telling people i’m in therapy is like telling them i’m terminal.

not for me, but for them because apparently telling them i seek help for restoring good mental health warrants shocked reactions and many concerns. 

when my best friend’s mother “found out,” she looked at me with with pity, said “i had no idea, i’m so sorry” and i think she suspected that i was suicidal. 

i’m not. 

simply put, i am seeking to make myself feel okay again, and i can’t do it alone. 

because sometimes, i go through a week thinking it was a day because of how pointless life feels.

because sometimes, i lay in bed hating myself for not being surrounded by friends.

because sometimes, i yell at myself when i look in the mirror because i think i’m fat and that must be why i’m lonely.

because sometimes, i let every failure i’ve ever faced, every trial i’ve ever been put through, every person who’s placed their faults on me, sink in through my skin and let it control my thoughts. 

so when you looked at me and told me you thought about going to therapy because “you were sad sometimes”, i’ll say okay.

i will not invalidate you. 

even if your problems seem small to me, i know mine seem small to the girl who’s dad died a day after being diagnosed with leukemia.

to the daughter who’s mom practically disowned her for marrying the love of her life.

to my friend who was raped and physically assaulted by her boyfriend for many months.

i hope that one day, we’ll all be okay. 

but until then...

my next appointment is in two weeks. 

This poem is about: 
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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