You saw me in my time of need,

saw that I was a mess.

And soon the doctor said indeed,

that yes, I am depressed.

Simply put, you weren't surprised.

After all, you knew.

You finally found me a guide,

someone to help me work through.

As I got better,

you cheered me on.

But our relationship grew bitter,

when you learned I have thoughts you frown upon.

I started to become your problem.

Growing fearful,

you began to get sick too.

You always acted cheerful,

never saying "I'm afraid of you."

Everything was normal,

until you finally said something.

I felt awful,

so to you, a conversation I had to bring.

You called me insane.

Sure, I may be paranoid.

But just because my brain

has problems you'd like to avoid,

I am not your problem.