So my mental illnesses and I are talking
In my head
And it looks like one of those support groups
And I'm sitting in the middle
They all have their own outfits
Anxiety wears a hoodie, my favorite pants
Depression wears pajamas that I've worn three days in a row
Autism is wearing the third new outfit that day
PTSD is wearing what I wore that Christmas day when my childhood ended

TW : eating disorder, suicide attempt, abuse

In my phone
There’s a contact name that’s just swear words
The occasional bad bad word that I can say in therapy but don’t in public
And it’s my mom’s contact name
I changed it after our 1millionth fight
Right before I left for uni
Because she called me fat
And at the time I was five months sober of my eating disorder
Maybe sober isn’t the right word but whatever
And my brain snaps
I scream and cry
She screams back at me
I call her “fat” back because I’m mad
And I spend the night sobbing
I even call my abusive dad who chose to leave therapy because he thinks he’s getting better
He hasn’t left his girlfriend who restricted food from me yet so, are you sure Dad?
And he tries the whole facetime while I audibly cry to not sound mean about her
And I thank him for trying in my head
Because my mom only refers to him as slurs or Satan
I eat the entire cake she got me in the fridge the next day
Before even noon
I feel bad immediately after but at least she can’t have any
And then I’m suddenly jealous that she didn’t have any
So no weight gain
I drink two cups of iced coffee with that extra calorie Starbucks syrup
And then my sister gets me Popeyes
She gets me this after yelling at our mother
Because we don’t really talk that much openly
But we both have our own scars from her words
Mine developed into eating disorders, cuts on my legs, and just general mental illness
Hers just developed into being a rock solid wall
When my mom comes home and sees me eating
She takes a bite

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up
I walked up the creaky stairs and made myself coffee
My favorite Dunkin Donuts cup, filled to the top with ice, coffee left out from the night before, and chocolate milk
I wiped the coffee off the counter and filled the dishwasher
I added salt to my avocado with eggs and toast
I sluggishly made my bed
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love
Not with the girl I talk to everyday on my phone
Or the grocer who always smiled extra long at me
I fell in love with my mother as she sat in my room,
Looking through each notebook, looking for all the signs
Dusting off the rainbow flag I never took out of it's packaging
I fell in love with my brother, who worked desperately at the construction site,
Making new things as he tried to forget I wasn’t there to say “How was work?"
When he comes home
I fell in love with my niece,
Texting my friends what happened,
Crying in the same room we laughed and had sleepovers in
I watched the family dogs,
Who pointed their nose when squirrels run past
I saw the empty space in Stella’s eyes
When she jumped on my bed to snuggle and there was nothing under the covers
I saw the coldness in Maple's heart as she searched and searched my room for me
How Mama cuddled into the blankets, waiting for me
I stood by as she protected my Mom during walks, just as she used to do for me
I picked the purple flowers and some dandelions on the side of the house
And put them where I used to sit in the woods
The morning after I killed myself, I stayed up all night to watch the sun come up
The morning after I killed myself, I went to the morgue and gazed at that body
Wondered if death was truly worth it
I carefully touched all the scars, all the markings no one ever saw but us
I told him about the avocado toast, the friends, the dogs, the woods, and his family
I told him about the sunsets and the brother and the warm blankets
The morning after I killed myself, I cried and cried

I mention me being in therapy during my Gender & Women's Studies Class zoom
And there's silence
A very long silence that leaves me wondering 'are people judging?' 'are people piting me?'

There's no good answer

My teacher changes the subject and I'm left feeling guilty
For wanting to get better
For wanting to stop hurting myself
For wanting to understand why my parents abused me

I wonder how many teachers wonder what I do when I turn off my microphone and camera during zoom
I'm not checking my phone or I'm camera shy
I'm crying in the basement
No one upstairs in the house can hear me
No one in class can see or hear me

We're in small groups now
I fear people can tell I was crying
There's another silence
And this time it's sadder than the one before

My friend 'it's okay i go to therapy too'
I say 'i know'
I'm left wondering why no one said anything
Why there was a hushed silence?
Why was I supposed to feel guilt for something that's not my fault?
That's never been my fault?

Do you know what it's like to be left alone in love?
Do you know what it's like to feel stuck in love?
Do you know what it's like to be too depressed?
Do you know what it's like to have to beg for forever from your family who neglects your identity?
Do you know what it's like to lose everything?
Do you know what it's like to wait?
Do you know that I will never be too near or too far away?
Honestly, I'm still waiting for closure.
Do you know how it feels to constantly chase memories?
Do you know I've got miles of scars no one's ever seen?
And an appetite.
And a sweet tooth.

I was born on December 19th at about 11:43 pm.
I've never been able to tell if I'm being insulted or complimented.
I can get away with blaming my indecisiveness on being me.
I'm 5'5. I weigh who knows how much.
I'm scared of my mom.
I'm a real sucker for people with dimples and comfy leggings with giant pockets.
I can't drive.
I like iced coffee and writing poetry more than the oxygen I need to survive.
I have strange fascinations with things like ratted, old Converse and the shape of my self-made scars.
They remind me that everything is temporary, but the pain stays.
I assume this is why I'm obsessed with drawing my scars as different things: stars, trees, a new poem.
I watch the sunset from a hammock every night.
Sometimes, I ask myself why so much of my time is invested in things that are only temporary and hope they come back.
I'm afraid of heights but not falling and I often wonder if I would survive stepping off a cliff's edge.
I also wonder what my clothes whisper about me now that I've left the closet.
I spent so long hiding amongst the skeletons that hung there that I'm not sure how to appear alive anymore.
I get called a number of things, both good and bad, but my name is Taron.
I'm clumsy.
I don't laugh easily.
I enjoy Korean music and strawberry yogurt.
My hobbies include avoiding love, vandalizing people's thoughts with my anxiety, and coming up with masks, I mean metaphors.
I have 1,154 followers on Twitter.
I can't think of anything to say to them that actually matters.
I knew that, right now, I am in both heaven and hell.
I know that Google shows 2.8 million results how to tie a nose for hanging yourself.
I know that I haven't become anything yet but i have an entire box of unfinished poems.
This is only a draft copy of myself.
I am not done writing just yet.

I love love though it's hard to put that into loving myself
I love the Netflix movies that everyone hates, Irish Breakfast tea, how potato chips taste so good
I love the shade of blue called Prussian and singing in the shower and Paul Rudd
I love "The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel" and how ******* amazing everyone about it is: the plot, the cinematography, the music
I want to write about love because I come from a generation where if I identity as aroace, that means I am a robot who can't feel anything
I love sunsets and how hard it is not to fall in love with sunsets
Other people should love too
Fall in love with Mother Nature and her child the Earth instead
Fall in love with the water that feels cool no matter what season
Fall in love with the air that helps us all breathe and doesn't get mad if it gets left on read
Fall in love with the moon because it will always be there every night to say "hello" and won't leave you on read
Fall in love with the people learning how to love themselves and remind them that you'll be there to tell them each reason why your dimples appear when you think of them
How do you not love, I often wonder
I love that my friends know they can lean on my shoulder and just cry and I will be there to give them ice cream, hot tea, and pats on the back
I love that my therapist knows just what I need in a bad mood or in one of our more sad conversations
I love that the friends I made in college understands what it means to be afraid of me in your life and how hard it is to let someone touch you
I love how awesome it is when you finally figure out what you do
I love that my therapist agree that dysphoria is a scientific word, not a gender identity