Dear future  mental illness, 

 

The thought of your presence frightens me, 

It keeps me up at night, 

Propels my heart into frenzy,

And strikes me with all might. 

 

The person who I claim to be, 

Could possibly be no more, 

Alas, this is my desperate plea,

To end this un-fought war. 

 

Whom am I to make such a plea, that others too have made?

That I shall be spared from it, but to which a price my mother paid?

 

You lurk, and observe me, 

The person that I am, 

You work on a new reality,

That would force me to be damned.

 

You wield an unsettling  fate, 

A path I will not to follow,

A place that’s not worth the wait, 

A place that leaves one feeling hallow.

 

Mental illness, you tore away my childhood,

You stole away my mother, 

And yet, there I stood,

As you continued to smother.

 

I am not the only one, 

Who endured those lonely nights,

Who prayed for the sun, 

To chase away the frights. 

 

I heard my mother’s whispers,

I heard my mother’s cries, 

I saw her burn a picture of us, 

And I saw her tell us lies. 

 

You’re cold and heartless,

You prey on the inherently good,

You turn them into a mess,

You make them misunderstood.

 

The blame is your own.

Claim it with pride. 

Our sadness your throne.

Our future you hide. 

 

Future Mental Illness,

 

You will not define me. 

I am NOT  your slave!

I am, who I’m meant to be.

I will be til my grave.

 

Dear Future Mental Illness,

 

You. Are. Nothing. 

 

Sincerely, 

 

Edith González