Mental Illness Does Not Exist
I awoke to a
Day that was pale-
Clouds hung low
A bright grey overcast.
As it crept towards noon
The sky grew dark
And the day felt weary
So it began to weep
The winds picked up
Billowing across the wet land
When a shot rings out
And an orange shape is seen darting
To hide behind rows of houses-
Making the sound seem
Only like a crack of lightning
With a human streak
That quickly fades.
Droplets smash against these window panes
Remembered days filled with pain and self-doubt
Every morning waking up
To the wish that I were not myself
But someone else who was happy
Or who might imagine that one day they could be.
People who don't understand how
One grapples with a disease of the mind
That can have more power over you
Than any physical cancer-
Either have never experienced
The way its effected someone
Or are afraid of its unknown
Crippling reach
Which can invade without
A moments notice
Without credence to age, race or gender
Class or vocation, family position or
Even how much
One is loved.
For even people who are loved
Can come down with this illness
That slips in like invisible smoke
Clouding your ability to see
What is just beyond your reach
So that you live like a recluse
Struggling to breath but lacking
The will to even try
Because, you don't see the point
And if you don't see the point
Then you've nothing to hold onto
Least of all yourself
Since who you are
Has been enveloped by a dark chaos,
That you can only be pulled out of
When you want to be.
When you want to find a different way
To live-
Without knowing what that is.
Not knowing what it is like
To laugh from your belly,
Or to cry with relief
Instead of being wracked-
By shot nerves and heavy, heavy weight
That you'll only bring everyone down in the room,
If you tell them how you really feel.
But when no one speaks up
About having these terrifying thoughts
Of bleeding inside out
We don't know what its like
To acknowledge our entire selves
Including the mad, joyless parts
Which make no sense
But always lie between every line
Of the story we tell others
With a vacant face and a polite smile
Jabbing the knife deeper
Deeper into our psyche
Becoming as familiar to us
As the cup of coffee we have in the morning
That we can't help but
Carry it with us like a pet
Which no matter how much
We try not to feed,
Just won't die.
Continuing to reel its ugly head
Thereby, pulling us on a leash
That we don't see as a problem
That begs a solution-
But a tether we must mask,
To seem normal at work or at home.
Because, it's better to bury the darkness
That we don't think anyone
Cares to bear witness.
Although it hurts its carrier,
Sometimes more than anyone else
Making us feel like monsters
Without any right to complain-
Because we don't contribute to society
So why should society choose
To see us at all?
So we guard our illness
Lest it be used as another way
To wield personal attacks on our character
Since obviously, if we can't see
It with an x-ray -
There is surely nothing
Wrong with us.
And only you are to blame
For uncouth moods,
That people find insecure
Without foundation
But a myth to be carried
Away with the breeze
Like our voices that fall silent
On prescription slips
That provide only shameful evidence
Of what we are often taught
Never to identify
Because mental illness
Does not exist.
- June 7th, 2014
13 years in recovery
Eileen Cheong, PLPC, MA-ATR
Day that was pale-
Clouds hung low
A bright grey overcast.
As it crept towards noon
The sky grew dark
And the day felt weary
So it began to weep
The winds picked up
Billowing across the wet land
When a shot rings out
And an orange shape is seen darting
To hide behind rows of houses-
Making the sound seem
Only like a crack of lightning
With a human streak
That quickly fades.
Droplets smash against these window panes
Remembered days filled with pain and self-doubt
Every morning waking up
To the wish that I were not myself
But someone else who was happy
Or who might imagine that one day they could be.
People who don't understand how
One grapples with a disease of the mind
That can have more power over you
Than any physical cancer-
Either have never experienced
The way its effected someone
Or are afraid of its unknown
Crippling reach
Which can invade without
A moments notice
Without credence to age, race or gender
Class or vocation, family position or
Even how much
One is loved.
For even people who are loved
Can come down with this illness
That slips in like invisible smoke
Clouding your ability to see
What is just beyond your reach
So that you live like a recluse
Struggling to breath but lacking
The will to even try
Because, you don't see the point
And if you don't see the point
Then you've nothing to hold onto
Least of all yourself
Since who you are
Has been enveloped by a dark chaos,
That you can only be pulled out of
When you want to be.
When you want to find a different way
To live-
Without knowing what that is.
Not knowing what it is like
To laugh from your belly,
Or to cry with relief
Instead of being wracked-
By shot nerves and heavy, heavy weight
That you'll only bring everyone down in the room,
If you tell them how you really feel.
But when no one speaks up
About having these terrifying thoughts
Of bleeding inside out
We don't know what its like
To acknowledge our entire selves
Including the mad, joyless parts
Which make no sense
But always lie between every line
Of the story we tell others
With a vacant face and a polite smile
Jabbing the knife deeper
Deeper into our psyche
Becoming as familiar to us
As the cup of coffee we have in the morning
That we can't help but
Carry it with us like a pet
Which no matter how much
We try not to feed,
Just won't die.
Continuing to reel its ugly head
Thereby, pulling us on a leash
That we don't see as a problem
That begs a solution-
But a tether we must mask,
To seem normal at work or at home.
Because, it's better to bury the darkness
That we don't think anyone
Cares to bear witness.
Although it hurts its carrier,
Sometimes more than anyone else
Making us feel like monsters
Without any right to complain-
Because we don't contribute to society
So why should society choose
To see us at all?
So we guard our illness
Lest it be used as another way
To wield personal attacks on our character
Since obviously, if we can't see
It with an x-ray -
There is surely nothing
Wrong with us.
And only you are to blame
For uncouth moods,
That people find insecure
Without foundation
But a myth to be carried
Away with the breeze
Like our voices that fall silent
On prescription slips
That provide only shameful evidence
Of what we are often taught
Never to identify
Because mental illness
Does not exist.
- June 7th, 2014
13 years in recovery
Eileen Cheong, PLPC, MA-ATR
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