Healing and Self-Discovery Through Poetry
TW: The following poems discuss mental health struggles, depression, self-harm, suicidal ideation, disordered eating, and Trauma. While not explicitly described, we invite our community members to read these Unsinkable poems and accompanying annotations if it’s the right time for them. For additional support please reach out to Crisis Text Line, Kids Help Phone or Better Help 💛
Something Special About This Street
Adam, and how he thought I was 24 and how
Erika didn’t know I wouldn’t forget. I drew red on
my fingernails and it stained my shirt and I dream
of falafel and my back turns to sweat. Backstage,
and I remember dancing, and Molly kissed Peter
too but I slept in his bed. My electricity’s off and
the pencils are permanent. My tea tastes thick and
it hurts to swallow. He grabbed me in the city
and my virginity on the phone. Next I am who I
wouldn’t ever really be, and maybe I would sing
except I can’t. Jake, and how he doesn’t miss me.
How I’m anything but that. I had one option but I
gave it back. His mustache went up my nose.
I keep the tags on and the receipts in the trash and
in 15 minutes I have to walk 3 minutes and then
get up after 70 minutes and walk 10 minutes and
then I don’t know. I should put on a dress or different
shoes and fix my hair. I should turn the lights on and
take my medicine and stop shivering before I fall asleep.
My bones, and how I can feel the water drip into my
stomach. And the loud gulp before it hits the bottom.
The boxes under my bed, and how I can’t reach the floor
and how the windows are closed but I feel the dust. How
he loves sex and how my fingers crack. How he’s getting
rich off mistakes. How I’m asking for my throat back
Click Here For Zoe's Annotation
Something Special About This Street
I wrote this poem during my freshman year of college (this was around January 2015) as an alternative to self-harming. I was feeling overwhelmed with a lot of emotions (and I hadn’t yet started therapy and learned how to manage them), but I decided to put these feelings into a poem. And as soon as I finished writing, I felt so much better and without the urge to self-harm.
The title itself – Something Special About This Street – refers to the man I mention in the very first line. Before he kissed me on our first (and only) date, he said “do you know what’s special about this street?” I asked “What?” and he said “it’s the place where we had our first kiss.” I thought that was very romantic and clever at the time.
Adam, and how he thought I was 24
I met a man on a train who asked me out on a date. I was 18 at the time, but he told me he thought I was 24. He was in his early 30’s. At the time, I was flattered – but thinking back now, I should not have been talking to a stranger I’d met on a train
and how Erika didn’t know I wouldn’t forget.
I went to summer camp one time when I was in 5th grade, a friend I made on my last day told me that we should make a secret codeword (for some reason, “mosquito squishy”) that we’ll tell everyone was our codeword for the entire summer camp experience. She told me that over time I myself would forget that we had only made up this codeword on my last day. Clearly, I never forgot.
I drew red on my fingernails and it stained my shirt
Coincidentally (in the context of the previous comment), I forget exactly what I was referring to here!
and I dream of falafel and my back turns to sweat.
I have a lot of strange, vivid, often scary dreams – my anxiety tends to pour through while I’m asleep – and as a result, I get very sweaty overnight.
Backstage, and I remember dancing,
I had acted in a play a few months before writing this, and it was a highly enjoyable experience. I missed it dearly, and was feeling the loss of that once-tight-knit community (because performance communities are highly ephemeral – once the play is over and we’re not rehearsing daily together anymore, that specific community is dissipated and can’t truly be replicated again. Kind of sad, I know!)
and Molly kissed Peter too but I slept in his bed.
I found out that a girl in my sorority had also hooked up with a guy I’d briefly dated at the beginning of my freshman year. But while she was able to see pretty quickly that he wasn’t a great guy, it took me actually being with him to realize that. (At the time, I was very bad at seeing red flags in relationships – let alone taking any pre-emptive actions to remove myself from toxic situations)
My electricity’s off and the pencils are permanent. My tea tastes thick and it hurts to swallow.
I was sick with a cold at the time of writing this (on top of feeling mentally unwell), so I was feeling very disorientated and in various forms of pain.
He grabbed me in the city and my virginity on the phone.
I did end up going on a date with the man I met on the train, and it was a lot more intense and strangely passionate than I was expecting or was comfortable with.
Next I am who I wouldn’t ever really be, and maybe I would sing except I can’t.
There was a theatre event at my college that I was about to attend where people perform musical numbers from roles they’d usually never be cast in. I used to be confident in my singing abilities, but I’d lost that confidence (I still don’t fully have it)
Jake, and how he doesn’t miss me. How I’m anything but that. I had one option but I gave it back. His mustache went up my nose.
I told a man I was seeing that I missed him. He told me he did not feel the same. And he wasn’t a great person, really, plus whenever we kissed, his mustache poked into my nostrils. So why did I miss him, and why did I care so much that he didn’t miss me too?
I keep the tags on and the receipts in the trash
Thinking about a friend of mine who never took the tags off of his clothes. Maybe in case he had buyer’s remorse?
and in 15 minutes I have to walk 3 minutes and then get up after 70 minutes and walk 10 minutes and then I don’t know.
Thinking about the time it will take me to get to the theatre event, sit there, and come home. This theatre event was going to be a welcome distraction from the unhappiness I was feeling in my mind.
I should put on a dress or different shoes and fix my hair. I should turn the lights on and take my medicine and stop shivering before I fall asleep.
I often thought in “should” statements, and then often failed to achieve those “should’s,” which in turn only made my mental health worse
My bones, and how I can feel the water drip into my stomach. And the loud gulp before it hits the bottom.
Feeling acutely aware of my body, especially because I had such a strong urge to self-harm prior to writing this (I often relied on physical, bodily acts to make my mental space feel better)
The boxes under my bed, and how I can’t reach the floor and how the windows are closed but I feel the dust.
My mind started moving from my physical body to my physical space — my college dorm room, which felt like my safe space and an area I could always escape to if I needed to be alone.
How he loves sex and how my fingers crack.
In a lot of relationships, I felt used for my body. I felt like I needed to give people whatever they wanted from me (even if I did not want it myself) so that people would love me and want to spend time with me. At the time, I believed that who I was inherently wasn’t someone worth loving.
How he’s getting rich off mistakes.
The man I met on the train (who I mention at the beginning of the poem) was an environmentalist and told me that his goal was to get rich by fixing the ecological mistakes others had gotten rich off of. He wanted wealth from doing something good, yet I thought it was interesting that he seemed more focused on the money than on solely helping the world.
How I’m asking for my throat back
This has several meanings – literally, I was sick and had a sore throat, and I wanted it to stop hurting. But looking more broadly, I also had a lot of insecurities and social anxiety that prevented me from sticking up for myself, saying what I really mean, and stopping people from taking advantage of me. I wanted to be confident and feel like I could speak freely, but it didn’t seem possible at the time. Reflecting now on this, though, I can say that because of therapy and working on myself, I have gotten my throat back.
How American history restarted and you couldn’t tell if you were older or it was worse. When one color is no longer one color. Numbers through tears. The wrong shoulder the trampoline. When I didn’t know heat runs through metal and smoke filled my door. Handing over is the same as last week. Women say sorry too often so I’m sorry. When asked if I defer I referenced this man. My sister wants to be not me; in this way she becomes us all. The adjacent squares like cows. Thick and alive. Which is to say we’re branded, except the other way, popping out. Accommodation means giving up faith. To go from here and here to there without knowing how. This is why we return each week. The water eating away my toes and the silver painted on my nails. To fill a space becomes obligation. Silver like the light beside the bed. Metal sheets like paint. Each line an unwavering loop. When I was younger I wouldn’t press hard enough. My teeth stuck out and in.
Click Here For Zoe's Annotation
SCULP
I wrote this poem on my 20th birthday – February 4, 2016 — in a time when I was deeply depressed and considering ending my life. I was sitting in the Philadelphia Museum of Art with a college class, and tasked with writing a poem in response to a piece of art. This poem is a response to “Sculpmetal Numbers” by Jasper Johns, though it dips back and forth between the painting and my own life.
How American history restarted and you couldn’t tell if you were older or it was worse.
As I grew older, it felt like more and more bad things were happening in the world. Was that true? Or was I simply growing more aware of the bad things?
When one color is no longer one color.
The painting by Jasper Johns is technically all one color – grey – but of course, there are variations in the shades. It’s not just one thing.
Numbers through tears. The wrong shoulder the trampoline.
My own sadness made me feel connected to other sadnesses I‘d known — such as this memory of my high school math teacher telling me her boyfriend had broken up with her, and he had been crying during it, despite being the one doing the breaking up.
When I didn’t know heat runs through metal and smoke filled my door.
I had tried to microwave something in tin foil a few months earlier and accidentally set the microwave on fire.
Handing over is the same as last week. Women say sorry too often so I’m sorry. When asked if I defer I referenced this man.
Thinking about the first time I’d realized that I was being mistreated in a relationship, and how women are societally conditioned to defer to people, and apologize even if they haven’t done something wrong.
My sister wants to be not me; in this way she becomes us all.
Thinking about who I am in relation to my family. I was growing up a lot during this time (as this was the deepest struggle I’d had with my mental health, and also the first time I’d sought professional help) — and I was figuring out who I was and what I wanted in the world – and how that may or may not be different from what I thought in the past.
The adjacent squares like cows. Thick and alive. Which is to say we’re branded, except the other way, popping out.
Heading back into the painting, the numbers almost look like they’ve branded into skin. But brandings go inward, whereas the numbers here are sticking out of the metal.
Accommodation means giving up faith.
Sometimes when you’re going through difficult change, you have to rework how you see the world and challenge your current beliefs.
To go from here and here to there without knowing how. This is why we return each week.
I tried to numb myself to the world – I was scared of feeling my emotions, but I slowly grew able to face them in my weekly therapy sessions.
The water eating away my toes and the silver painted on my nails.
I love getting my nails done – and at the time, I tended to lean toward the color silver, much like the silver in the painting.
To fill a space becomes obligation.
I always keep my appointments and honor my responsibilities. At the time, I was thinking about therapy, and how I kept going even though at first I didn’t want to – mainly out of obligation to never miss an appointment.
Silver like the light beside the bed. Metal sheets like paint. Each line an unwavering loop.
Back into the painting again. This is the first time I felt really able to ground myself in multiple sources of imagery – what is physically in front of me, and what exists only in my mind.
When I was younger I wouldn’t press hard enough.
A connection between this painting and my memory – as a child, I often played with stamps, but I didn’t press the stamp hard enough on the page to leave a clear mark.
My teeth stuck out and in.
Thinking again about the popping out numbers, the imperfect but repeating lines. And the imperfect poppings-out in my own mouth as a child, prior to getting braces. Those which no longer exist, as my childhood felt very separate from the person I had grown into, especially when it came to the state of my mental health.
There is much I could say about chairs, doors and openings, one rib touching strap. Difficult brain with funnels, red creeping through. It always finds a way.
This is something because with cover I was less enthused. I am sitting for a while and body designs me. Every time the shower ran I had the same color, watermelon on all sides.
People write for disembodied, but Starbucks bathroom stayed shut. Dirt stayed clean, only existing in consideration. It started in front of the tree counting down, and I don’t know my skin when we hit one.
I remember so vividly the next day because it was deeper than water streaming. I would answer but another body next to mine. It started in blue sea grey, high walls, still the old phone and one flavor per week. It kept as feet flew above snow.
In the ocean I was burnt by thighs, saw a number and took it. Trips to middle of land, mouth open on a rock. This is why I counted ephemeral. Bright pale blue. Would this mind exist as wolf child, or else will paper won’t stay blank.
This is not as clear as the last but neither am I. Say curious and the knob, but either way inside became for them. It’s difficult. Watermelon bright and too stretched to stay, before I met that one, before I learned this.
Rotation and was good. I feel the blue draped on arms. The red on stomach, waist. The hair down back. The ladder and I don’t know what’s in the box. The entirety of underneath is because top dictated on the page, the I reduced to singular.
It’s difficult because layers because fork cannot hold weight. I saw the first again and again mouth open above substance. It would all come off either way. There was a fourth and then a fifth then the second because papers broke and glitter spilled on floor.
The top never mattered and in pictures I feel the red blue stirring. All of it is a way home, every moment underneath. To the next one and by that time I’d lost count, forgot the tour of grass.
And again there is language in a word cloud, consciousness of phase. Everything already there and people lighting up. Behind the shed in a thunderstorm, tights down, poetic. In the building, the basketball, eyes meeting skin.
Are you sure because we’ve run out of time and I’d seen them all and finished, canceled the last day of car. The next one because inside is too hot. Biomimicry is convincing of necessity. I know no truth but hours open late. Swish under letter, lace under hips.
It is difficult when I was orange blue. Red and white, purple then before that pale protruding green. Each way my eyes know how to see. Right now I am inside my mind and ears absorb my skin. Thoughts shedding from shoulders. Numbers existing in blank. Body bequeathing itself. Trees wading in clothes. Fingers learning to breathe.
Click Here For Zoe's Annotation
WHERE IT ALL BEGAN
I wrote this poem in Spring 2017, about 6 months after I had come out as a lesbian (after believing myself to be a straight woman for the majority of my life). I was thinking a lot about why I didn’t know this part of my identity until I was 20.
There is much I could say about chairs, doors and openings,
These chairs, doors, and openings refer to the therapy waiting room at my college’s counseling center. I was a frequent visitor of this waiting room — at the time of writing this poem I’d been in therapy for about a year, and I had gone religiously at least once a week, sometimes more. But my mental state was very different at this point, compared to the previous year. I had survived my deep depressive episode and come out of it stronger and more self-aware.
one rib touching strap.
One part of my self-awareness was that I realized I hated bras. I discovered this due to recovering from a big eating disorder relapse I’d had right before realizing my sexuality – but now I know that it also relates to my gender identity. I do not feel affirmed by wearing bras or having anything too tight against my chest.
Difficult brain with funnels, red creeping through. It always finds a way.
I was feeling less ashamed of my mental health struggles, and more able to share openly about what I had experienced. I was also starting to accept that I would likely have mental health issues for much of my life, as I’d had up until then – but that is okay.
This is something because with cover I was less enthused. I am sitting for a while and body designs me. Every time the shower ran I had the same color, watermelon on all sides.
I started dating boys when I was 14 years old, and I quickly felt a pressure to give myself fully in whatever way my boyfriend wanted (which was often sexual). In that context, the “watermelon” in this line refers to a bra I often wore that was neon green on the outside and neon pink on the inside.
People write for disembodied, but Starbucks bathroom stayed shut. Dirt stayed clean, only existing in consideration. It started in front of the tree counting down, and I don’t know my skin when we hit one.
When boys pressured me to be intimate with them, I often felt numb, and separate from my body. just going through the motions. I’ve realized now it was because I was putting on a persona and disregarding my feelings and boundaries – I was pretending to enjoy something that I didn’t really want to do.
I remember so vividly the next day because it was deeper than water streaming. I would answer but another body next to mine. It started in blue sea grey, high walls, still the old phone and one flavor per week. It kept as feet flew above snow.
I was thinking about when my first boyfriend broke up with me (when I was 14) because I was feeling hesitant to kiss him / engage with him in romantic ways (which I now recognize is because I am not attracted to men!). I was very hurt from this breakup, and it led me to stop expressing my own needs and boundaries, because I believe that only if I let people do what they wanted with me would they want to stay with me
In the ocean I was burnt by thighs, saw a number and took it. Trips to middle of land, mouth open on a rock. This is why I counted ephemeral.
I met a boy on a beach vacation with my family one year; he was neither attractive nor kind no good at kissing, but I kept seeing him anyways because I just so badly wanted to be “loved” (in quotations because what these boys showed me was definitely not love)
Bright pale blue.
I mention a lot of colors in this poem, and it’s because I have synesthesia, which means that my senses are connected in various “unusual” ways – such as associating colors to memories & periods of time, and being able to “see” (in my mind’s eye) language spelled out as people speak it aloud. As I continue to mention colors here, they each refer to different periods and memories of my life.
Would this mind exist as wolf child, or else will paper won’t stay blank.
Connected to my synesthesia, again, I was thinking about whether my mind would work in this same way had I not been exposed to this information during my formative years (especially because it is so grounded in colors/language that was taught to me by my society and surroundings), as is the case of someone I’d learned about in a linguistics class (whom the professors called a “wolf child”)
This is not as clear as the last but neither am I. Say curious and the knob, but either way inside became for them. It’s difficult. Watermelon bright and too stretched to stay, before I met that one, before I learned this.
I grounded this poem in colors and symbols that were only truly understood and recognizable by me – as opposed to letting the reader into exactly what I mean, I want them to think of their own meanings, and to connect my words to their own experiences. This isn’t how I usually wrote poems in the past, but I was a different person from the past. And the me who is writing this comment now is a different person from the one who wrote this poem. All contained under the same Zoe, just different. And poetry lets me express those differences as I am experiencing them.
Rotation and was good. I feel the blue draped on arms. The red on stomach, waist. The hair down back. The ladder and I don’t know what’s in the box. The entirety of underneath is because top dictated on the page, the I reduced to singular.
Remembering the times when my hair was long (I had recently cut it all off), when my body and self were devoted solely to another person (whatever boy I was “with”). Much of this poem is me being connected to my various former selves by feeling the changes in and on my body.
It’s difficult because layers because fork cannot hold weight.
As I was writing this poem, I was sitting in a student center at my college, and I witnessed someone try to stick a flimsy plastic fork into an entire rotisserie chicken, and then try to pick it up and take bites directly out if it. It was a very jarring image.
I saw the first again and again mouth open above substance. It would all come off either way. There was a fourth and then a fifth then the second because papers broke and glitter spilled on floor.
Thinking of all the boys I kissed or hooked up with in some way, and how I was a serial dater because I was so lonely and just wanted someone to pay attention to and love me. And how ironic it is that I later realized I wasn’t even attracted to these boys to begin with. Would my life had been different if I realized I were a lesbian earlier and never dated men? Would I have had as many bad experiences and manipulative relationships? I’ll never know! But I’m happy with the path my life has taken, and I can accept the challenging times as catalysts that brought me to where I am today.
The top never mattered and in pictures I feel the red blue stirring. All of it is a way home, every moment underneath. To the next one and by that time I’d lost count, forgot the tour of grass.
Every time I think of moments in my life, I feel so viscerally connected to that time. I feel how the world felt around me (according to my synesthesia), and how that’s different from the way things feel right now.In this particular moment, I was thinking again about the succession of guys I encountered romantically & otherwise, and how at first, I kept track of a list of everyone I’d kissed, but then lost track when I went to college and started going to parties and making out with random people.
And again there is language in a word cloud, consciousness of phase. Everything already there and people lighting up. Behind the shed in a thunderstorm, tights down, poetic. In the building, the basketball, eyes meeting skin.
I had an experience at a college party where my synesthesia felt very heightened, and I could see the language of all the conversations surrounding me appearing in my mind’s eye as if in a colorful word cloud (whereas I usually envision language in a straight line).
Are you sure because we’ve run out of time and I’d seen them all and finished, canceled the last day of car. The next one because inside is too hot. Biomimicry is convincing of necessity. I know no truth but hours open late. Swish under letter, lace under hips.
The summer before I went to college, I was dating my long-term high school boyfriend, but we were gearing up to end our relationship, since we’d be going to college in very different locations. It became really challenging to see him because I knew that soon we’d have to break up. We were supposed to have one final date before I left for college, but I decided to cancel it because I knew it would hurt too badly to see him. I don’t think he was too happy with that decision, but it felt right for me. Looking back, I can recognize this as setting a boundary for myself! I wasn’t very good at that, especially within relationships, so I feel very proud of younger me.
It is difficult when I was orange blue. Red and white, purple then before that pale protruding green. Each way my eyes know how to see. Right now I am inside my mind and ears absorb my skin. Thoughts shedding from shoulders. Numbers existing in blank. Body bequeathing itself. Trees wading in clothes. Fingers learning to breathe.
Each of these colors is a memory, a period of time, a progression of feelings and events that brought me to where I was as I was writing this poem, having realized that I am a lesbian. I end the poem with a reflection on a relationship experience I was coerced into, and how I used to give my body completely to others. But I know now, and knew at the time of writing this, that my future relationships and life can look so different from the past. I can take back my body and autonomy, and I can create an existence that is uplifting, validating, and happy.
Along with being a digital content creator, Zoe is a writer, educator, and social work student.
Feeling inspired? You can find Zoe here: Instagram.
Unsinkable Storytelling Author: Zoe Stoller