I'm Not

I want to tell you how I'm really feeling when you ask, "How are you?" but I don't want to burden you with the truth.

I want to be able to call in sick because I'm having symptoms of my illness, but mental health shouldn't be talked about. And when it is, I should just, "Get over it" and deal with whatever is going on as if I was normal.

I'm not.

You wouldn't shame me for having the flu. You'd accept that I'm not feeling well, tell me to rest, to get better soon.

Instead you think I'm weak, that I can't control my emotions, that everyone struggles and why should I be cut any slack?

You're not alone. I think that, too. That if I just try harder, I can will my disorder away, that I can grit my teeth and power through the depression, the unreasonable anger, the anxiety.

I take an extra pill to smother the burning rage I'm stewing in for no reason. It helps, but it leaves me feeling hollow inside. The apathy is almost as bad.

What am I supposed to feel? What is normal? I don't think I'll ever be able to put my finger on it. I'm held together by a precisely crafted cocktail of pills, and my ability to pretend that I'm fine.

I'm not.

I wish the road was easier, or that I was stronger. It's a fight, and just when I think I'm winning, the world drops out from under me. Stability is fleeting. Everything is a symptom, I can't trust what I'm feeling.

I feel caught up in chaos, unable to grab ahold of anything that might stop the ups and downs. I feel like I'm on a rollercoaster without a lap bar. Any twist or turn could throw me, send me reeling out of control.

But I'll smile and tell you, "I'm doing good." I'll make it easy for you, make you think I have it under control. Make you believe it.  I don't want to pile the weight of my unpredictable moods on you. You hear it from my lips, that I'm okay.

But I'm not.