Being in a room with mental illness.

Have you ever been in a room with a depressed person?

Everything is quiet.

The sound of a clock ticking,

a lost fly buzzing;

a scrunched up ball of paper slowly unravelling

and the silent humming of a computer screen,

On standby.

 

Have you ever been in a room with anxiety?

Everything is loud.

Have you heard the sound of cracking knuckles?

Seen the frantic eye rolling?

The hand washing, the hair ruffling, the twitching,

the uncontrollable muttering,

the OVERLOAD OF SENSES?

Have you heard the nonsensical spew of words,

out of a mouth with lips so chapped,

from the hyperventilation of a never ending panic attack?

 

Have you ever been in a room with a manic depressive?

Everything is busy.

The walls are not walls, they are trampolines and

the ceiling isn’t a ceiling, it is a sky of endless possibilities.

Feathers dropping from the wings of a bird

on the back of a euphoria flying so high that,

nobody can tame it.

Or catch it.

Pages of scribbled ideas,

colourful notes

A BUTTERFLY!

New inventions that need not to sleep,

eyes so heavy with purple shadows that stain a porcelain face,

fractured from swinging.

A party that never stops.

Have you ever been in a room with me?

Have you ever been in a room with mental illness?

 

An update on where I am. I have no clear diagnosis, but they suspect bipolar or something like that. I say HEY, this is me, this is what I am and I’m ill again.

Accept me like I have accepted myself. I’m not going anywhere.

I’m not giving up.

 

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