I have read countless stories
About beautiful girls
With mental illnesses
And they cry and they are beautiful,
and yet they still laugh sometimes,
and their world is made
to look so glamorous
It’s so romantic,
to see a beautiful girl,
shattered at the wrists,
and she hates herself,
but not really.
Because when I became depressed,
It was not beautiful,
And I especially wasn’t either.
When I became depressed,
I wore the same sweatshirt to school,
three weeks in a row.
I convinced myself,
that I could not get out of bed,
or my feet would shatter upon hitting the floor,
and sometimes,
I felt that I couldn’t breathe.
My friends thought that my illness was special,
that it made me mysterious,
and that I was something beautiful and broken,
My dad told me,
Calm down,
It’s all in your head.
Of course it is,
I don’t want it there,
Get it out of there.
And the stigma was the worst,
I felt that I could tell nobody.
Of all the terrible thoughts that plagued my mind,
Because I was taught that I would get labeled,
And that I’m a psycho,
And to keep it to myself that I take pills to be happy,
I was taught that people in the psych ward are loony,
and that they can’t think for themselves,
that they go in the room with padded walls,
and they never come out.
I need more representation,
of the so called ‘psychos’
because we are stronger than you think we are.
They think they know us,
They think they can put us in a dark corner,
and forget that we plague the human race.
But we are all around,
One in four people is mentally ill.
We are your brothers and sisters,
classmates, friends.
And we are not crazy.
baratheonpilled
kianamaiart
