Ask me in the night,
How I am feeling?
I’ll still tell you I’m alright,
But part of me won’t want to.

You see there’s this ache
Somewhere inside
Telling me to push it out, to make it escape.
It won’t go.
There’s no point passing it around
It only ever makes people leave.

Yes, right, okay:
Maybe I am delusional, deceptive
And, it’s all my wrong idea
But that still doesn’t make it fine.
Why shouldn’t we worry that our own damage
Will be someone else’s collateral?
Do you not think I’m aware?
Maybe I’m not still naive.

If you’ve come here for the truth,
Then I am coping just fine,
In fact it was better than ever
And all blue skies.
That’s also probably the reason why
People don’t realise.
If you’re around when I’m like this,
If you’re in the way of my state
And there’s nothing left to do,
Then I won’t bother to hide it from you.

Actually, I hate to admit it,
But I’d probably go all out in making sure you knew,
Because what else is there to do?
Where’s the point? Even if you told me where it was, I’m not sure I’d go find it.

But if someone new walks in,
If it’s someone presenting opportunities;
A meaning.
I follow through with that instead,
I get on with it and then afterwards,
When I’m alone,
I close my eyes and remember what I was feeling the last time I pushed it aside
And I dissolve into it
Because I’m back to not caring,
I’m back to believing in how bad I feel
And maybe I don’t mind.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

Convalescence,
How are you?
Better,
But I've been saying it
Since the beginning.
Are the whispers inside true,
That maybe I can finally start to believe it?

What did it take,
Some may innocently wonder.
Patience.
With every single breath I make.
I've been half trying to ignore the improvement,
Fearing one moments notice will
Surely steal it all back.
"No," I whisper alone, "I want to be better."

The other half
Astonished,
I try to be proud for the little things now,
So really I should feel
Amazing.

I swear I do very much venerate all of my achievements,
It was the only way,
That I could continue to survive.

Unequivocally honestly,
I'm afraid.
Scared of it all going wrong again.
Waiting to feel the terror of all the endless times I've tried,
Getting thrown right back in my face again.
Because isn't that what's been destined to happen
From the very start?

I've been having an almost
Two month long rest,
A complete break of everything.
It was only meant to last a month, but after that month had been and gone,
It started to actually feel
A little better, brighter,
Less dark.

I'll admit it,
I'm guilty,
Guilty of getting comfortable with how it started to feel.
I didn't want it ripped away from me,
Please.
I know once it's gone it will be hard as Hell to get back,
I've already been through all that,
I am still.

I want to get back to pushing myself.
(Like this)
I never wanted to stop,
But I had to listen,
My body was screaming at me, for me
To stop.
And this evidence is telling me why I had to listen.
It seems you can't beat your body,
Ever, but especially not when it's fighting for you and against you.

And the symptoms yelled
Please stop, please be still,
Like they wanted me to sleep all day,
But still it will take half-a-year for there to be any difference.
But I waited.
I didn't get any choices.

So now, I'm sorry
It just terrifies me that trying,
When I finally let it be,
Might tear me back down, to where I used to be.
I'm not foolish enough to expect this is the end.
Surely when I try again my symptoms will join in too.
They only started to improve
The more I tried to rest.
Yes, eventually - After a lot of effort I got here,
But you have no idea how I tried.
How I limited my actions,
So in a month maybe it won't be so hard.
Now I'm here, I'm worried my efforts will send me back.
Wasted.
Don't make me go,
I don't want to be useless anymore,
I'm still bad but so much better,
Please don't
Stop me,
Hurt me,
Trip me,
Trap me,
Lose me to my own body.
Not anymore.
I'm still here
Fighting.

Why aren't you listening?
Why aren't you listening?
I'm screaming out so you can hear me,
Won't you help me,
Please don't instead scare me,
I don't need more counselling I need you to find someone,
Who will really try and help me.

'Why aren't you listening?' My thoughts scream out,
But being myself, I only sit across from you and nod.
I don't want to be rude to anyone,
Especially not the doctors trying to help me,
But are you?
You keep sending me away.
I feel the tests and scans you order are just to shut me up,
Like you think you're being kind by indulging me,
Or covering your back incase something really is wrong.

Why aren't you listening?
I already know something is wrong,
I live it everyday.
I live with my thoughts too but I'm sure they're not the cause.
I do t suppress things for long,
I like to shout about them,
I like to explain.
Why won't you hear me explain?

Why aren't you listening?
Aren't you supposed to help me?
Yes doctor, I know how it looks,
I know each office I step into will house another you who will think it's either functional,
Or put on for a show instead.
I don't want to be a freak show though,
I want to be your patient.

Why aren't you listening?
Stress and anxiety is all you say,
But not social anxiety now?
That's the only anxiety I have,
So I guess it must be real.
But no
You don't want me to indulge this.
If this is how you treat a young women with social anxiety,
I don't want to know how you treat the others.
Most of the things you say or how you act,
Would set me in a downward spiral on what was an average day before.
I'm not blaming you for my social anxiety,
But perhaps I am for being quite mean and untactful.

Dear Doctor,
I'm trying to still believe
Someone like you will listen,
Who won't be mean and accusatory.
I'm willing myself to hope,
One day I'll meet you who will be nice,
Who will be half as desperate as me to discover what is causing this,
Someone who won't dismiss me.

My first question for the next appointment I go to:
"Will you listen?"