i tell you i’ve had a bad day
my depression whacked me
upside the head
and i cried on the bathroom floor

and you share photos
of a quaint forest path
saying that is the real cure for depression
and the pills i take
are a lifelong addiction because
if the pills really did work
then i wouldn’t still be on them
until your fingers ****** bleed

as if my mental illness
is a nasty cold
that requires antibiotics
for about a month
and once i am “better”
i’ll be okay on my own

you treat my pills bottles
like a crutch that makes me weak
like i am a bad person for trying
to live my life worth living
a life which just so happens
to be medicated

and that comes from such
a place of privilege
you and your stupid pictures
of forest paths that have nothing
to do with depression
and anxiety
and screaming hallucinations
that have left me
sobbing on the floor
making myself bleed until
i can tell what’s real again

my mental illness is a chronic thing
even when i am stable
i will never stop being mentally ill
just because i have more good days
than bad doesn’t mean i can cold-turkey
the very things that
keep me functioning
without losing my mind

and when i did try
to go off the meds in high school
you smiled and told me how
brave i was
how strong
how i didn’t need the medication

and days later when i
spent two hours sobbing
until i almost puked
because of the lasagna i had
accidentally burnt to a crisp
you laughed at me
and my tears
and told me to **** it up
to man up
to just be happy

like you telling me to
just be happy
will replace the serotonin my
brain can’t produce enough
of on its own

like you calling me weak
for being on medication
will take away the very real
truth that without
taking those pills every morning
i would have tried to ****
myself again and would
have probably succeeded that time

like you sharing your
pictures of forest paths
and demonstrating your complete
and utter lack of knowledge as to
how medication that isn’t antibiotics works
will suddenly fix
what is broken in my brain

but you take medication
that a doctor prescribes when you
are sick enough for that
to be needed
and nobody calls you weak

and when you break a bone
you get it set in plaster
well i can’t put a cast on
the cracks in my psyche

so i do the next best thing
because if your brain can’t
produce enough serotonin
to keep you wanting to live
all on its own
then store-bought is fine

(and you turning on me
when my mental illness stops
being something i can manage
on my own
says more about you
than it ever will about me)

if i could
i would write myself a father
who was not too tall
just enough so i could fit my
head under his chin

and he would always have
a smile for me
even after a long day at work
and the floor is still wet
from where i mopped

he would hang drawings
and report cards on the fridge
and tell me he was proud of me
even when i hadn’t done anything
that day except remind
myself it’s okay to just breathe

he would be an example
of a father that i could write about
and make it sound realistic
because nothing would
be made up and what
i imagined a father should
be and do

i would write him so
he would want to be my father
and he wouldn’t hate my
mother or me

he would be kind
and never yell at me
or hit or throws things
and he would just be there

this father
i would write him so he
would have found a way to
go to my high school graduation
and tell the people sitting next
to him that i was his son
with a smile on his face

but even as a writer
i’m not that good
of a liar

lonely darkness
strange flower
whisper broken
dreams

heart black as midnight
I fear I am alive
night will fill the forest
so give my death
an echo

empty, cry and
kiss, thus feel
no shroud
of melancholy

lightning
thunder
shiver & collapse
murmur, shudder
or howl
through it

at seven years old
when a switch was thrown
and suddenly i knew that
something wasn’t quite right
i did not feel courageous

i was so scared
feeling nailed inside
this coffin of a body
that no longer felt like mine

there were no words
that my tongue could wrap around
to verbalize how wrong it felt
when i was called daughter
so i swallowed that bitterness
and felt it like a
twisting knife in my guts

and i did not feel courageous
i did not feel brave
as i clawed my way out
of that pink box i had been
involuntarily thrown into

but i have been told that
i am brave
i am courageous
i am strong
for being transgender
and i don’t know what
to do with that

and it was not bravery
that had me telling my mother
i needed her credit card number
to buy a cheap chest binder
off of amazon
because i was really a boy

i had decided i would
not be dying as a woman
and be buried in a nice dress
with the wrong name
and gender on my tombstone

i decided then
standing in the kitchen
of the little cabin we lived in
16 years old and terrified
that i would make myself
into a bright light of a boy

and i really don’t think
of that as being a courageous act
it was one of preservation
of finally deciding that
living was better than surviving

and the funny thing is
that makes people see me as brave
and i don’t know what to do with that
because i was scared then
and i have been scared since

the only difference is
i am going to live long enough
this time around
so that i just might be
able to see what people mean
when they tell me i am brave