This is not a sad poem

This is not meant to be a sob story.
This is a poem to make you understand.
 
In the past year alone, I have attempted suicide 3 times. In the past year, 
the police have come to my house 2 times. In the past year I ran out of 
resources and had to check myself into a treatment center. I was checked 
into an ER for my overdose, then a psychiatric hospital.
 
In the treatment center, there was a girl who had welts on her arm 
deeper than mine. It looked like she had punched her fist through a 
glass window the way life had punched the life out of her. In the treatment 
center there was a girl who had hallucinations about a man standing in the 
corner that terrified her so much that she couldn't stand still.
 
This is a poem about all the people who have been bounced back to a
hospital every time they thought they got their life back together 
only to let their mental illness catch them off guard again.
 
This is a poem for all the people who are so weak that they cannot stand on their own. 
This is a poem for the people whose eating disorders are so strong  that they will 
refuse food even when they weigh 70 pounds and are forced by hospital staff to be fed by a tube.
 
This is a poem for the people who have more hospital bracelets than they do friends. 
This is a poem about how I have to take 8 pills a day to function somewhat normally.
This is a poem about how I had to drop out of public school because my mental illness has 
interfered with my eating, my breathing, my sleeping, and my ability to live.
 
This is a poem about how I cannot count the number of people 
who have told me they wanted to die on two hands.
This is a poem about the 400,000 emergency room visits for self inflicted injury in 2001.
This is a poem for the 30,622 people who committed suicide in 2001.
 
This is a poem for everybody with a mental illness who is more scared of being judged
than they are of death.
This is a poem for everybody who has wanted to bleed away their pain.
This is a poem for everyone that wanted to disappear,
hoping that if they shot themselves, if they crashed their car,
that if they jumped off the roof of a building, that they might shatter.
This is a poem for everyone who has tried to choke the pain
out of their life. This is a poem for everyone who hoped
that an overdose would be a peaceful death.
 
This is a fuck you to every hallucination, every manic episode, every 
depressive episode, every flashback, every panic attack, every nightmare, every suicide attempt, every hospital visit, every purge, every laxative, 
every crash diet, every single doctor that told you you were doing it for
attention, every single bully that didn't know what they were driving you to, 
every family member that ever looked at you like you were a freak, 
everybody that ever told you to "get over it," everybody who told you 
that you were faking it.
 
Everybody who ever told you that it wasn't a big deal.
 
Would you still be saying the same thing at our funerals?
Do us all a favor and tell us how beautiful we "were"
while we're still alive. How beautiful we are.
 
This is a poem for everyone who ever thought the world
would be better off without them. This is a poem for everyone 
who ever needed somebody to just listen without judging.
This is a poem for everyone who just needs someone to 
care or believe in them.
 
This is not meant to be a sad poem. This is not a poem about over exaggeration.
It is a poem about reality. It is a poem to finally make you understand.
 
We are more than statistics.
We are stories.
 

Comments

CrazyPoet

I can't even describe how much I love this! This poem has so much truth to it, and it's so well-written. Great job!

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