Happy Pills pt. 2 ( an answer)
It isn't as though I want to be depressive.
it is a sea of waves to tide through.
It is devestation to depend on little white capsules
to feel half way normal
(what is normal?)
to feel, healthy, sane, alive.
Why take the pills, you ask?
My depression is like going through the motions
Macanically robotic, living in black and white film
where nothing is real
(happy pills are like Dorothy stepping into the land of Oz,
colors bright for the first time)
So why not the pills?
I don't want to be just a documented lable on an elvauation sheet,
locked away in a filing cabnet somewhere, and never talked about, now that the drugs
equal dollor signs, after they fill out perscription pads so I can appear to smile again.
So why take them?
<p>I also don't want to be the ball chain, with the anxiety shackled to me as my only friend. Crying in the dark of lonliness, but unable to share, praying for someone, anyone to notice I'm that girl in the corner blending in with the wallpaper flowers.
(they told me I was just shy)
Its hard to speak when the words won't form.<br>
Lips wont move, because the mind is numb, stuck like super glue -
Mouth is dry, hands shake, palms are sweaty, skin crawls, nausea forms,
I'm filled with boredom and exhilaration synonymously;
numbness, irritation, heart beats like a wild creature, face is red, breathing hard.
(I'm going crazy; I'm gonna die; No. It's just a panic attack)
I have to escape, to flee, to get out to run; but I can't move
Remember I'm trapped in that too tight sweater,
only solution, it seems, would be to shed the skin.
Anxiety smothers me.
(and they said I was just shy)
Tears run down my cheecks, nausea in my stomach, vomit in the tolite, gripping tightly, knuckles white, too dizzy to stand but really nothing gravitates me.
The panic momontarily passes
but soon i blend back into wallpaper flowers.
Its hard to make friends,
When you cant talk.
Oh sure, the brain wants to but the message it sends the body, might as well be scrambled eggs.
Lips won't seem to move, like a locked iron gate
trapped inside with millions of overlapping thoughts
One after the other
and if some how, some way, I were to speak them,<br>
No one would understand
Or at least that's what the message sends.
the quiet girl
The paranoid one
Who sits in her room, with music, writing poems, no one reads
(I feel like a lunitic)
lapping up my own afflictions.
A trick deck of cards, mirror image, all the faces point at me and laugh.
I am the joker
So Why Depressed?
I don't know.
I thought we all were.
( they told me it's normal)
Why anxious? Mixed up chemicals, I suppose.
(Just a little gun shy)
(why happy pills? Labels suck.)
But labels might lead to a straight path,
A path to victory, meaning this war is real,
that its not just all in my head.
With a lable,
(depression, anxiety,social phobia)
Im not just crazy, or fake, it might just finally mean something.
It means the pain is fucking real.
(C) 2018 A.N.M