TALES OF THE SUFFERING
By: Hannah D. McClendon
FOREWARD
The inevitable suffering caused on this Earth is nonetheless the product of a fallen world. The greatest power we possess within ourselves is to tell the stories which survived the test of time, and to allow our voices to be heard. Rather than shy away these emotions which we cannot control, let us embrace humanity by allowing ourselves to feel without limit. Mental illness was once taboo and explicitly dismissed within society, and now we are taking back everything that has been taken from us; our voices. Poetry gives voice to the voiceless because no one is ever truly listening; make them listen. Poetry allows us to take others on this journey with us, the journey so often traveled but so less mentioned. The loneliness, stigmatization, and slander that comes with those living with mental illness is seemingly unbearable. It is our job to willingly and hopefully educate the masses of the Earth on the suffering that occurs within. The suffering that occurs from the inside onto the outside. The suffering that occurs within the mind, spirit, and then body. The non-traditional un-conventional life that many of us live without choice; give power to the suffering.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
borderline lifestyle change finding heaven’s gates Bare-Distortd issues modern gestapo free limitless
borderline lifestyle mental illness is the smile i wear masking insanity the shades i wear hiding my tears mental illness is the medication ingested to stay alive the mundane psychotherapy endured in order to heal and recover from the disease mental illness is the sleeping pills snatching me out of my manic spending episodes the judgment that churches always like to pass and the assumptions my family form toward me the misunderstanding i face daily the loneliness felt at three in the morning, knowing i’ve scared many away mental illness is the countless scars along my body helping me forget for just a moment; the blood created in order to feel human again mental illness is the rage so often felt; within the realization of this lifestyle
change they put their weightless hands around my shoulder told me if i prayed hard enough i'd be lifted of a curse i never asked for i'm left to wipe the tears streaming down my face as it that isn't proof enough i'm hurting the same old shit just a different building i attend to prove to them i'm not insane i'm just different flashbacks of hands being laid on me, oil that smelled of olives dripping from my forehead; into the pores of my skin i sit alone in my room some nights staring into the stars, as something stares back into me i'm wondering how the fuck these people are telling me that a graceful God, the Lord of all things wouldn't have mercy on a true sinner like me every slit on my wrist is a sacrifice when i couldn't offer up anything else from my body flows the same blood that evangelical ass evangelist pretends isn't the same blood that flowed from Christ's hands when he was crucified on a Thursday, tell me why do i somehow feel the same way, when i close my eyes and try to pray; there's complete silence. only cold, almost frozen tears from the realization of my own destiny. sit down after sit down with women who pretend they're praying for me. starbucks after starbucks pouring out my feelings over steaming coffee to a person whose prayers wouldn't get past the ceiling. session after session, "i don't feel like i'm making progress", i say to the man who's kept me in check for two years. my hands sweaty and shaking as i confess the next horror story about a place that is supposed to be healing me. "hannah" he says in soft tone, snatching me back into reality. my down-turned head turns from silence to more tears "i want out, but i don't know how" i confess without thinking. on a Friday, i skip out on sleazy services full on unimpressive messages and unnecessary confessions to one another, for the thrill of tire smoke and police sirens. i'd rather die manic, on top of the world doing what makes me feel most alive. when i tell my "church friends" of my latest cheap thrill adventure, they turn to another fucking scripture that has nothing to do with what i just said. repeating over and over, almost chanting the words on the pages as if it make sense and i'm supposed to change?
finding heaven’s gates they all look the same, they're all dressed the same how will I ever discover my husband among the mass of bodies spread out before us haircuts to the shoes so identical most of them unidentifiable in this tragedy i choke up thinking about how much he loved his family how could he leave me for such ambiguous teachings? how could he abandon me for something he barley believed him if there was a God, i doubt he'd be alien their final supper went viral it's hard to read the articles about the man that i vowed to love until he brought upon his own death when he disappeared from our lives, he disappeared forever "he died to himself through vigorous cleansings, such as cayenne pepper, lemonade, maple syrup" i described to another nosey reporter. i feel insane as all of this feels unreal the mortician's truck stuffed from top to bottom with lifeless white body bags there isn't enough room to keep stuffing these big white identical body bags everyone looks the same, they all look the same they're unidentifiable within this inevitable tragedy how will i ever find my husband's body?
Bare-Distortd the blue streaking, blinding, siren lights peaking through windows at night cold bare chests up against the wall make this all to real to them all nervous, sweaty officers who swear they’re in control cussing and damn near spitting on bare backs lined up like animals; bare black skin all too familiar to the town all too familiar to the sounds of pleas men trying to get home to their families black men trying to see the sun again grown men tired of being on the run from them white patriarchy bleeding through the canvas droplets of privilege soaking into the walls of the museum; always forgetting that black always absorbs unsure of which painting matters more bare-footed, bare-legged, bare-backed bare black hearts beating through their chest brutality from white policemen never rests the reality of not knowing your fate search and seize this fear away from their minds for this may be their last time begging; pleading for their life
issues could I measure my insanity? without explaining how i truly feel all while reducing my humanity without allowing for time to heal God makes no mistakes when He designed me along with my flaws my mental stability begins to unwind it almost feels impossible to pause forcing myself out of bed causes strain the reason for my persistence no one ever understands the pain the bane of my existence the issues i must leave at my door my very own psychotic war
modern gestapo i sit on this sofa what else can i do except be angry, as 45 screams through MY television what can be done? children in cages; families detained separation Satan would find cruel a dark cloud fills the nation it was never lifted; we were never great the cloud only becomes heavier with corruption most would rather deny or conform i look into MY television history has revived into the worst form earth remains darker not even the sky brings hope i don’t look up
free. 9/12/16 dear Lord, i'm confused and stuck once again. these christians, they're telling me my mental illness will be my downfall. it's not like i don't love you with all of my heart and aim to please and serve you, but they're telling me it's not enough. i feel wretched and hopeless, as i often do, and i wish there was a way you could show me your truth. the one girl told me if i cut myself again i'm going to hell. she then proceeded to ask me what my dead father would think of me for doing so. it's like they don't understand that people who are different from them. they treat me so much more differently than the rest, because my pigmentation is darker than the rest of their congregation. this is the worst feeling in the world, when it's supposed to be the most freeing feeling in the world. i reclaimed 'Jesus as my Lord' and they make me feel as though it still isn't good enough. What kind of sacrifice do I need to make in order to prove to them i love you? 9/12/19 im Free. i broke from the shackles that kept me at rock bottom for so long, thanks to you Lord. thanks to you, I know longer live to please others and prove to them i'm worthy of being with you when i pass on. i'm not longer wondering if something is wrong with me for eliciting the symptoms of my mental illness. you allowed these things to happen to me for a reason and i'm grateful, ever so grateful; and i'll continue fighting and working toward what is right and true. i'm in love again, with the same man that i fell in love with three years ago. the church didn't approve or appreciate our close relationship so they separated us, but no man can separate what God ordained. i can't believe this is real, waking up to the reality i so often dreamed and wished for. a man that loves you more than he could ever love me, because God is that real to him. 'elated' isn't a strong enough word to describe this Freedom we are both simultaneously experiencing. we're Free; free to love and free to live. Love from your daughter, Hannah
limitless she wants to rise to the sky like a rocket, limitless in her elevation but also actively disappearing and disconnecting from life and reality she is borderline, raging like thunder no wonder nobody appreciates the love she gives she closes her eyes, and wishes she had gone under pills can’t ease the trauma she relives daily, she seeks peace never finding it beneath her skin, a million reasons to give up again convincing herself to give in again she cannot help; she is twisted from a painful past she cannot cease splitting herself in half like a mirror continuously shattering into pieces she fears she will spend her years alone to what does she owe this pleasure, to waking up and not recognizing who she is, to going to sleep wishing to never rise again how many glasses need to be shattered, before someone tries to fix her mind? how many times does she need to show pain through blood and knives? although you cannot offer what her soul needs the most,
feel no lachrymose when her heart roams autonomously onto the one who can.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hannah D. McClendon is an African American poet from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She began her writing journey as a small child, writing never-ending songs and short poems. She continued her writing into high school and began to realize writing was a sweet escape from reality for her. Hannah graduated from high school and moved to Nashville, Tennessee to pursue her undergraduate degree. She is currently a full-time student at Tennessee State University. On September 21st of 2018, Hannah became an internationally published Author when she released her debut poetry novel “Gold Mouth�. She has then gone on to hold a book signing in her current city of Nashville, and she has many more unannounced projects coming in the year 2019.