I wear a shroud.
A shroud made of prescription slips.
A shroud of little orange bottles.
A shroud of oddly shaped pills, circles, ovals, capsules.
I wear this shroud to conceal my demon, my curse, and some say a blessing.
Without this cloak I'm a monster.
As a child I didn't have this cloak and I was seen as what I am, a monster.
Pointed at and whispered about.
Given sideway glances.
I was angry, angry at me for being me and others seeing me for being me.
This anger spread.
No longer directed at those who hurt me but abroad.
I was a child.
Mad at the world.
At age 5-7 I dawned my cloak.
At first it took getting used too.
I was told that I need fixing.
I was sent to a psychiatrist who taught me "How to be normal."
I abided my parents wishes and thought it was for the best.
I got older, and the cloak didn't work as well.
In middle school my cloak was transparent.
I had to deal with school now more than previously.
The stress wore my cloak thin and I was a ticking time bomb going off when something caught fire too close to me.
Then, after fights, meltdowns, tears, the tears of my parents, school stress, their stress things began to get better.
Things got better in school but not among people.
I still felt rejected, judged for my weirdness in the past.
Maybe it was guilt for the things I had done wrong.
Maybe fear, no it was fear.
Then I began to wonder.
I had asked myself this before but never paid much attention.
Was I afraid of what was under my cloak?
I was born without pills in my system.
The un medicated me is the real me.
I was never born with pills in my hand ready to be popped into my mouth.
But the real me scares people.
It scares me.
I twitch.
I fidget.
I can't sit still.
I look around all the time.
I get laughed at.
I get made fun of.
Or I did...Till I dawned my cloak....To hide from myself.