Dippie Writes

[dippietheham]

If I were to Eulogise

I've put off writing this for the longest time, and honestly, I'm hiding it. Out of respect to those who might be offended by what I experienced.

He was not a good father.

When I received the news that he had passed on, groceries strewn all around him, alone, I can only say I felt relief. Relief that he won't message me with messages designed to induce guilt. Relief that I won't have to wake up and clutch my phone to see if he had sent another cripplingly new threat that he was going to levy on me if I didn't obey him.

What can I say about him? He paid for everything I could have made my way through as a child. That much is true. I never went hungry - unless my mother or him were withholding food as a punishment. I never went thirsty. I did my undergraduate studies without debt, and he helped finance the down payment for our first home, which we still stay in, my wife and my family and I.

Beyond that? He was a piece of work.

He was insecure as fuck. He wanted me to "treat him like he was my father", which meant listening to everything he told me to do, including giving my children to him as a sacrifice (to obey him in all things). He once wanted to punish my son for disagreeing with him on how many bloody oceans there are in the world. My son was right. I did scold my son for being rude (he was) - but I think now that I'm in therapy, I'd have complimented my son for holding to what was right as well as scold him for being rude.

I remember this man for childishly and impishly telling my sons to do what wasn't helpful to others - playing with a water cooler, just because he could. I had to tell my son to stop and explain why, and this grown fuck got angry and told my son he had to go play with the water cooler and ignore me. And my son burst into tears at that, and I should - I SHOULD HAVE - have fucking screamed at this fucking grown toddler to grow the fuck up.

He was cruel to others. He was kind when it would show him off to be kind. He often boasted about how much he lent to others because he could. It was indeed a boast because when he met them or even behind their backs, he would denigrate them as stupid and dumb and useless, because they needed his money. In that at least, he was consistently an asshole.

He once told me too, he missed the time when I was a kid. I thought he meant when I was cuter or he preferred kids to play with or whatever. Nope. He missed that time, because I would obey him without questions.

He wanted sons to treat like pawns and toys, to do his bidding, to command and to control. When mum passed, his first act was to tell me (and I had a suicidal meltdown at the terror of it), that he was going to come down to our place at any time, and we were to have a room ready for him. No concern for us and how we were doing. Even when we called him, his main concern was how much of a hero he was when she passed (he wasn't, he tried at his age to carry her down the stairs to his car instead of fucking bloody calling a fucking shit ambulance.), and how much of a poor thing he was. I never called him again.

He must have had some redeeming features. He had friends who cared for us, and would turn up to help us after his passing. I never experienced any of these "redeeming" features though.

Instead, I saw a harsh, cruel, petty little man who wanted to play at being a father, but would only do one thing right, which was to feed and clothe us, while paying our way into doing things his way. He never forgave me for dropping a module in my high school that would block my path to medicine as a career. He would rub it in my face even when I was admitted to a mental health hospital for my own safety, that I wasn't a fucking doctor and I'd need his help.

I hate that his rubbish still taints what I do and think today. I hate him. I hate everything about him.

That's my eulogy. The world can go to hell if it thinks I'm wrong.

[dippietheham]

It will be. Eventually. After some hard work sometimes, or just on its own, sometimes.

But it'll be okay.

We'll be okay.

[dippietheham]

[Poetry] Of Pain and Darkness

In the scape  Of my inner head Darkness There are many shades of

Colour Does not exist Gray and black Intertwine

With each other Winds tussle Waves sweep My emotions

Cannot sit still Peace is  Many shards of Broken glass

Stabbing in the dark Many little ants Biting, injecting Roaring

Lion stalks Glimpses of hope A shore far Glimpses seen

Through the darkness A small ray Of freshness Highlights

Gloom and  Darkness  Make up Unending songs

Of hope and grief Joy and pain Good things But also bad

Of me to think And feel and hope? To be human  Yes but

Namecalling  Rocks my world Not enough  Ever to be

Bad enough I have the big  D word That I speak

Of mice and men Of things that Get better but Feel worse

Just for a while Perhaps try To grow For myself

And for love Others and God Sit in the Shower

To cry Is to release To say yes It hurts

To breathe To calm To look up Around 

Everywhere Looking for Strength in The right pillars

Support and shine Light into black Breath of  Freshness

Helping me Stand again Crying but Alive 

For now And hopefully  To colour  The world 

Of pain Still speak And show It's okay

To not be Okay Is real but One day

It will get better Less pain.  Just not Right now

One step alone To stand still Is enough  Just for now.

[dippietheham]

I have a Master's Degree in feeling like an imposter. No really, it's a thing I'm ...

Yeah, I'm an imposter.

Even then, it doesn't mean we can't try out new things. It'll be scary. It might reinforce the feeling of being out of our depth.

But we might also end up finding something we're really good at.

[dippietheham]

Some days are just hard. Perhaps we have things to give thanks for. Maybe we're dry and safe despite the storms.

But it doesn't change the fact that the storm is still raging.

That's okay, friend. Let the storm rage.

We'll walk through this together.

[dippietheham]

Hiding sometimes is our body's way of telling us to take a pause, or even a signal that things are too much. It's okay to hide away for a bit.

Just try not to hide for too long, and remember to come out to breathe, even if it's still alone time.

[dippietheham]

Getting out there into nature can help - but be kind to ourselves and don't force it.

Or Grumpy will stare. At you.

[dippietheham]

Grumpy with the truth again.

[dippietheham]

[Poetry] Cracks Of Memory

I'm a stranger In that old home Wandering through Never feeling known. 

Pictures that float Through mental space.  No one exists,  No single face. 

Things that confer Normality  Yet no trace of  Usuality.

Sheets are tucked in,  Surfaces cleaned.  Kitchen, hallways, Quiet, dimly lit.

Memories hold Words, emotions. Mine only yield, Yawning gashes.

So many words, Left unspoken. So many thoughts,  Ghosts, a hauntin'.

Why can I not Capture moments, Love, joy, hope, grace,  Laughter or tears?

These halls of mine Down lanes of mem, Empty and devoid, Dark dejection.

Though now I try In my true home  (On earth, that is, Not yet in hea'en),

New memories Actively made, If not for me, For those that love. 

Remains a hole, What yawns and aches, Thirst of the past, Ne'er to be slaked.

In darkness of dear departed, I yearn one day, For final rest.

Till that day comes, I hope and pray. The home I'll be, The space to give, 

Will be one of Love, joy, hope, grace, Laughter abounds, And tears can stay.

For now, heart breaks, Crack by small crack. Memories that Float like feathers.

In an old room, Nothing will move, Dusty, musky, That way it'll stay.

[dippietheham]

It’s been a while since I’ve visited my favourite bar. I’ve been busy. Life has been a little too much, a little too busy for me to think about mocktails and tall stools. A little too painful even. Stopping means it hurts even more.

But today, I found my steps leading up the path to the bar. I stepped in, expecting to find my favourite bartender. Instead, I found a lady bartender instead, her eyes dark and somber. She nodded to a seat in front of her. I take a seat, hesitantly. WIthout being asked and without asking, she makes a mocktail and places it in front of me.

I hesitate further. What if the drink isn’t as good as he makes it? What if it’s not my idea of comfort? What if she’s so different that I can’t cope?

There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. It turns out a toad has hopped up onto the stool next to me. The lady lays out a strip of raw beef on a plate on the bar counter in front of the toad.

I don’t know what to think. So I take a sip of my mocktail.

Why are my cheeks wet? Why are my eyes sore?

A voice echoes in my head.

-----

I can't tell stories as well as him, but I can still tell a story. Maybe this is a story that might appeal to you.

There exists a cave far away from here where someone resides and writes stories. It’s not a place visible to you, but we fairies know where to find it, and we know of the writer. The thing about this writer though, is that what he writes? It becomes reality. Whether we like it or not.

For some of us who like certainty, we want to read and have those stories. But for those who prefer adventure, those who don’t like having their stories written by others, those who don’t like the way the stories are written, we all want to look for him to change said stories or to persuade him to just stop writing. But the cave protects itself with a forcefield across its mouth, and anyone who has an agenda can never get through the field. And which of us has no agenda when we want to confront the writer?

So many of us have tried to force our way past the forcefield. The strongest of us has slammed ourselves into the mouth of the cave repeatedly. Some of us have attacked the stones around the forcefield to try to break through. Some of us have tried to dig into the cave but the field extends across the top of the cave, and below it as well. That, and the cave has a… unique way of defending itself as well.

There’s a small printer within the mouth of the cave, just within view of those outside the cave. As those of us outside keep trying to force our way in, the printer prints out little slips of paper. These papers flit their way into chests lying about the floor of the cave below the printer. When the chests get full, they then vanish – and appear above the heads of those outside the cave.

They then burst open.

It’s not like the chests drop onto our heads. They vanish after bursting open to reappear inside the cave. But the paper slips that they hold drift down upon us, like so many discarded receipts. And when they reach us, that’s when the pain hits.

It’s a pain that attempts to squeeze our hearts like our hearts are the last lemons on earth and it’s trying to get as much lemonade as it possibly can for the last time. It’s the pain of regret and missed opportunities, of what we did or didn’t do that we now know we should or shouldn’t have. It’s a pain that forces us to our knees (or similar appendages), as we struggle to heave our next breath, even as it forces us to breathe so that we can experience it to the fullest. It’s the pain of hopelessness and helplessness in the face of what we have to experience. It’s a pain that cripples us with fog and fear, a pain that echoes every worst thing in our lives, a pain that screams incessantly.

It takes a while to recover from that pain. For some of us, we choose then to walk away. For others, we continue to fight to get into the cave. Some of us have climbed higher to see if we can get in from above. Some of us have tried to pretend that the cave doesn’t exist to see if we can get in that way. Some have even set up camp outside the cave mouth, so that they can discuss how to get into the cave and get at the writer. They don’t escape the paper splashes when it happens though.

Thing is… For those who’ve decided to walk away from the cave, I think we’ve come to learn that he doesn’t write every single story of ours.

It’s true. There’re stories he writes that are still painful nonetheless. For those though, he doesn’t limit how we respond to the stories, or how we see the stories. They can hurt, and we can still decide how to react to the pain. Some of us have been living outside the cave for so long that we’ve grown to only know the camp outside the cave as the only way to be alive. Even for those, some of us have learnt that we can move away from that camp. Walk away. Stop trying to change the stories we have no control over.

Instead, we write stories of our own, aside from the stories he writes. Instead of trying to change the whole world starting from the cave, we start to change the world around us. We write the stories that he doesn’t so that life can change for us, and for those around us who matter. And for those that he writes, we learn to weave it into our stories so that we learn. How to grow. How to accept change. How to be slightly better versions of ourselves, so that when the stories he writes come into play, we can finally accept it, even as we grow from within and even around the pain that forms.

That way, the pain is actually more manageable. We don’t wait for the world to fall down in pieces around us. We don’t have to be forced into feeling the pain that we don’t want. We don’t wait for the pain to accumulate and then explode uncontrollably, and even if we still do end up on our knees, we can get up sooner. Because we have our own stories to write, and our own chapters to complete.

Besides. Some of the stories he writes are actually amazing stories of strength, joy and hope. But in the midst of wanting to fight into the cave, we lose sight even of those – because all we know is that the pain will return, and we want it to stop.

So perhaps what we need to do is to take a step away. A step back, to breathe, to understand what stories we can’t change, and what stories we can write here and now. What parts of the stories really matter, and what parts we need to rewrite (and can rewrite) because staying stuck at the cave? That doesn’t just hurt us. It also hurts those around us, especially those who want to leave, but stay because we refuse to leave the cave.

That’s the story for today. What story will YOU choose to write?

--------

I stare blankly at the toad. He(?) stares back at me, hiccups and then takes the last bit of beef into his mouth. Then he hops off the stool, masticating gently as he goes.

The lady bartender coughs. “Your regular bartender wanted you to know that he’ll be back in a couple of weeks. He’s on a holiday somewhere far away from here. Thought you might drop by, so he left the recipe for your favourite mocktail next to a description of you.”

I nod slowly. I thank her.

I have a lot to consider. And maybe some changes to make.

Maybe a couple of stories to write as well.

[dippietheham]

Tears unshed, Thoughts unspoken, Darkness unseen, Light covered, Colours faded.

Cries stifled, Pieces broken, Peace taken, Rhythm snapped, Pride murdered.

Hopes squashed, Dreams mocked, Ideals crushed, Wants rejected, Needs unheard.

Breath held, Time stopped, Burden swallowed, Scars hidden, I'm not okay.

[dippietheham]

Visit Original Link

I'm trying something new - welcome to the Dippie Express!

[dippietheham]

I did not want to eat today

I felt like I had been

A burden to the ones I love,

I had not earned my fare.

I did not want to drink today,

A single sip of water.

It felt like too much effort to

Upkeep a horrid lair.

I did not want to speak today,

I did not want to grate.

The nerves of others, who have their own

Troubles enough to share.

I did not want to cry today,

My tears were useless gems.

Emotion filled but worthless to

The ones who know not care.

I did not want to rise today.

My bed was like a trap

Of whispered scoldings, not enoughs,

With "What's the point"s to spare.

I rose, I cried, I spoke today,

I ate some food and drank.

I know that proper healing takes

Discomfort in repair.

I try to fight the inner scrat,

The voice of unkind lies,

Because of those who truly love,

The me that's really there.

But there will be some hurtful days,

The past will rear its head.

Like adder roused, and viper soused,

It'll glare and hiss how dare.

The road ahead is filled with doubt,

And questions everywhere.

But I'll still try to speak the pain,

And hope to clear the air.

That even if I cannot eat,

Or drink, or cry, or speak.

There's something in the heart of me,

That wants to live out where

It's okay to be heard, and cry,

It's okay to have pain.

It matters not the past or present,

It's okay to despair.

It's okay to have all those things,

But it's also good to have,

A clearer grasp on life itself,

That's sitting just right there.

So come with me, to eat and drink,

To cry and share our pain.

And hope we might, in tears, reveal,

The life that's waiting fair.

For God the Son will one day come,

To wipe away our tears.

And on that day, His precious name

Messiah, we'll all declare.

But even if you don't believe

The future can look bright,

At least allow the minute chance,

Tomorrow might be square.

Today let's try our best to eat,

To drink, and do self care.

One day perhaps, we'll be enough

For us to truly care.

[dippietheham]

I did a thing.

Maybe it'll help someone idk.

[dippietheham]

If.

If I could, I'd lie down on the floor, Curling up like a shrimp, That's past its best before, Smelling slightly funky, Dead inside, Unfeeling, Unthinking.

If I could, I'd never have to eat. Food would be ashes, Falling from the sky. Predigested sewage, Plopping into pipes, Away from me, Passing me.

If I could, I'd never leave the house. Never move, From the spot, Things pass me by, Cobwebs befriend me, Nothing moves me, Unfeeling.

If I could, The world would hate me, Clearly. I deserve it, I want to know, That it is over. There is no need to fight on, I am condemned.

If I could, The pain would stop, Just for a second. The tears would wet, The world that I see. The cruelty would pause, Just let me be. Just let me.

But I can, Keep trying to breathe. Keep seeking comfort. Be human, Be oh so human. Not be positive but not Fall into despair. Keep trusting.

And I can, Pray to a God, Who knows me and Against my wishes, Places a tray of hope before me, A main dish of love, A banchan of kindness, Compassion and care.

And I will, Keep loving. Try to be kind. Cry into my pillow, Let others cry into me. Try to love, Even in cruelty, Just try.

But today, I will sit with my tears, Eat with a broken heart. Mourn and grieve, Learn from my past. Lean on the hurt, Trust in the good. Get off my arse...

And go find some food.

[dippietheham]

Internal Monologue

I'm not enough.

I'm not enough? I'm not enough! I'm not enough, I'm not enough. I'm NOT enough. I'M not enough. I'm not Enough, I'm not eNOUGH. I'm not enough! I'm not enough... I'm not, enough.... I'm, not enough...

I'm not enough? I'm not enough?? I'm not enough??? I'm not... enough. I'm not enough. I'm not enough. I'm not... I'm not... I'm never enough.

[dippietheham]

Smogeol, the smog of depression

Have you ever had the experience of looking through clouds, or fog?

I had the unfortunate (?) experience of having to walk through an insect fogging before. I could have chosen another path, but I was tired - and it was during the COVID period, so I had a mask handy. I thought, it can't be THAT bad.

Spoiler alert: it WAS that bad.

Walking through that cloud of insect repellent laden smog was an experience and a half. As you enter it, the smell hits you like a punch to the nose even through the mask. You recoil. And you start thinking, this was a baaaad move.

Then comes the confusion. In the thickness of the smog, you can't see beyond more smog. All you see are tendrils of whiteness, or a wall of whiteness, depending on where you look. You can't see the ground much, if at all. A minute or less ago, you would be sure that the path in front was danger free, and wide enough for two people to cross. But as you step forward, there is constant fear. You mutter to yourself, steady there, and remind yourself that just a bit ago, you could see to the other end of the cloud of smog and the path has no dangers in sight. You need to keep stepping forward. The escape, if you want it, is to move faster ahead.

And then suddenly everything lightens up. You start to see colours other than the gray whiteness that has enveloped even your tastebuds. You start to hear without the dulled roar of the fog emitter that the worker had just gone on by with. You start to feel lighter, and your pace quickens, and then you're out of the smog.

You pause, look behind, and grin at how silly that confusion and fear felt. It was always just a single cloud after all. There had been no need to fear or worry and already, you're thinking, I overreacted. It wasn't THAT bad after all.

Yet, given half an option, you'd never want to have that experience again.

Depression is kinda like that. Except... worse.

---

There're a few key differences. No one chooses willingly to walk into the cloud that is depression. No one sees the cloud and decides, that's something I can overcome so let's go into it and walk out the other side. The clouds of depression don't rise - it's more of descending into its depths. You can't really tell you're descending, even if there are warning signs that you're in trouble because there IS a fog at chest level and below. And you can't see the ground, but you keep walking because you have to, or you're told to have faith in the unseeable future. So you keep stepping and treading, and then suddenly, like a sudden unmarked drop in a 5m pool, you find that you're IN the fog.

Flailing doesn't work. Screaming increases the sound bouncing back at you. You seem to hear voices around you, that might help you get back to safety, out of the fog, but they are distorted and you can't tell which direction to turn. You react by pushing away at anything that comes close because it might hurt you as it did in the past before the fog. You can't trust. You can't hope. You can't see. You're trapped in that loneliness with only your feelings and thoughts, and boy are they some thoughts. And feelings. Boy oh BOY.

I'm having trouble writing this because of how real it is to me. Are we having fun yet?

What happens, then, when you see a hand reach out to you? It's just a hand looming out of the gray wall. It means nothing. It could pull you to safety, or it could jerk you forward into pain. And falls. You can choose to take it, and sometimes we do take it, and the hand slaps us in the face instead. Perhaps, as they say, the slap was given with the best of intentions. Perhaps, we just need to wake up out of the smog. But we wake up and the smog remains while the slapping hand gets to walk away feeling like they did us some good. We just chose not to listen.

But when that hand is attached to a kind voice, or that hand is one that is known to be safe, or that voice tells us, we're here to help, and we're here to talk you gently through the fear because it IS freaking scary, what you're going through, it becomes a little easier to take the hand.

There's a lot of nuance to this of course. Sometimes we still slap the kind hand away no matter how many times it gets offered. Sometimes, we just stop everything and stand still because the fog is too deep and there is nothing to be seen in any direction. Sometimes, we whisper to ourselves that in this smog, no one will notice if I'm gone. Sometimes, we just run blindly, never minding the other bodies we hit, or the cuts and bruises that come from falling onto gravel and then still crawling and running because that is all we can allow ourselves to do.

But here's the thing.

I'm sharing this to explain, no one chooses the fog. Most people are pushed into the fog by the past or circumstances. It's not all hopeless - because sometimes, I see my wife and boys peering at me worriedly through the fog, and I reach towards them. I don't want to walk forward, because what's the point. But for them, I will.

And sometimes, it's God's warmth that slips through the fog. He hasn't chosen to remove the fog with a wave of a magic wand. Perhaps so I can describe the fog to others, so that they too, can seek the help they need.

Medicine helps. Medicine helps us to not panic, and look carefully at the next step. Therapy helps us to make sense of the fog, thinning it in places. The more this happens, the more I see things like my values, or the glimmerings of my identity. The idea that I can do something that matters to me, allowing me to step in that direction, instead of stumbling blindly into yet another hole dug by the people in my past, or dug by myself as a protection.

Because, hey, if I'm slapping myself, it'll hurt less when someone else slaps me by telling me how much they don't want me in their lives because I'm not what they think a good human being should be like.

The worst part? No one else SEEMS to be able to see the fog that is so real to you. You try to describe it and you only get confused looks. You try to explain it, and people just shake their heads and walk away. Only the kind few will sit, listen, nod, and then, placing their arm around you, give you a hug that makes you finally feel like someone cares, even if they don't understand.

---

So the next time you feel tempted to tell someone to just get over something, consider that you're pushing them into the fog, instead of helping them by working with them to understand why there's fog in the first place. Consider too, that people already in the fog, are not there by choice. Yanking on them and pulling hard will only injure them - because you, in all your good intention, cannot see the path that is ahead of them. You're trying to force someone to walk the path you're on. You never realised that they're on a different path altogether - and in a fog so thick you'd find horrible to taste.

So please, be kind. Please offer your hand, don't slap it in their faces. And please please, let them know you're there for them, not force them to be where you are.

Thank you.

(Images taken from Image by Elias from Pixabay and John from Pixabay because I don't have good fogged pictures.)