They never looked into your eyes to see the empty deadness.

They kept their eyes glued to your arms, looking for those crusted red lines.

Then put those lines onto their mouths and bent them into disappointed frowns

To convince themselves that it’s just a phase that goes away;

You’re too old to play pretend

But not old enough to know yourself.

 

They think your life is an act,

Attention seeking.

Because to them, depression is only sadness that you have to deal with alone,

And you’re wrong to cry out for help when you can still laugh.

 

To them, anxiety is mere stage fright that would go away if you’d simply relax and stop overreacting.

They laugh at you when you can’t speak.

They roll their eyes as your stomach rolls with turbulent tidal waves

That waterlog the pages your twitchy fingers create while tap tap tapping on a tabletop typewriter

So all that comes out is a smudge of two words: “BE BRAVE.”

 

 

You want to tell them about the suffering, the fear,

But how can you speak with your voice pinched shut

From a rope woven from their excuses?

You’re weak!

You’re wrong!

You’re fake!

Other people have it much worse, so why can’t you shut up and

GET OVER IT?

 

Like you don’t have the right to be something you never chose to be.

 

So they stand back to watch

As you stop watching,

Collapsed on the floor in a miserable heap.

They just stare like you’re a show.

But you fell from the tightrope

And as the audience leaves,

You pay the fee.

 

Slowly,

Breath by breath,

Hair by hair,

You pick yourself up again

Only the flickering neon EXIT sign applauds your true feat,

Where you’ve been swallowed into a maelstrom so chaotic you can barely see the sun,

But force yourself to smile and keep your nose up in the deep end,

So they can float in ignorance shallows

 

There are reasons for the dark under your eyes

That they could never understand

 

When they think your reality is a lie and your act is the truth,

When they can’t see the flatline of each day,

The numbness you feel while wondering

Why you’re still here,

Why you try,

Why you can name a million perfect things about your friends

But can’t think of a single one for yourself...

 

And most of all, why you can’t remember the time when the opposite of happy

Wasn’t so much more than

“Sad.”

 

To them,

The phrase “mental disorder”

Doesn’t have a real meaning.

It’s just a name for normal parts of “growing up.”

And their only solution?

SUCK IT UP.