They define me.

I am the scars they view as flaws on my body.

I am unstable. I am psychotic.

 

They define me.

I am my attempts and trips to the hospital.

I am my medication. I am my disease.

 

They don’t understand.

I am not my problems in any way.

I am not my illness.

 

They don’t understand.

Just like an individual with diabetes, I am sick.

I can be helped just as anyone else can.

 

They want to shame me.

I am not a terrible person.

I am not defined as the imbalance in my mind.

 

If they could look past what is said to be “wrong” with me

they would know

that I am sweet. I am caring. I am silly. I am wise.

I am so much more than my illness.

 

Those around me cannot degrade me for an uncontrollable circumstance.

Mental illness is not a joke, but it is not a definition.

It is not different in any sense from

diabetes or autism.

It is not a choice. It is chosen just as one chooses their skin color.

 

They cannot define me.

I am not a flaw.

I am not insane.

I am not different from anyone else in this world.