Undefyned

Being a hot mess isn’t hot; I know that better than anyone.

Sometimes my heart overworks my head and vice versa.

Sometimes my conscious mind ceases to cooperate with the other parts and the chaos that ensues is a mess of “no I can’ts” and panic and heartbeats much, much too fast to be understood.

Sometimes my body tells me to fight or flee while I’m eating breakfast.

Sometimes it says no, you aren’t allowed to leave the house today and you’ll be lucky if you make it downstairs.

Sometimes I want to die and I have a hard time remembering that it is my mind playing tricks on me and I don’t really want that…Do I?

Sometimes I’m not sure of anything anymore and it feels too real and I have to tell myself that I don’t have the right to disappear just yet and it will get better, even if I don’t really believe that myself in this particular moment.

As often as the high and low tides of panic rise and ebb, so do the waves of sadness and apathy.

So I’m sorry if I’ve ever offended you, or if my inability to handle life as we know it is inconvenient.

Just please stop telling me to be reasonable.

It isn’t that simple.

All I need for you to understand is this:

I am not my anxiety or depression, etc.

You hate me for my sometimes sharp tongue and sometimes abrupt need to exit and because I sometimes say the wrong thing over and over and over again and it’s impossible to stop although I realize very well it’s happening.

Because many times I cannot stop myself from putting my foot in my mouth and other times I find myself unable to say anything at all.

You don’t like it nor do you understand it and that’s fine because I understand that you don’t understand me.

I don’t need your sympathy or support, nor should you be forced or required to give it.

But I do beg of you some tolerance because as much as you cannot tolerate me, it is nothing to how much I am unable to tolerate myself.

Because for better or worse I fight my own battles and I do not wish for any with you.

Because what I am is what I am not and I am not my mental illness.

And I am, for now, okay. I am okay.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

chiamakauamadi

*Tears* Love this, I can relate.

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