False Animations

The real mental health deal

A man with multicolored squares painted over his face and chest stares into the camera. Image by imustbedead.

Tales of crepuscular countenance tell tales in
telltale fashion, I can’t hear I can only speak,
battle-weary and bombastic in an arid bubble
nothing grows inside, everything wilts under
tar-trodden topsoil, but I can hear the delicate
fortuitous footsteps, pitter patter of the blind
trafficking the deaf in this mutinous orchestra
of blissfully unawares.

Of baneful contrarians believing they had it
”oh so much” easier, mental ills of modernity
hustle culture a heterogenous hegira heresy
depression mute anxiety fear life in abeyance
why me? my sojourned hair held by baleful
hands breaching wan waters, dragging my
torpid body down, usurping undercurrents
drag me to desolation.

Weighted beneath abyssal, Avernian chasms
why didn’t I swim, anchored by lost potential
no remedied respites, misanthropic mirrors
reflecting mindful inflections of I can’t breathe
morphic sanative pieces of peace, arcing luster
imperious imposters with intransigent illegible
iron-handed rivets is an indefinite sequestered
life the least I long for?

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© Edward Swafford 2025

A woman with doll-like makeup poses with a forlorn expression, her gloved hand is suspended by strands of red rope. Image by imustbedead.

This is a piece I wrote at my lowest point in April of last year; it’s a personal reflection on my mental health battle with chronic anxiety. I suffered from this nervous system affliction for over a decade.

Despite seeking and receiving so much help from family, friends, and health professionals, the never-ending grind of working toward my life goals was a brutal ritual of failure.

I’m in a much better place now, though MANY are not. Their battle continues thus this piece is dedicated to them.

*A version of this story was originally published in The Howling Owl