are you proud of me?

are you proud of me? i’m sorry if i messed up. i know things have been rough lately. 

are you proud of me? do you still love me? did i do something wrong? i just need to know for sure. i don’t know who i am if someone else doesn’t approve of me.

so are you proud of me? is there anything i could have done better? thank you so much for even breathing in my presence, because i’m so terrified of being indebted to anybody.

are you proud of me? i’m sorry for using big words to talk about my problems, i just don’t know how else to communicate them, honestly.

are you proud of me? for growing as a person, and for having the mental stability to brush my hair and pick out a different outfit than yesterday? for not breaking down in the middle of class, and maintaining a steady social life, and telling my therapist that everything’s all right. when it’s not all right. but i have to say something, so… i guess that’s it. fine.

are you proud of me? for falling apart on the bathroom floor when no one’s watching, whispering apologies to the mirror.

over and over and over and over


Approval is really hard for me. I think with mental health, very few things are black and white. There’s a healthy degree of validation people need… and then there’s a point where your primary source of love, validation, encouragement isn’t inside you, it’s on the outside–and the problem with that is that that can be taken away from you at any time. Other people’s compliments, love, acceptance–we need it. I think having outside support is a lot more important, at least for me, than the world makes it out to be. But we also need to know that we can hold that love inside us. We need to be able to keep it going, even when there’s no one to support that–I don’t know, or maybe that’s wrong. I’m honestly a bit of a mess right now, so probably not the best person to give advice about this topic and all of these musings could very easily be wrong. 

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i don’t want to think about it

it’s not that i can’t keep up. it’s not that i’m lazy. i’m just… tired. and sometimes, the idea of getting up and just doing this whole thing all over again makes me want to collapse on the ground, and stay there. broken.

it’s not that i’m selfish. it’s not that i’m being dramatic. i’m sorry. i don’t understand a lot of things in my life at the moment.

it’s not that i’m scatterbrained. i just have a lot of monsters in my head that really need to be tamed. and i’m just trying to get by. trying to shoulder the stress, and swallow my pride, and somehow make it through the day. all right?

it’s not that i want to hurt you. it’s not that i’m a bad daughter, or a bad friend, or a bad student. and believe me, you’re not the only one who wishes things were different.

and i’m sorry i’m always like this. i’m sorry i run myself down to nothing, and then wonder why i feel like shit. i just… right now, i am beyond exhausted.


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stardust

sweaters and night air and distant traffic, and maybe if i try hard enough i’ll find some way of romanticizing it.

eyes half closed. downing another cup of coffee, and pinching my forearm, and hiding in the 12a.m. darkness.

and what does it say about me? that even after all this time, i’m still trying to figure out what’s an illness and what’s just my personality?

i hope this is not my personality. but at the same time, the idea of being separate from it… it terrifies me. because i don’t know who that person is. because i don’t know where i could fly if i could let go of even a fraction of the weight of it.

and on nights like this, i would like to think i am made of stardust. i am wind in your hair and campfires by the ocean, or anything that makes me feel like i’m not hopeless.

i am not the end of the world. i am not panic, or fear, or the deadweight of loneliness.

i am the sunrise. staring back at me in the mirror. because for all the times you were blind to it, the beauty has been there. just waiting for you to notice.

always.


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december 5th, 2019

i just want to close my eyes sometimes. you know that, right? and… my psychiatrist says he thinks i have depression, and i don’t know if that’s true or not right now. but sometimes, i do wonder about it.

i just want to cry sometimes. because i am here. because i am not here. because i don’t want to be here.  because the people are too loud. and because my hands are shaking, and goddamn it, i don’t have time to be like this. i was supposed to be recovering.

but what does that even mean? because honestly, i am so good at being sick. but i’m not much for healing. for doing anything other than slapping dollar-store bandaids on wounds no one’s ever noticed, and biting my tongue. go on. i’m fine. i promise i’m ok. 

because life is tough. and because this isn’t what the movies make it out to be. it’s slow. and it’s hard. and sometimes, it’s just forcing myself to take one more step forward despite the screaming heaviness on my shoulders. and sometimes, i spend whole weeks running backwards. and sometimes, i get home from school and just fall apart on the kitchen floor, because i still can’t believe it. that for the first time in my life, if you asked, i could actually tell you what i’m living for.


Ok, so a couple notes about this poem.

  1. In regards to what I said about depression–right now, that’s extremely tentative, so please don’t take that too seriously. My psychiatrist thinks I potentially have dysthymia or persistent depressive disorder (essentially, low-level chronic depression) but honestly, right now, no one is sure. 
  2. When I talk about “closing my eyes” in this poem, I’m not referring to suicide–more just… giving up trying to get better, something that’s been on my mind a lot.

I know poetry isn’t always the clearest medium, so I just wanted to make sure I was communicating that. 😉

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i think i’m going to explode

and if you don’t know what i’m talking about, maybe you’ve never had anxiety. maybe you’ve never felt your heart pound, and your thoughts race, and you’re too tired to feel like this but you can’t help but worry anyway. 

maybe you’ve never been awake this late at night writing poetry, because you don’t know what else to do with your life. as your stomach crumples inward. and the voices scream, and as it starts to fall apart.

and it’s your fault. it’s your fault. it’s your fault. and it’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault…

and something’s going to go wrong eventually. you’re going to do something wrong eventually. you are going to explode eventually.

did i ever mention that sometimes living with a brain like this feels like a disability?


Another anxiety poem. I’ve been really struggling with perfectionism lately.

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