The Perfect Storm












You would think I'm the perfect girl

I have the perfect grades, perfect smile, perfect personality to prove it

My reality is far from perfect

I have always been a worrier

A “self-diagnosed hypochondriac”

Who knew that a book, a test, a project, and a drug could turn that worry

Into dread.


The cyclical thoughts begin

My mind is sucked in to the whirlpool of existential questions

“Why am I here?”

“Are we all just living to die?”

“What is beyond our planet and all of those stars up in the sky?”

A simple look at the moon

Reduces me to tears

Next comes the sweaty palms and feet

My body begins to shake

Breathing is hard



I go through my life surrounded by a bubble that disconnects me from the rest of the world

My mind has created a living hell and I feel like there is no way out

The little blue pill takes away the anxiety,

But I no longer have motivation

And my memories become blurry.


The therapist tells me that God has brought me to her for a reason

That he knew what I needed and he is going to heal me through her

She is certain that we all have a purpose on this Earth

I am doubtful.


My thoughts persist and they tire me

But I will not allow myself to give up on life

It is a funny situation

I fear death, and yet I sometimes wonder if it would be better than this

I know that it wouldn’t

And so I see the therapist once every two weeks

And I take the little blue pill

And I try.


I am not better yet, but I soon will be.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741