I sit with myself

In uncomfortable silence

The held back screaming

Ringing in my ears

Tears running down my face

Again.  This is tiresome.

Should have bought stock in Kleenex


All of my demons

All of my insecurities

Have come out to play today

Mocking me with their laughter


Their taunting voices

Sing-song in my head


“Shit mother

Shit wife

Shit niece

Shit cousin

Shit friend

Shit human being”


Over and over again

An endless loop

Of recrimination


My personal demons

Remind me

That on days like this

I can’t even remember who

I am anymore

I don’t know

What is even mine to claim

I am no one

I am pain


I read an essay right before Christmas

Calling for compassion

For those “poor unfortunate souls”

Who are depressed over the holidays

Who engage in self-harm

Who may have contemplated suicide

She referred to them as “damaged”

My hackles went up

“Only I get to call me damaged, lady,”

I wanted to angrily respond


Only I get to define the frantic dance my neural

Synapses have been engaging in

For the last six months

No one else gets to name my crazy for me

No one gets to pity me

Not even me

Especially not me


If there are awards being given out

For running on sheer will

And stubbornness this past year

I have got to assume that I am

At least on the nomination list

You will find my name under “Cyclothymia”






Categories: Poetry

Tagged as: , , ,


  1. I appreciate that. I just caught myself saying the wrong thing this past weekend with a random poet across the globe. In an effort to be PC you can also be demeaning and invalidating, despite everything I know. Everything, EVERYTHING, is relative and based on your own perspective. Speed of light to mental health… and everything in between.

    Liked by 1 person

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