The Perfect Storm












You would think I'm the perfect girl

I have the perfect grades, perfect smile, perfect personality to prove it

My reality is far from perfect

I have always been a worrier

A “self-diagnosed hypochondriac”

Who knew that a book, a test, a project, and a drug could turn that worry

Into dread.


The cyclical thoughts begin

My mind is sucked in to the whirlpool of existential questions

“Why am I here?”

“Are we all just living to die?”

“What is beyond our planet and all of those stars up in the sky?”

A simple look at the moon

Reduces me to tears

Next comes the sweaty palms and feet

My body begins to shake

Breathing is hard



I go through my life surrounded by a bubble that disconnects me from the rest of the world

My mind has created a living hell and I feel like there is no way out

The little blue pill takes away the anxiety,

But I no longer have motivation

And my memories become blurry.


The therapist tells me that God has brought me to her for a reason

That he knew what I needed and he is going to heal me through her

She is certain that we all have a purpose on this Earth

I am doubtful.


My thoughts persist and they tire me

But I will not allow myself to give up on life

It is a funny situation

I fear death, and yet I sometimes wonder if it would be better than this

I know that it wouldn’t

And so I see the therapist once every two weeks

And I take the little blue pill

And I try.


I am not better yet, but I soon will be.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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