the monster is awake.
it is a bad day.
it reaches inside my cage,
it starts clawing me,
I tell it to stop.
it replies back, you deserve it.
you are nothing,
you are pathetic,
you are despicable.
I open my mouth to scream,
but all that comes out is, I agree.

I make my way to the monster,
because I deserve it.
I deserve the monster.
but the monster goes slack.

I turn around, and tied to a bar
is a balloon. it is a good day.
I say, the balloon isn’t real.
it’s too good to be true.
I am afraid of it,
afraid it would pop,
afraid it would float away.

so again, I make my way to the monster,
because I would rather feel something
than nothing at all.
the monster lifts its head.
our eyes meet, and I am not sure
if I am the monster, or the monster is me.

it is a bad day.
it is a good day.
it is neither.
I am not sure, not anymore.

12 thoughts on “ Mental Illness ”

  1. I know what its like to have bad days. Until I stabilized ten years ago, I had thirty-five years of them. When I drank, I was put in the psych ward. For years I could not hold a job. I preferred to sit at a bar and drown the Hell I was in. One and a half years ago, I came out the other end. You can too. You have to outlast your disease. I did it with hobbies, friends, and family that made life bearable. Today, life is good. The VA says my happiness is permanent. I smile a lot these days.

    Liked by 1 person

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