A Different Kind of Sick

I’m sorry, I️ can’t go out with you today


Because I’m sick, is what I️ say

It’s easier to tell a half truth, then explain why

I️ am sick

But my sickness isn’t a fever in my head causing a heaviness that restricts me to my bed

My sickness is my head,

clouding my mind in a fog so deep I️ can’t tell up from down

I️ can’t tell where I’ve been, or what I’ve done, or what I’m going to do

My sickness is a heaviness that restricts me to my bed,

but the heaviness is so empty and so hopeless and so without end that there is no point in trying to lift it

My sickness isn’t physical

It isn’t physical until I️ make it physical,

until I️ take the pain of all the horrors in my brain and spread it across my skin in a tragic, terrible display of art

As a way to control the panic overwhelming me,

as a way to feel past the numbness inside me,

as a way of balance and control

My sickness doesn’t equate to a lack of appetite, in fact I️ am starving,

but I️ will not eat, I️ will not allow myself that terrible privilege

My sickness does not cause people to stay away for fear of catching it,

and yet I️ haven’t seen a soul since I’ve been stuck inside this dark pit

Not that a soul could help me with soup or tea,

but wouldn’t it be nice if they’d simply ask about me

My sickness fills my every waking moment so I️ choose not to be awake,

but every time I️ start to fall asleep I️ begin to shake, because I️ am afraid of what comes when I️ wake

My sickness is so tragic, and endless, and alone, that the things I️ love make me weary down to my very bones

With no end in sight, none that can be seen, the temptation creeps in,

a desire to make my own end

My sickness is depression

This is what it has done to me


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