I've got monsters in my head
They say they want my life to end
I fight back, I call them enemies
But sometimes they're my allies
We share the same thoughts
Hold the same point of view
I should really call them friend

They remind me of my mistakes
They say it's the biggest part of me
I fight them on the outside
But inwardly I admit
I wholeheartedly agree

My monster friends are so kind
they offer a solution to my problem
They suggest I end it all
They give me means to do so
And assure me it's for the best
They tell me repeatedly no-one else will mind

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️

Red was the color of the water
when I jumped into a river
that was too shallow for me to dive into.

In those short 5 seconds,
I soared through the winds.
The air pressure nearly enough to rip me to shreds.

Those 5 seconds when my skin peeled off from my back,
I grew wings.

They lit on fire,
and I burned with them,
and it was almost soothing.

The pain was a reminder that
I was alive,
even if it was only for 5 short seconds.

In the brink of death,
I felt the most alive I had in years.

I don't know if it was the wind
or the fact that I was burning.
But in those five seconds,
I was a human.
Something I had been alienated from my whole life.

I was dead before I hit the gravel.
My body twisted in all types of different directions,
and when the police found me,
they had already pronounced me as deceased.

Imagine

Having an illness that impacts every facet of your life.

It’s there when you wake up, and when you go to sleep,

An illness that impacts all of your organs.

That ravages your personality and sense of self.

That destroys relationships, careers, and engagement in life...

And nobody supports you.

-

You are ridiculed, blamed. Told that you are stupid, need to snap out of it.

Others gossip about how you’ve been looking and acting.

You become bathed in shame so suffocating, it nearly drowns you.

Treatment is a long, arduous battle that many face on their own. Many are forced to keep up with work or school because this isn’t seen as a “real” illness. But you are essentially fighting yourself through the process. In fact, many can't even afford proper treatment.

If you don’t recover, the shame persists. You believe you’re defective and failed treatment, that it’s all your fault.

If you recover, nobody rings a bell. Few congratulate you or say much at all. Many who recover hit burn out, and are then questioned as to why they are burnt out.

The shame never escapes you.

I hope one day
Individuals with mental illness
Will be able to celebrate wins and have others support them in their low points
As if it is a completely normal and expected reaction.

Please support those near and dear
They are fighting a battle most would fear.

Actually
Aching
Endlessly
Making
Stories up
Maybe
I'm a sick..baby

i don’t need to glow up.
i need to grow in.
deeper roots,
kinder thoughts,
a life that feels like mine.

- M

She wakes up at 3:17 every morning.

The hallway lights flicker on, the cockroaches crawl back to their spots.
Floors creak, glass shatters, and the scares are unleashed when she starts to trot.
In the distance, she listens for something there, or maybe not.
Creating a flickering mess, she’ll leave everything to rot
Continuing to explore, she stumbles on a heater, noting it's red-hot.
Why? She doesn’t know. How? She doesn’t know. Where? She doesn’t know.

Beneath the floors, a creeping plot.
There is a dragging sound, perhaps a rusted knot.
Dangerous beings hiding below, their faces all distraught.
She breathes heavily and groans as the shadows take her spot.
Something takes her, screams, fighting a battle she already fought.
Why? She doesn’t know. How? She doesn’t know. Where? She doesn’t know.

Maybe it was the medicines, the traumas, or the sudden drop
From the roof down to the floors, no way she could have been caught.
If only it were the help that she sought.
She searched for a meaning, but always forgot.
A lifetime in silence and twisted thought, it looks like time has stopped.
No joy, no light, and certainly no second shot.
It was she who gave herself to that final spot.
Why? She didn’t know. How? She didn’t know. Where? She didn’t know.

She woke up at 3:17 every morning.

There are days
That are good.
The yelling
is minimal.
The food is eaten.
Arguments
are
but
a
spoonful
             and there is
                  very
                    little
                       crying.

Then there are
days like today.
When you
              yourself
                 don't feel too well.
                    the doctor gives two days
                      of sick leave.

At 4:30
My little autism
walks through
the door.
With smiles,
taking his clothes off
to jump in the pool.
            It only takes a second
            to change the
            whole atmosphere.
            The once smiles
            are now full of tears.
     and no matter what it is
I'm feeling that all gets bashed
against a wall.
Along with my
anxiety it's the splash back
        blue paint down the hall.
                         You see.
                          even as
                          an adult
                          I have
                          trouble.
                         Digesting
                         my own
                         emotions.
       He paces back and forth
       clenches his fingers.
        back
        and
        forth.
        Back
        and
        forth.
    How do I expect my young son
        with autism to tell
me what the root
issue of his tears stem from.
             I was ready to
smash my face
through bricks.
              The repetitive
              questioning,
              repetition of words
             can be a lot even
             for a nut such as myself.

But it's not about me
you,
or my fiance
hearing it all.
It's not even about the fly
crawling on my leg.
               It's about him
               everything has to be.
               Who else is going to
               turn the rain on
               at night for him to sleep?
               Who's going to rub
               his little back to soothe his
               blue nerves to be
               green again?
               And who will receive a
               freshly picked flower
               each afternoon?
                
                        Me.

He finally felt better
once he got the words
out of his belly.
Telling me what provoked
these extreme outbursts.
           I was so proud of him.
        
Now it's," look at that cute cloud."
"Hey, check out my shadow!"
a freshly
plucked
flower.
With autism,
a bipolar mommy
and the sun—

Getting ready
to
nap.

it's easy to say time heals all wounds,
when every barren branch blooms again in spring,
when every new chick is taken under a safe wing.

but time is yet to wake me from my eternal winter sleep.

i still lay, unmoving, in my barren keep.

even bears leave me behind,
a permanent fixture in their den,
"maybe time will wake him next spring,"
they say, now and then.

the forest whispers above my head,
calling to the last absentee,
but i am no tree,
and spring does not speak to me.

You see,
The first evidence we have
Of anything we could quantify
As being akin to surgery
Are fossil records
Of skulls baring marks
Which indicate tool usage.
These marks from simple holes
Driven into these skulls,
Likely made to try & deal with the mind
Or some ailment of the brain.
Thoughts, "evil spirits."

But, one must ask,
"From where did they get these ideas?"

The woodpecker?
The first surgeon?