If it’s all the same to you,
I’d like us to
Never speak again,
Everything’s already ruined.

Supervening once again,
I'm agitated, unsettled,
Suspecting to be taken by it:
The madness, insanity, instability
But -
Mostly just the hurt,
And wonder, discomfort from the lacking.

It steals me
Yet I can never take ahold of it,
It leaves me confused, crying and abandoned once more,
It never resists,
Success this has against me
As I am held hostage.

Where am I?
In my mind which I can't empty.
I guess at least,
This way I'm inflicting this sorrow on myself,
So in a twisted way I'm in control,
Except I'm not:

Because I don't always want to run and hide -
Well actually I do, most of the time,
But I want this to be true
Or to be capable of staying in reality.
What I'm doing is a messed up thing,
Because whilst escaping real life I bring those painful situations,
Back into my world of comfort,
Just so I can battle with them some more.

If this is some type of war,
I think I'll die fighting,
And no one will be winning,
As I'm the only enemy.

It seems my body succumbed to all these feelings,
Helpless but breathing.
I shake and **** -
Made everyone confused,
Then I struggled to reach,
Not even able to get a drink.
What they said was seizures.

Seizures usually stop though:
It's day 34 now.
Next I wasn't able to walk,
Do you know what it feels like
For your body to just give up?
Collapsing is now regular,
Sometimes my whole body won't move
And currently as I write this,
Sitting up is a joke too.

Psychological seizures -
Last longer than usual
Yet can mimic epilepsy.
All the tests back normal,
Except from the ones which take weeks.
In my head, really?
That's basically what they said.

Now at a specialist talking therapy session,
For 'exactly what I have'
They told me:
You can't separate the mind and body.
The thing I like that they said most
Is that the physical symptoms are real,
That I'm NOT making them up.

However, I still don't appreciate when they tell me "this is good".
You see, they act like because it's not caused physiologically:
It's much easier to fix.
At the hospital: "I'm confident this will just stop
And probably won't come back."
Here I am still counting days,
I was in hospital for 3,
The 34 does not include the first week of milder ones,
One month till my exams
And actually it's just under that,
I count the minutes I can attempt to revise for.
I recognise the month I missed when I finally became productive,
Now I don't have a choice.
The teachers compliment how well I'm doing,
But they don't see me
Lying on the floor at home,
Pushing and willing my muscles to set me back up,
Whilst going
Absolutely nowhere.

My great Granny is way more capable than me.
Do you understand how embarrassing and berating it is,
When the paramedics come for the second time within a week or two,
Just to tell you quite simply:
"There is nothing medically wrong with you"?
"You're breathing is perfect,
Oxygen 100%"
"Does she have social anxiety"
-One of the first things that he said.
Can you guess how many anxiety attacks I've had?
Enough to be sure I'd recognise them by now.
"I wasn't anxious" I told them,
Desperate to be heard,
But as soon as they know about your mental health,
Nothing ever matters.

It's true that you take independence for granted,
Until it's taken away from you.
I don't think I've ever wanted to leave the house so much,
Than when I physically couldn't exit for
Just about a month.
I don't like burdening my family and friends,
It doesn't matter how they assure me
Either way I'm still dependently relying on them.

Although this does have one benefit
And some of it does make sense;
There are things I haven't been wanting to do,
By this it means that I can't do them.
Putting this open and honestly:
It's a potential get out of jail free card.
This way not doing it wouldn't be my fault,
Because I am physically unable.
That makes sense that it's psychological.
Another thing I tried to disprove it with was that,
"I've been better lately"
Which yesterday I finally got that explained,
The symptoms come on when you're relaxed,
As they are finally given the chance.
My body's saying no,
And sometimes I partly agree.

What doesn't help me is the:
"Therapy is how we treat this"
"It's good you don't have a physical cause."
Right, yeah, okay then.
So look me in the eye again
And tell me that it's fine.
Tell me how I recover from this debilitating illness
By doing what I've been doing for two years,
If that was going to work surely it would have been prevented?
People with a physical diagnosis receive physical help.
But what about me,
Do I just fall through the system's gap?
What happens when I can't walk,
When I fall off my bed from lying flat?
If I had a broken leg they'd give me crutches,
I get an "it will go away soon but it's impossible for us to say when".

If there's anything you take away from this,
Then it should be that:
One. It isn't just in my head.
Two. I am not in control of what's happening.
Three. It may be a conversion disorder but it's no less real.
Four. The last point states the fact that it causes PHYSICAL symptoms.

If I want to tell the whole truth then I have:
Non-Epileptic Attack Disorder,
A movement disorder causing seizures often looking like epileptic fits.
The truth I will give (probably) most people:
I have seizures which are not caused by epilepsy,
Which makes me shake and collapse
And if I'm feeling generous I might add another symptom on,
Because the longer this has lasted,
The more there are that come.

Do you ever think of verses,
While you're brushing your teeth?
Then repeat them inside your head,
As if you're counting sheep?
You rush into your room,
And scribble the lines down.
Do you?
I do.

Do you ever think of things to say,
Not caring if it wants to be heard?
You just get some thoughts together.
Then you pick at some of the words.
And In this wonderful world,
You have the choice to be silent,
While shouting out your emotions.
You don't have to like talking.
You just write things down.
Poetry it becomes.
Soulfully yours and meaningful to more than one.

The poems might just come to you.
Or you might have to think.
But however you come up with it,
You'll be making beauty.
You'll be an artist in control.

Wouldn't we all love to know,
That through this we have power.
The ability to gather thoughts,
And turn them into flowing poems.
That our words can be effective.
That they don't just comfort us.
If we knew they made others feel things,
Relate or understand.
Well that would be fantastic.
That's what we all want to hear.
To be told someone's enjoyed it,
Or that it made them shed a tear.
Knowing that someone understood.
That someone's complimenting how you use words.
It's an amazing feeling.
Especially when poetry's what your so close to.
You owe it all the world.
So someone's compliment,
Would brighten up your days.

If you are a poet,
Then you might understand this.
But we are all different.
We understand different things.
What one could write,
Others may not be able to read.

People think you should be optimistic,
They think you should give yourself goals to try to ascertain
To try and make yourself better.
These things though can be detrimental,
Because where I am
You have to get used to not being able to do things,
But then people say that you should make your goals small and attainable,
Yet they don’t understand that what is reachable one day,
Can be out of sight the next,
No matter how simple.

It’s not every second of the day that I want to be bitter
And don’t say I’m not because I know I am, I admit it,
And it’s a colossal amount of seconds that I don’t care about being bitter,
But it isn’t all of them.
Not really.

Bleakness, Lies
How would you know?
I could write whatever
But would you expect it to grow
Deep inside my heart,
And into my soul

Are all poems truthful,
Or as deceptive as the promise of snow
in England,
Is it occasionally true, or occasionally false?
Would anyone care if it was anything at all?

Perhaps any falsities in these creative mysteries
Are truths just hidden too deep to get to.
Sometimes the truth is bleak
And sometimes poems are made-up things with intentions to make you feel or think.

We were younger
But so invincible we believed,
What we now look back and see as childish
We once thought was so free,
We were so brave
We thought we could fight anything
If we had the will to try.

But can you reconstruct a family?
I doubt that you can
They’re supposed to be forever
But not if it includes some temporary man.

Please don’t get me wrong though,
I’m not blaming it on males,
I’m simply taking note of anyone who never shows up,
Or only when they feel they can.

Often now, I think everyone does too less,
I guess I’ve just gotten to the bitter point
Of seeing all these mis-connections,
As if it will be a dying art.
I know all too well though,
This type of imperfection’s everywhere,
It’s seeping into our bones and
It might even break our hearts.

There is a little goodness,
Inside everyone though.
In some hard times or people,
You may just have to look a little harder
To find it.

Can I be a Harsh Mystery?
I feel uncomfortable and I can't breathe here for much longer
Let me leave,
Let me be and I'll run clear of here,
Somewhere no one can find me,
Maybe I'll be me again until
Something I need gets here.

When I think of scars
I see broken hearts
I remember the past
I think of the truth:
That they're not what you see
But more what you can't.
They're the battles you fought,
The rages within your heart,
Emotional attachments
And stages of you life;
That given the choice
You would run away from.
You can't.
They're your inside scars,
Your thoughts, fears and failures.
What you can ignore
But can't escape.
Like physical scars;
They'll be with you forever
Even if the pain they once brought is not.

It's almost like I crave what I'm scared of
Then when it's right there in front of me
It's too close,
Has got to go
And I'm fearful beyond possible belief.

Sometimes I feel like I'm just never going to get there,
Only I can't express this to people:
They'll think I'm being ridiculous because I am so young.
When I looked from afar to this very point in my life though,
I guess I thought it would be different,
Like I'd feel more ready for anything.
Instead it feels like my dreams are still ten years away from me,
Which makes me doubt they'll be five years away like how I'd imagined they would be.