My mom wanted to blame my hallucinations on the crime shows I'd been watching
but I didn't have the guts to tell her it wasn't them I was hearing,
it was her.
It was always her.
From the moment she told me I should kill myself already
to the moment she tried kicking me out a few days before I left for college-
all I could hear was her voice,
taunting me,
destroying me.
I used to run a lot,
thought that it was the only way to stop thinking,
the only way to ignore my anxiety,
the only way I'd ever prepare to escape.
I used to run,
even after my ankles were swollen,
even when I accidentally twisted them,
even after falling and scraping my knees.
Even when I was bleeding,
I would run.
I thought I deserved to feel pain
because I couldn't gather the courage to kill myself,
the way I was certain everybody around me wanted me to.
When I first heard my mother's voice,
she told me she hated me.
She told me I was a mistake,
something she wished she could replace,
something she got stuck with and now could only use to clean up other messes.
I wanted to die
but was living for people I was sure hated me
because some days they convinced me they needed me.
I was confused
because why did sometimes they love me
and sometimes they despise me
and sometimes they didn't know who I was?
Nobody expects their kid to have hallucinations,
but when they do end up having them,
there's nothing they can do.
They can't save them or wake them up,
they can't snap them out of it,
they can't say it'll all be okay,
because everything is a lie in side that kid's mind
and how the hell are we supposed to know if you're real?
YOU ARE READING
To Be Mentally Ill
PoetryPoetry and songs that stems from trauma and mental illness. Could be triggering. Read at your own risk.
