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About 4 years ago, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. I took my prescribed medication and it helped tremendously. My panic attacks and other symptoms mostly went away and I felt so much better. Except when it came to my writing. My mental health was great, but my creative muscle was numb.
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I was a child
The day I was destroyed
My solitude shining like a beacon
A glittery target on my back
Her smile is brittle
The strain grows apparent
Exhaustion peeks through the iron facade
Alternately stronger than steel
And fragile as gossamer wings
A poem that asks, “What if I wasn’t abused? Who would I be now?”
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Summer. It's a time when people are outside, basking in the sunlight. Summer barbecues, pool parties, random games of touch-football. People socializing, laughing, having a good time. And then there's me, hating every minute of it and counting down the minutes until fall.
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The rational side of my brain knows that there's nothing to fear. But the other side of my brain is under siege. It's trying to get the fuck out of there and doesn't care what kind of special reasoning you have. My heart pounds so fiercely that I can feel it reverberating in my throat.
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