Swallowing the Truth

The group of people sitting close by at my lunch table stare as I close the small zip loc bag titled, "Monday" and ask me what those pills are for. Me, briefly answering with small words like, "Therapist, anxiety, and xanax." They, smiling at the use of their familiar friend, "Xanax." One, actually says how they wish they had some kind of disorder so xanax will always be available.

 

Me, staring silently as if the words got stuck in my thoughts.

I subconsciously reply,

If I could give you brain, I would

to see what it's like to function without actually functioning;

there, but not really,

Frozen, while anxiety and depression are tearing you a part.

Why is the pain I experience only apparent once the bruises and scars are?

 

The "highs" you get off those pills are all the lows I experience

Because two lows make a high, right?

The pills you consider to be a "good-time" are the same pills that keep me from having a good time

It's not that I enjoy having depression,

but it is the only true part of me left after all that treatment, after all that medication.

 

But, honestly, if there were a way in which I could physically put you in my shoes, I wouldn't dream of it.

I would never wish for anyone to see what I see.

To feel.... that much sorrow... that much pain?

The constant fragments of memories in the bath tub,

in the bedroom after failing another exam,

in the basement after crying all day for no apparent reason,

in the kitchen,

holding the knife to my throat.

 

On Twitter and Tumblr displaying pictures of your local xanax-dealers

A children's jewelery store selling fake, stick-on cuts to put on your body.

 

As if depression is your invitation into the popular squad.

When in reality, it is only the exact opposite for me.

Keeping me away from my friends, my family, my dreams.

Makes them disappear like a magician waving the wand over my wrists

 

We tend to glorify this disease

yet foretting that the biggest outcome of it involves so much gore

so much sorrow

so much pain

and this is everlasting beyond our graves.

 

So when you put that tablet in your mouth and wash it down,

vision that you are drinking the blood from my veins

the gore of that is as morbid as the fact that you are glorifying a disorder;

so you must swallow the truth.

 

My diagnosis of manic depression is not a gift I was given to live with

This is a battle I must conquer

one low

one cry

one battle scar at a time.

This poem is about: 
Me

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