I wants had many friends,
I was social and Popular,
Life was good didn't think it would change,
One day I woke up and nothing was the same,
That's when it all happened and started to begin,
I lost my control and don't know why,
33 years old,
feeling  like I'd rather die,
no more control,
It interferes in my life,
the soul begins to rip out my chest,
my soul I'm dying inside,
Day to day,
Week to week,
Month after month,
I hide in the shadows,
They begin to fade,
I hope not to see another day,
I no longer can work hardly go anywhere,
When will this stop I hate feeling so scared,
Only leaving the room for appointments cause I hate being anywhere,
Everyday is pretty much the same,
When I go somewhere I put myself through all the shame,
I start my journey along the streets,
Walking to the bus I hold my breath deep,
Knowing what will happen,
I try not to fuss,
Keeping myself together,
In my mind that's a must,
Oh I can feel it,
It's starting to creep,
I don't want to cry because no more attention I want from anyone's eye's,
I get on the bus I sit in a chair,
Before you know it people start to stare,
Got my hoodie over my head,
My hat turndown tight,
Trying to hide myself,
These feelings aren't right,
I can't take the embarrassment of showing my face,
Hoping nobody will remember me being in this place,
Some people might stand up and move away,
My presence is hard to bare cause i know,
I feel it everywhere,
Can't really blame them if they move to another chair,
But that's when I know It's another one of those days,
I just look down hoping This will all just go away,
My destination is getting near,
I can see it from here,
I began to stand up and it's obviously
clear,
I don't look back at seat,
Afraid someone might say something
to make me feel more incomplete,
I have a mental illness,
How could this be,
I've always been normal,
Never was there anything wrong with me,
Triple diagnosis that wasn't me,
High anxiety psychosis
schizophrenia,
How could this be,
I was the one that people wanted around,
Now I  definitely can't be found,
The phone use to ring all the time,
Now it doesn't even make a sound,
I can't even walk into a store without my anxiety starting a war,
My sweat starts to drip right to the floor,
My shirt is soaked,
My hoodie is too,
Along with my pants,
I don't know what to do,
It's like I fell into a lake,
Or wet my pants,
Sometimes i wonder if that's even a chance,
So I live my life alone and sad,
Can't be around people and this make's me mad,
I'm a  prisoner locked up in my own space,
Wishing that one day I'll wake up and this won't be the case,
I want my life back,
I want my wish to come true,
I want to be me again,
oh how I wish this would just come true.

I have my moments,
That's what I say to hide my embarrassment.
I hate it when I get caught when I have a blank look.
It gives away my disability,
My diagnosis.
It is a symptom,
But it's bliss,
For a moment there's nothing,
No feelings,
No pain,
No thoughts,
Emptiness that consumes my entire being.
Oh the bliss, my sweet paradise
*My symptom

I lay, I thought, dying.
You lay beside me, not letting me.
When I could not form a word,
You knew instinctively what I needed.
I looked at you through clouded vision,
Yet somehow I could see with perfect clarity how much you loved me.
You inspired me, to live, despite the diagnosis.
I can't say thank you enough.
I only hope time gives me enough of itself to allow me to try.

graduated *** laude
with a PhD in madness,
practitioner of your
  own philosophy as
    a harbinger of doom,
tales of darkness where
the deck is always stacked,
what's the sense of light
   to a harsh night
or spring's flourish
   to winter's brashness,
you don't need to be
      a rocket scientist
    to diagnose absurdity

I can rise to any daily challenge,
Except the diagnosis;
Then the days of respite
Are scripted,
The scales are tipped
To measure meaning.

     Yesterday I felt the pressure
     Of my father's hand
     While I wed the garden;
     Never thinking I'd long
     For those days.

Memories fade cool.
First, I wonder,
Then, I ponder,
Now I worry.

     I've read
     The Death of Ivan Ilych,
     I know It.

I'll give traitors
A sneering reprieve,
Dismiss,
Turn my back,
Breathe between the particles
Of a middle-class life,
Then languish
Between your clean eyes.
Will you miss Christmas
This year?
Am I asking too soon
About fewer rooms?

I don't think I'm depressed.
I don't feel sad.
I don't feel anything.

can you ***** my finger and measure the dopamine in my veins? collect my teardrops and tell me if i'm going to be okay? can you light up the darkness with magical pills?
decide if i'm too sad to go to school?
can you tell me if i'm just being melodramatic? measure my blood pressure, maybe that will work. write me a prescription for 5 Happy Days in a row, and 3 hugs from Someone I Love.

doctor, doctor
i'm not feeling well today
doctor, doctor
i don't know if i should stay

sadness isn't a sickness, but it's infected my mind. can you write me some antibiotics to get them out in time?

sadness isn't sickness, but i think i might've caught something from doing a little too much of Having No Friends. don't you know how much i've been Laying In Bed?
sadness isn't sickness, but i think i'm coming down

doctor, doctor
i've got a severe case of the I Don't Want To Lives
can you write me a prescription?
make it go away?

doctor, doctor
you've let me down this time
doctor, doctor
i'm not in my prime

can you tell that i'm not healthy?
'cause i don't think you can
oh, sadness isn't sickness,
but it's fatal,
if all goes according to plan

When she told me- I didn't know how to respond.
Ask questions. Learn more. Be proactive.
I felt my lips move, speaking, asking, pretending I knew
what I was really saying.
It was as if I didn't want to her to get off the phone.
I was scared.
It was odd that she didn't sound comforting.
Is she delivering a prediction of a death sentence?
What is the proper response to that?
I kept asking her what it all meant.
So vague and indiscernible.
She told me to take care of myself.
I guess I'm not doing that already?
Who do I talk to after this?
I don't want pity or concern.
I just want feeling
like my stomach acid is proceeding
to consume every other internal *****
I could ever muster keeping
to go away.
I know I shouldn't worry.
There are people out there without limbs.
Worrying wallflower.
Worrying won't wish wondering away.
Let me deflect.
I can write about it and pretend
that I never did want to live past ten.