Mental Illness…

A Thought Process and Self-Dragging. To be read angrily.

There are things I’ve experienced that I don’t talk about.

I’m stressed. Constantly. My emotions are a whirlwind, blowing up debris I’ve forgotten while damaging new parts of my exterior.

I make for pretty pictures. My insides do not. They keep me alive, but make me wish I wasn’t.

I have bipolar depression. I feel happy to the point of anxiety. I feel sad to way past crippling depression.

I take pills. I hate them. I take them, I’m a zombie. I don’t, I’m a wreck. No middle ground.

I go to therapy. His name’s Mike. He’s great.

I take people for granted. I barely text back. The pills make it hard to focus on simple conversation.

My mind makes it hard to focus on simple conversation.

I repeat myself. A lot. I forget what I’m telling you as I’m telling you.

I repeat myself. A lot. I forget what I’m telling you as I’m telling you.

While you’re speaking my brain forces me somewhere else. In the opposite direction of your words.

I don’t mean to ignore you, I’m sorry. I just can’t focus.

I don’t mean to ask you to repeat what you just said, I just can’t remember.

I need to be alone. Having company makes me feel stupid. Everyone talks about things I don’t understand.

I know I’m smart. I think I’m smart. I think…I can’t think.

I smile. I make people happy. I try to be happy. I can’t be happy.

I take pills. I hate myself. I no longer make for pretty pictures.

I survived trauma just for my mind to put me through more.

I’m lonely. But I don’t know how to tell people to stay. I let people go. They always go.

I wake up. I’m apprehensive. I go to sleep and I’m fearful of waking up.

I’ve let myself go. I don’t know where I went.

I’m a writer who can’t write. And a lover who can’t love. And honestly they’re one in the same.

I have a fire in my chest, but no life. No energy. No hope.

I’m lost.

I have talents that collect dust inside me.

I can’t breathe. And I kinda don’t want to.

I’m indecisive. Most days I teeter on the line of death and existence.

If there were a side for non-existence, maybe I’d choose that one. Maybe
I love Sylvia Plath…and maybe that’s telling.

I cry for two weeks in a month. The other two weeks, I socialize.

At work, I look angry. I’m not. Just suicidal.

As a server, I switch between “I want to stab myself” and “Are you ready to order?”

I commit acts of violence against myself and have the nerve to cry when others do too.

I have emotions inside me I don’t know how to talk about

I have trauma inside me I don’t know how to talk about

I question my worth. And the worth of my question.

My mind is a hive. My insides are stung.

I’m angry at myself, but I don’t know where it came from.

I get angry with you, but I don’t know where it came from

I dream of the ocean, but is it to swim or to drown in?

I’m poison to myself and all those around me.

Don’t love me. Don’t love me. Don’t love me. Don’t love me.

My emotions are dead. My mind is dead. My ambition is dead. I am…

Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me. “PLEASE LEAVE ME!”

I shout — but not even I can hear.

I don’t blame you for going. I’m fine, really.

I’m wasting away. Let me float away.

There are things I’ve experienced that I don’t talk about.

My mental health is no longer one of them.

mikaila simone | IG: @mikailaisawesome | Tumblr: unsalty.tumblr.com