Toast And Coffee


Restorative Rituals for
Mental Health

Meaningful Self Care
for Moms


She told me once that her depression
was a howl with no end.
And in her words, I could see
the aching scream,
moving like restless wind,
rustling the leaves,
leaving the night world uneasy and
full of a dark distrust.

Why wasn’t it okay,
she wanted to know,
to have no clue what she wanted
from this life?
Truth be told,
all she wanted today
was to get out of bed
and could that be enough?

Because you don’t know how
it makes your bones heavy,
and your teeth hurt.
How it colors your retinas grey
and coats the world
with a sickly pallor,
and somehow you don’t ever
get to feel the sun and stars,
their brilliance and shine,
as those with clear seeing eyes.

Depression, she says,
is a loneliness
that crawls on hands and knees through
the cobweb corners of your dreams,
and somehow beats you to breakfast,
its shadowed self
buttering toast and slurping coffee.
No one else sees or hears that,
no, they would call you crazy.
They can’t feel ten long bony fingers,
how they grip your shoulders so tight that
you can’t feel your next breath.

She tells me, and I know,
that I won’t ever understand
what it feels like
to struggle in her skin.
She tells me, and I know,
that she doesn’t expect a miracle,
other than to feel human,
warm blooded, that is all,
for just one moment.

I close my eyes for that moment
and wish the same for all of us,
that somehow there was a scalpel
or a stethoscope or hell,
even just a magic wand
if that’s what it took.
How else to ease this inside-out pain
that cannot be seen or held
but is as true
as the words she speaks,
as desperate as all
that will remain unspoken?

I tell her, and she knows,
that I have
no words, no answers, no cure.
But she is still here.
I am still here.
Holding on for dear life,
for her, and
with her.




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