It is easiest to believe lies
When they are wrapped in the package of success,
Topped with a bow of apparent self-confidence,
And sprinkled with a healthy dose of humor.
It is so easy to say,
That I used to be sick.
That I’ve grown,
And I’ve learned,
And the meds work.
And I feel like myself.
People will believe anything
When the alternative is something
That is too confusing to accept.
Some days I feel sick.
Some days I feel amazing.
Most days, I do not know the difference.
I am not a story of a manic pixie dream girl,
I will not meet a boy who teaches me how to eat,
And how to think,
And how to love myself.
There is no inspirational music—
Streaming through the background of my life.
When will people realize that being okay
Has never been more complicated?
When will I realize—
That eating is not being cured,
That being successful is not being healthy,
That ignoring thoughts doesn’t mean that they’re gone.
That just because my being suicidal
Is just an intrusive thought
From my lovely friend OCD,
It doesn’t mean it’s not there.
That just because I eat,
I can’t ignore the fact
That the variety of things I will willingly consume,
Contains less items than most two year olds.
That being good at math,
Does not mean I need to count so much—
That my life cannot be quantified.
No matter how hard I try.
I am not okay.
I keep waiting for people to wake up,
And to notice it,
But half the time I don’t even notice myself.
I can’t keep expecting people
To realize my problems for me.
I’m stuck in between
Okay and confused,
Compulsive and controlled,
Happy and who knows what.
But I don’t know.
And I can’t know.
So I drink another coffee.
And I move on with it.
And nothing is going to get better
Before I let it get worse.
Before I finally figure out
How I’m supposed to let myself feel things.