Bad Poetry

[Reflections]

I started poetry as a celebration, of how far I'd come. It wasn't just the destination, it had been a good journey.

I had turned my life around. I was finally proud of my past. I had conquered my anxiety and had control of my attachment issues. Through hard work I'd achieved great things. From being myself I'd met amazing people.

I wanted to share my story. It's not the best, or the worst, it's just me. I wanted to open up, share my emotions with those I trust. Through anonymity I could be heard.

But now I sit here, hating my life, hating myself. I'm doing the best I've ever done. I have a house, a high salary job, I'm free to do what I want. But this isn't the life I want.

These last few months, my mental health has slipped. I shut down, afraid to talk, and put on a brave face to those I saw. I'd be lying to say I've not cried, deep in to the night, wishing for it all to end. This isn't new, this isn't the first time. I learnt to hide it well. Even those who have done the same, never noticed my pain.

After all the nights I've spent, taking on people's problems, cheering them up and giving them hope. I'm still alone to face my demons, an impossible fight with myself.

I'm not sure how my story ends. Whose story do I become?