With the
Desire the purge
Craving to cut
Need for escape

And the
Opportunity to drown out
My body's grievances
Why wouldn't I?

I'd be lying if I said
I haven't done it
I didn't have have weak days
My body doesn't ache for that
Lovely and disgusting
Physiological quench.

And yet they tell me
I'm lazy
I don't do enough
It doesn't matter that
I'm on my feet for eleven or twelve hours at a time every day
I'm working my *** off
I'm still recovering from an eating disorder.
But no, it doesn't matter
I still have no right to complain in their minds.

But wait**
I am a pretty good secret keeper
Sometimes.
Is it possible that
I am too talented at keeping my emotions locked away?
Maybe, just maybe,
They just don't *know.

Curing my depression
cured my alcoholism
which cured my creativity
which cured my happiness
which cured my sobriety
and then nothing

Is there no more hope in self?
Surely things have been worse before,
yet you constantly play the role of victim.
A harsh reality we face daily
that consumes those who are weak.

I practice what I preach, though it's not enough.
It can't be- Afterall, you're just not the same.
How could someone like you step in my shoes?
How could you comprehend the struggle and pain?
Should I even bother wasting my time on this game?

Weeks will go by, and you'll ask, "Where is he?"
I won't even be there to answer you,
but if I were, I would say something like this,
"While you moped and sat in misery
I did what I said,
and now I'm making history."

Anxiety.
It's like a big wave that crashes over you.
It drowns you almost.
It's like being drowned.
You can hold your breath at first.
You can act like your fine.
But then it builds.
And builds.
And builds.
Until you break and you can't breathe.
Your gasping for air but you don't get any.
You can't hear.
Only muffled screams.
Telling you to calm down.
But you can't.
You have no control.
None.
Zero.
Zippo.
Zilch.
~m.a