Sunday, April 12, 2015

Sick: A Humble Attempt to Open Dialogue

Hi, I'm ill,
but not in the way that means I'm chill.
What I mean is that I'm sick,
and lately I've been having some thoughts stick.

When I was in middle school
my best friend got cancer.
We all knew the rule
that helping was the answer.

Now, I might not be ill in my body,
and the campaigns for me aren't gaudy.
But when I felt sick
the only help I heard was cricket.

A while ago a friend asked
why I miss so much class.
Fearful, I told her "it's for my health."
But I knew she wondered what was wrong with myself.

My disease is supposed to be private,
it's not supposed to be talked about.
But it comes with the family,
and I just found out.

Okay, I have depression,
I'm only know speaking true,
because I fear discussion.
Because I worry I'll miss you.

If I coughed
when I walked.
It'd be okay,
for me to say
that things aren't going my way.
That today is a terrible day.
But in the land of joyful moods,
no one seems to care for broken goods.

Fearing the stigma,
fearing the talk,
I showed my family an enigma,
and my friends a happy stock.

When my friend was impaired,
the doctors ran their tests.
But when I asked for care
I met the rest.

The one's who think it's a scam.
That it couldn't be that bad.
That the doctors were all shams,
and the mental health trend a fad.

But depression kills people too,
maybe it's even eating at you.
Maybe it's run your heart through,
or maybe your heart stayed while the rest grew.

Now you feel hollow,
and you eyes have lost their glow.
But you keep on smiling.
Because it's all that you know.

People say they support you,
when you're feeling blue.
But the numbers show
depression has grown.
So why don't you let people know?

Why can't I tell you?
You might be there too.
They say misery loves company,
and yet I'm alone.

Just because I inherit bad genes
doesn't give me the emotions of a machine.
I still walk and (occasionally) run.
I still laugh and have fun.

Lack of a problem
doesn't eliminate an issue.
Things might be awesome,
but I still pack tissues.

I spiral down,
I become obsessed.
I see myself in a ghost town,
and that I regress.

Because I can't share.
Because I can't break.
I see my demons everywhere.
I'm sorry everyone, but it's more than I can take.

Sharing this does not make me weak.
I am not throwing in a white flag.
I survived, so don't call me meek.
I went through hell, I have a right to brag.

Now ends my private riot.
I'm done with the whole show.
I'm finished being quiet.
Now you all know.