15, 3, 4

Who would’ve known that three little letters 
could screw you up?
It’s like a mad scientist 
grabbed you from behind,
took out your brain 
and injected it with steroids 
or a manifesting virus. 
One thought turns into a sea of thoughts, 
until it grows and grows, 
swallowing you whole.
One action turns into a threat to your life. 
You constantly have to check,
check the doorway of death,
check, check, make sure you won’t go in
and that your life isn’t gone. 
That your family can’t be hurt. 
To face that those who don’t have it, 
don’t understand you. 
And the pain. 
To face that what you are afraid of won’t kill you,
but the fear can. 
To know that you deep down know 
that nothing will happen, 
but your mind won’t let you stop 
the repetitive thoughts. It makes you feel alone, 
deserted and left to vanish. 
Your mind aches, it can’t deal. 
It’s too overwhelming, will it ever stop? 
Don’t touch it. Don’t touch me.
Go away! You don’t want to,
but you push away, you push away the ones 
that try to know you.
Then you wonder, who will help you recover? 
The Psychiatrist?
Will the pain go away?
Will you ever be free?
Will you ever take back control of your mind?
Who will understand the pain, 
brought by three little letters?


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