Happy Place

They tell me to breathe slowly. They tell me to picture my “happy place.” They tell me it’s all in my head.

As if I didn't already know that. Do you not understand the definition of a mental disorder?

Of course they stopped calling it a disease a long time ago because that scared people. They believed it was contagious so they locked all of us “wak jobs” away. But now “disorder” isn’t strong enough. They regard it as nothing more than a sight cold. They can’t see the realities of this.

“How can you be sick if you don’t look sick?”

If I had a dollar for every weird stare, every giggle, every “I bet she’s just making it up for the attention.” I could buy myself the help I need!

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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