I accidentally let my mental illness define me.

I didn't mean for that to happen.

I don't believe in hiding the face that I am depressed,

that yes, it's a real thing,

no, yoga, sunrises, or choosing to be happy will NOT fix me,

yes, I have wanted to kill myself before.

 

Why should I hide who I am to make you feel less uncomfortable?

You, football star, intelligent jock, mediocre homelife, spent thirty minutes last week talking about the gash you got in your head from the fence.

 

Being outright about it, being open, being honest,

has helped others find a way.

They know it's not a shameful thing, to have a monster in your head.

They know you can get help, not just hide it until it's too late.

Me, sad, angry, depressed, anxious, nervous, quiet,

I am always uncomfortable, 

except when I'm numb.

 

But my goal in making it seem like a regular thing to have,

you know, cancer, diabetes, autism,

just one of the boys,

I have made it my whole personality.

 

Beneath this mask that screams

depressed, angrsy, anxious, nerous, sad, HELP!,

there is happy, confident, feminist, bisexual, creative, intelligent, bookworm, athletic, excited, 

and all the other things depression has painted over,

leaving just a sad, optimistic outlook on helping people,

while meanwhile the mask erases all that's underneath.