This article is an instalment of MUSE Magazine’s Mental Health Theme week, taking place from October 25th to October 30th, 2021.
TRIGGER WARNING: ARTICLE CONTAINS DISCUSSIONS OF MENTAL HEALTH, MENTAL ILLNESS, AND SUICIDE, WHICH MAY BE A TRIGGER FOR SOME READERS.
DISCLAIMER: THE AUTHOR WANTS TO ACKNOWLEDGE AND MAKE IT KNOWN THAT THESE ARE THEIR PERSONAL EXPERIENCES. THE AUTHOR WOULD LIKE TO RECOGNIZE THAT OTHER PEOPLE HAVE OTHER EXPERIENCES AND THAT NO TWO PEOPLE ARE THE SAME.
By: Victoria Noon
Confessions – Victoria Noon
when the room glowed violet,
i etched my soul into the
etched in symptoms, waiting
for an answer.
playing alchemist in
hues of sickened sundowns,
having gone through all the
prophets, the platos.
the time when “God” felt morbid.
Why do I feel this way?
this is a fever dream,
shakes and cold sweats at 4 AM,
designed to wake me up,
hold me down.
arms weak from tension,
they taught me He wouldn’t let this happen.
to believe a saving grace would
spoon-feed me wisdom, hold my hand when
faced with any ill.
because my mother taught me to be good,
my father to be obedient,
but i was always better at
they came to me deaf.
swallowed my words,
lent me a smile,
sent their pity,
before they neglected,
baptized every word I uttered.
i can still feel the cool water
in my spine like needles,
wearing out each nerve in my body,
which has brittled with invocation.
i was prompted this way
in that violet haze;
i have felt this all the same.
everytime a chorus hymn hummed up my neck,
soaking my thoughts with hopeless worship,
i am spun back into countless offerings for
Why does He let me feel this way?
i learned to wear my sunday best,
utter confessions to hidden,
i learned to praise the absent,
to keep my notions hushed
until Father opens the gate.
Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
they do not recognize invisible illnesses
but they recognize the Creator,
and blood as blood.
They don’t believe me.
i had to stop wandering places i did not belong,
homesick in my home.
my mother taught me to be good,
my father to be obedient,
so i taught myself to study.
count every rosary bead 4 times,
read the scriptures before bedtime,
the final desperate act of seeking.
yet i could not be votary,
as much as i had tasted His blood on my tongue,
carolled his praises to the sanctuary.
i was vexed at how, somehow,
my thinking was counterfeit.
i cannot go there with open arms anymore,
the gaping eyes of the devoted burn at
the back of my skull like holy water,
i only asked,
Why don’t you believe me?
i do not resent the faithful,
i admire their hope,
i am not bitter towards their parish.
yet there came a point,
where i could not neglect inner twistedness,
could not search unwelcome for ease in places where invisible is valuable until it questions grace.
i came to realize;
Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way.