This is an old poem, and in no way reflects how I feel about life today. It's one of those "Look how far I have come poems." It's also about a time in my life when I would cry out for help, and no one really listened, but I still really love the poem itself. People do cry out a lot, and because we choose not to listen, or don't know what to look for, we don't hear them. Please do research on what to look for, all too often, we lose people we shouldn't, when we could have done much more.
He told me I was seeming more and more depressed lately, and when he said that the tiny tear warriors starting beating on the back of my throat, threatening to release small sobs.
I knew he was right, but who wants to actually admit they have a problem.
He told me to get happy, and I laughed; because it isn't really my place anymore to decide to be happy, but I was laughing, so I guess that's victory for him.
It's not like I'm a wreck all the time, but occasionally I can't hide it anymore.
My brain stops producing happy thoughts.
My eyes get hollow, and whatever life left inside seems to dissipate to some other part of me.
I think eventually sadness gets so developed that you stop producing tears.
All of your energy is needed elsewhere, for simple things, like getting out bed in the morning, and brushing teeth, and maybe faking a smile.
I probably shouldn't have said "psychiatrist" when I told her I needed to talk to someone.
Therapist seems like an easier term to deal with.
When moms talk about their daughters they don't introduce this subject matter, but can you imagine.
The look on her face when she is sitting down at the table drinking wine with all her friends, and they're exchanging funny stories about their daughters, and she looks up, with misunderstanding in her eyes, and a little closer to drunk than her normal tipsy behavior, and she takes a sip, and she says "I remember the time my daughter asked to see a psychiatrist."
Then she smiles that ironic smile, and glances absentmindedly back down at her drink, and chugs the glass, sending her head over heals drunk, not knowing what the hell she has just done to her daughter. Now, all the other mothers are awkwardly staring at their hands, or maybe one of them takes another drink, all of them are now sober, while she sits there drinking, and maybe one of them is fake enough to say my mothers name in a patronizing tone, and offer to take her home. And maybe, just maybe one of them were me when they were growing up, or one of them has one of me, and they're sitting there shaking their head because they know that all of these stupid women thrive on gossip, and in the world of soccer moms, and mini vans my mother has just shot me with her concealed handgun.
They're all wondering what kind of teenager needs a psychiatrist, because those are for psychos. They're wondering what kind of mother raises a child that need a psychiatrist.
Maybe I should have said therapist, and maybe I shouldn't have told her I need this because all I ever think about is how God isn't real, and death is the easiest option, and how mad I am at everything all the time.
Maybe just this once I should have lied, and acted like the world is still an open door for me, and maybe I should stick to talking about college decisions and what I will wear for prom this year.
I can't though, I can't keep pretending I am a seventeen year old ball of joy.
I have spent too much time on this putrid planet, and know more than my fair share of devastation to still pretend to be happy.
I used to be the strong one in my family, and I bet up until today she thought I still was, and it breaks my heart all over again- to know that I have changed her views of me again.
But here we are, and all I have left is friends who judge me along with the rest of the world.
I have never written a forget the world letter, but I think this is pretty close.
Mental illness has no age restrictions. It can be anyone. Don't take it lightly when someone reaches out for help.
