Furiously Happy, by Jenny Lawson

I don’t know how much I’ve talked about it on this blog, but I suffer from both bipolar ii and an anxiety disorder. I don’t read about them very often because it’s hard to find someone who talks about being mentally ill with a sense of humor. However, Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson is that book and that person. This book means so much to me. I’m on my second re-read, and underlining passages that mean a lot to me. She describes what it’s like to be mentally ill so so well, and inspires me so much as someone who has mental health stuff to work through and would like to be an author someday.

So here are three art pieces I did with quotes from her book. I hope you enjoy them.

Advertisements

insomnia poem #8

maybe idle hands are the devil’s playthings

but when yours move lazily down my back

as though tracing every muscle will get you closer

to memorizing all of my mangled molecules

it feels like your leisurely fingers

are so much closer to divinity than anything else.

insomnia poem #2

she wears the gunmetal thorns bound too tightly to her skull

as a blessing and not as a curse

because when they pierce too deep

and the blood trickles down

drip drip dripping

onto her lashes and over her eyes

the world gazes at her in awe

there is a woman

they whisper quiet as gunshots

who is tied to no past or pain

there is a woman who has no soul to bare

there is a woman who feels nothing

and when she observes the searchlight pinpricks

of their fear and admiration

it makes her feel invincible

and perhaps one day

that will be enough

that she will bleed no longer.

immiscible

do you think oil and water knows it can’t mix?

because if the oil is doing it on purpose

than god knows i’m begging to be anything

other than the water

that loves you more than breathing

that’s just trying to catch hold of you

with slippery fingers

before you rise to the surface again

in plain sight

but just out of reach.

insomnia poem #7

there’s no way out but down

and isn’t that always our way

your hands in my hair still bearing the powder burns

and mine clutching your faded leather coat

we have finally reached the point

 

where holding hands is not enough

and kissing quick won’t save us now

 

and looking in your tired eyes

somehow i get that funny 3 a.m. feeling

where i miss people i never knew

and regret decisions i never faced

 

and it aches hollow in my chest

and you know, you know

so i press the side of my face into your shoulder

and know your fingers are gentle and frail on my sleeve

i can’t bring myself

 

to close my eyes when there may be

so little time left to look

 

“we can only fall”

i whisper

too fragile to loosen my tight hold

too strong to look up at your face

yet i know that you are wearing

 

that five a.m. nirvana smile

when you answer

we only ever could”

and as one we shuffle towards the abyss

to continue our descent

 

down, down

to the chaos of uncertain paths.

insomnia poem #1

it’s funny,

how when they look at each other

each is so sure that they

are the lucky one

her,

with her form compressed

of gunpowder and ballet shoes

him,

body woven together of

bandages and empty quivers

both with bones

that have been weakened and snapped

and twisted until they poke at

unsettling angles outside their

thin thin soft soft casings,

until they learned how to mend them back

into supporting structures full of

hairline fractures and

missing pieces-

fortunately

(for them),

each miss the pieces

the other has and when they stand

so close by the other’s side

it is like they are one whole person

again.

broken boys (insomnia poem #6)

broken boys with busted hearts wandering through a desert
have always been my weakness.

boys with scars from their fathers
who smiling bore the rod
and swore “never i, never i”;

who whispered songs like prayers in the middle of the night
and treat every scrap of praise like a benediction;

who have fallen apart under the weight
of the piece of the world they carry around in the pocket
a little heavier than everyone else’s;

who have learned to glue themselves together
but are still fragile at the places the cracks intersect.

for i too have fallen into the dark places of this earth
and i too know what it’s like to look into the mirror
and see the shadows peering out from behind your eyes.

and truly isn’t it best to find someone
to share your shades with?

printer paper

and i write her letters on printer paper
the white pages neatly holding the pencil scrawl
that contains my promises, my aspirations,
all my honest thoughts
and in turn she sends me words
sandwiched between lines on paper
telling me who she is and who she is not
who she was and who she will be
she dedicates herself to me in crimson ink.

and slowly, but surely
i begin to fall in love with a straight girl.

1:03 a.m.

i remember when i tried to explain ourselves
and i said “if our love was our bodies
then the places where our hands met,
palms and fingers,
would be scar tissue
recovering from the burn marks.”
they were confused
but you nodded seriously
like my succinct explanation was the only thing
that had ever made any sort of sense.