what is it?
does it bother you
to see the scars
up my arms?
do you feel
sickened
by the words
which haunt me day and night?
does it make you
want to hide away
to see someone
so unhappy?
do not tell me
to cover my scars.
do not say
that i should
get over it
when all i hear
are the words “kill yourself.”
do not speak
to me about how
i should just be happy
because you don’t understand
what mental illness
does to a person.
it strips you
of everything
and anything
you ever loved.
it takes every
single thing
that you once cared about
and stomps it to the ground.
do not make me feel
like i have to be sorry
for what is inside my head
just because you’re ignorant.
not everyone
has a cookie cutter life
and can cry for a few minutes
to feel better for a lifetime.
depression
does not work
like that.
you think
that i chose
to be like this.
well you’re wrong,
i wouldn’t wish
this on anyone.
it’s not so much
about the pain,
or the self-loathing,
or the hopelessness.
it turns into
the feeling of
nothing.
when you can’t feel
it all starts to slip away
into the memories
you wish you could have back.
reality
is a figment of the nightmare
that plays out daily.
numbness
it’s an old friend of mine,
and just because you don’t get it
doesn’t mean it’s okay
to make me feel bad
for the way i am.
of course i want to smile,
and feel the happiness
of waking up on a Saturday morning
to the sun peeking in my windows
knowing it’s all okay
in the world.
of course
i want to feel something
even if it is negative.
it’s not as simple
as telling my brain
to stop.
chemicals do not respond
to commands— it would be
great if they could.
it’s not as easy
as a switch from
on to off.
it takes time
and effort
and failure
to get rid of these demons
that pick and prod
my internal self.
so again
do not tell me
that my disease
makes you uncomfortable
because it’s not so great
for me either.
