In October of 2022, we released our second Open Call: How might we view healing in mental health through art, letters, stories and poetry following the pandemic? The following is a poetry submission we received from this open call.
“My submission depicts what several of my mornings look like, since after the Pandemic and the death of one of my closest friends. It addresses the issue of healing from depression— a mental disorder— from a personal perspective. My poem also draws a parallel between my life-story and that of Vincent van Gogh, the renowned post-impressionist artist who shot himself to death in the July of 1890, due to depression. It shows that depression has been here for long, but that we can stay strong— by learning to heal gradually. My poem matters because it outlines effective steps I’ve been taking to push through my gloomiest days. And I believe this can be very helpful for others who are feeling so down; feeling like they should just end everything with a stark finality.”
Chiwenite Onyekwelu
Daily Routine Of Waking Up
“(for TY)
Mostly it begins with the bed,
the stark
yellowness of my room. This
is no Post-
impressionist Art Hub, so I yawn.
I stretch. I
drag my body, half naked, onto
the cold
tiles. Today— again— I won’t
mistake the
thin gloss of paint for a lingering
ghost. It’s
been right here since after our last
game,
since the pandemic, since those
gloved hands
lowered my friend, TY, into the
soil.
I mean, isn’t that the way grief
enunciates?
Last night a health journal, the one
I read
sitting 4ft away from the sizzling
pan,
explained that depression too is a
mental dis-
order. & I googled the difference:
Grieving.
Depression. Lingering ghosts.
I’m not sure
where the line begins to connect.
Or if. I just
know my mood’s been gloomy for
far too long
& it keeps wanting to be fed: hard
boiled
cheek. Peppered eyes. Live heart
in place of.
beef. I set the table & then I’m food.
In a
biography, the post-impressionist
artist
Vincent van Gogh pulls a sunflower
towards
his belly. In the same, he pulls a
gun. See
how quickly depression exchanges
a petal
with something dense. I know. I’m
learning
to heal— it’s just so hard when the
gun’s on
you. In the mean time, I’ve got to
use the
bathroom. Scrub this body clean.
Practice
my best look in the mirror’s stare. Or
maybe reply
the howfas in my DM. It’s a brand
new day,
I have a bus to catch & Lord knows
I will.”
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