.

4 boys, 1 girl. If that’s true…thank you sweet river dancing baby Jesus.

Until next time