Welcome to my blog. I talk mostly about books, but occasionally you'll catch me bragging about my dogs.

nearly empty // hannah doan

i’m nearly empty
long ignored
i emerged as a whisper
suddenly i barely regognized

- H

It used to be the case, that when I wrote, I was free from the inhibition of being whole. But lately, I feel like I’m even hiding from my own self. I sulk in corners and stare at walls that are white and blank, and it somehow numbs the pain, because I am staring at a clean slate, which is something I will never be given. I’m unbelievably sick of people pinning my knees to the ground as I am bowing at their feet, and telling me to get up and do more. Be more.

The sheets of paper where I used to write my words, are now staring at me scribbled on and torn, and they continue to remind me more and more of myself. When does hope become a sickness? When does letting go become masochism? When does anger turn to numbness, and is there a chance of ever becoming whole again?

What does Depression feel like? I’m not talking about sadness. I’m not talking about having a bad day. I’m talking about the chronic illness that is a dark, and menacing cave surrounded by everything you have ever been afraid of. I’m talking about the feeling you get when you have tried every fucking medication, and talked to every counselor, and done everything that you feel like you as a small, tiny, human being, can do, and yet you still get constantly destroyed by family and friends who just “don’t know how much more of you they can handle because one second you are happy, and then you’re depressed the next, and it just doesn’t make sense, Hannah and ‘Nobody will never be enough for you.’”

So, you wonder why I keep breathing? Trust me, I’ve questioned my reasons before. The answer, it seems to be, lies in the miracles. A clear sunrise after an overcast week. My husband’s tender embraces. And understanding that the dark does not defeat the light, but quite the contrary, it defines it. And our fear of the darkness is what casts joy into its mouth, swallowing it whole. Fear is our paralysis. And yet, how does one stop being afraid, when fear has become an addiction.

I have become my sickness. I am what people say I am. I am a grain of sand being continuously drowned by the ceaseless ocean tide.


suffocated by myself


always looming

just out of reach


answering me

but i’m not listening anymore







the abandoned stairwell // hannah doan