I've had bad days for as long as I can remember,
Anxiety, loneliness and depression swirling in my head.

(You might think loneliness and depression are the same but that's not true, loneliness is just a SYMPTOM of depression)

I used to have good days,
Light,
Days,
Where it didn't hurt as much,
Any more,
But these bad days come back,
And the came,
And they stayed,
For weeks at a time,
Anxiety had me mumbling,
"I'm fine"'s

(The actual act of being 'fine' is something I've never had the privilege of experiencing)

I got so many bad days,
My therapist,
(Along with my mother)
Tried to convince me they weren't,
ALL bad.

So,
I'm depressed, turned into:
The weather,
And, I'm alone,
Turned into:
Call your friends!
And,
I'm suicidal,
Turned into:
Philosophical.

I don't think you understand...

That this plan,
Of telling me my feelings aren't real,
Or that I shouldn't feel what I feel when I'm feeling it.
Isn't helping me,
Or saving me.
Because I remember being 12,
In an emergency room,
With death on my mind,
And burns on my wrist,
Being told,
I couldn't be admitted to a mental ward,
Because they only accept 13 year olds,
That, the qualifications,
Where there,
That I wanted to die,
But You were,
Just to young,
To be feeling,
What you were feeling,
When you were feeling it.