I would love to wake up and not question who I am.
To not have to roll over in bed, clutching my stuffed animals,
afraid to venture out in my mind.
I never know where to step, so I tread carefully,
trying to understand the threads left behind.
Hansel and Gretel, I chuckle to myself.
Almost every morning, I evaluate what’s real.
I go through a mental checklist,
grounding myself before I untangle the covers.
I wonder if I’ll have the capacity to complete simple tasks.
I wonder if I’ll mask in social interactions,
becoming further entrenched in a faux version of me.
This is how I know I’m not doing it for attention.
This struggle is private. Intimate. Shameful.
What I wouldn’t give to start my day carefree,
to choose happiness as if it was an ice cream flavor
one could enjoy in childlike wonder and contentment.
I want answers to everything, but if I push too hard,
I will be met with even more resistance.
My well-intentioned wishes eventually go missing,
like my belongings, my identity, my life.
