i’m fine

golf ball in your throat. but swallow it down anyway, and take the pain the same way you take your morning medication, because whatever. you’re going to be fine in the end, and it’s not like your problems really matter.

so go ahead. tell them you’ll be fine. tell them there’s nothing they can do, but thanks for asking, all right?

even though you’re not all right.

because i don’t want help. i don’t want company. and i get it. you love me. but i don’t want you to save me from myself.

and i’m not fine. i know i’m not fine. i know we’re driving home, and i’m crying in the passenger’s side. but i don’t really want to talk about it. so can you do me a favour, and just pretend that i’m not even here? that everything is fine? 

because honestly, i just want to disappear tonight.


Oof, this is a super-cliche topic, but it’s still been something that’s been on my mind a lot. Normally, I’m actually really good at communicating what I’m going through. But of late, I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about keeping it to myself, and really slipping from my usual self. And to be honest, that is terrifying. So… I wrote a poem about it.

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what if i do something wrong

bolts of panic and underslept eyes. and i don’t really feel motivated to do anything, but i don’t have a choice about this tonight.

and my heart won’t stop pounding, and my thoughts won’t stop racing, and maybe i should have taken my as-and-when-needed medication.

and i can’t breathe. i can’t even think clearly. it’s been a long time since the anxiety has gotten this bad, honestly.

and i just want to feel happy when i’m supposed to feel happy. and scared when i’m supposed to feel scared. and angry when i’m supposed to feel angry. i want to know when i’m supposed to feel angry. i don’t know when i’m supposed to feel angry. i don’t know what’s going to happen to me.

because what if i do something wrong? what if i mess up for the whole world to see, like this is your moment. this is your chance to etch your name into a small footnote of history. so let’s watch as you fall. let’s watch, as you make an idiot out of yourself in front of everybody.

because they’re just using you. i’m honestly surprised you haven’t figured it out already.


I don’t really think this poem was written for a specific thing in my life–just my fears surrounding being supported in general. 

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seeking after an ideal i do not know how to become

because you are a puzzle piece, and you don’t fit. and maybe all you can do is pretend it’s fine, even though it isn’t. because you are a puzzle piece. which means you’re supposed to be normal. and good at explaining things to people when they need help with shit. even though i’m crying on the kitchen floor, and i can’t figure out how to make sense of this, and my head is so heavy, and i don’t know how much longer i can handle the weight of carrying it. and honestly, i’m just making this up as i go, and i don’t know i don’t know i don’t know, and i’m standing in front of what feels like the whole world, and the weight of even being looked at is enough to make me want to explode. and so i’ll whittle myself to perfection as i stand before the mirror until this face looking back isn’t anyone i  know. and maybe if i fell, no one would even know… or maybe they all would know… and maybe they would scream, and shout, and offer hands only to then… let… go… and so i let go… and so i scream… and so i fall apart… and so i laugh because laughing is what i’m supposed to do, and because laughing is what hurts the most… and because i’m supposed to be normal, right? or no one will love me? because seriously. i don’t know.


it feels like i’m slowly shredding myself down to nothing these days. i’m trying to be perfect. i’m doing a pretty good job at meeting my outrageous expectations for myself. but when i look in the mirror, it’s hard to recognize the person looking back at me. on the worst days. i used to know how to be myself, and now… i don’t know.


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september 13th, 2019

it would be nice. to hear your voice, and believe that it’s all right. because my head feels like it’s melting. and i don’t know what to believe. and it would be nice to not feel this way, for a while, okay? to not feel… alone. or empty. or… like a castle, crumbling to pieces. or like a girl who can’t stop tearing herself to pieces, because it’s habit. and because rather than playing with toys in the basement like a normal kid you had an illness. and now maybe now do you understand why it hurts like this? why it’s so hard to let go like this? and why i can’t even step out of my room without having a panic attack like this? like this? like this? and it would be really nice to not hate myself so much all the time. or to have any idea what’s going on inside my head. or to be able to maintain a stable social interaction, but obviously… that’s not going to happen. at least… not this time. because that’s the thing about mental illness, isn’t it?  if you get a broken leg, you can put it in a cast. and if you get the flu, there’s a shot for that. but there are no surgeries to fix a childhood spent believing you’re worthless. there is no instant cure. there is no miracle fix. even if people can listen. and help. and hold your hand, for however long they have. and give you hugs, and suggestions, and make you feel okay for the first time in ages. but this is my fight. this will always be my fight. and no one else can change that.


i think the thing about getting help is–before you actually get it, at least for me, it had this kind of mythic status in my head. once i got help, i would be okay. i would be normal. i would be cured. just like that. i don’t think it’s like that. therapy helps. it really does help. but it helps you fix yourself. going to therapy is work. maybe i’ve always thought of it like a medical surgery–like something i just had to lie still and wait for the anesthesia to kick in for. but it’s not like that. it’s the opposite. going to therapy is like operating on yourself while fully conscious. therapy is relearning everything you ever thought was true about yourself. and i can’t say how much that has helped. but in the end… you still have to choose what you do with that. no one else can fight the battle for you. they can only support you in it.


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imagine i am panicking

lightning(1)(2)

imagine i am panicking. imagine i am standing in an empty classroom. imagine i am lying still paralyzed reeling on the ground. imagine the ocean is rushing over me. imagine every wave is a tsunami. and on the inside, i am drowning. yes. i can talk through it. but the words are a sticky spiderweb in my throat ok it’s hard to explain exactly. but i swear it is there and it will continue to be. tears, like magma spilling over the edges of my cheeks, leaving only the burnt husks of a personality. now imagine that i’m drowning. imagine that i can’t even see the bottom but i know i can feel myself sinking. i’m trying to breathe, but at this point it seems easier to just ride out the feeling. imagine i am scrubbing my skin clean, and clean, and clean because all the imperfections suddenly highlight themselves and the whole world disgusts me. every day there’s a rock concert in my mind and anxiety is a smoke alarm and i’ve cried wolf on myself way too many times. and i am just sort of standing there, and the music of my thoughts seems to jerk my heartbeat out of my chest. like life is a test, and i do not want to study for it because if i do not study for it, it won’t exist. imagine, that there is blackness, rising up from the ground to meet me. and suddenly everything is too much for me. imagine i am standing before a crowd of people only i can’t breathe, and i can’t think. why i am like this why am i so fucked up why am i a ticking time bomb waiting to go off why am i a collision of wrecked pieces my mind pouncing on every open wound every stressful situation ingraining itself into my skin and why is it so difficult to breathe. imagine i am a star, glowing on the edge of the horizon, and everything is kind of messy and kind of complicated. imagine everything feels like too much and i wish to flick off my mind like a lightswitch and i listen to dreamy music and it makes me feel a little more alive and i have held my own hand a thousand fucking times and considered pulling myself back off the edge but i didn’t do any of that because i am under siege by a monster and i do nothing to stop it. i am under siege by a monster and i want to tell you all the ways you’re beautiful but how can i tell you you’re beautiful when i can’t say it to myself and mean it? and how can i tell you to let go when i can’t even let go because i see cliffs in the flatlines of my heartbeat as i drift slowly, slowly, slowly to sleep and i’m not gonna check because i’m tired of it always being sometime after midnight. i’m tired of how i cannot find okays even in the starlight. i’m constantly falling, and sometimes i imagine that the sky is, too, because it makes me feel less lonely. and i know i should apologize for all the things i’ve called myself. but… right now, i don’t want to.


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