Sometimes I miss being sick

“What do you mean sick?”

The worst part of me wishes I had stayed
In the familiarity of being numb

“How can you be numb in your head”

And everything the opposite of recovery

“Recovery from what? There's nothing wrong with you”

Where there was nothing to laugh about
But there was plenty to write about

“Write About what you're making up?”

I consider myself recovered

“From what?”

(Usually but high school is fucking hard)
Yet I still write about all of it in present tense

‘It never existed, how can you STILL write about it present tense”

But sometimes I don't want to write about it anymore

“Good, you're cured then right?”

Embarrassed instead of proud
Because I've done some crazy things for this

“Oh, like what? The things you make up for your stories?”

When someone else makes a casual joke about mental illnesses and depression
The scoreboard lights up in my head
Trying to compete again

“The scoreboard for what?”

For how much I let myself struggle before I drag myself back out
For how many times I push things off until someone else does them for me
For all the times that I claimed to have a cold to have gotten no sleep
For people who say ignorant things
For everyone that doesn't get it, that I'm too afraid to say anything too
For everything else, that's overlooked but since I'm hiding inside of myself I see it

“Oh, wow. I never thought of it like that.”
“ What exactly do you see through?”

I see the people that look genuinely happy to you
But when they turn around, you see their smile falter for a split second
You can see the struggle in their eyes

“Do I know someone like that?”

You know more people “like that” than you think

“Hmmmmm…. okay..”


People who like me, who Band-aids make them nostalgic
For The love, we used to have

“Make you nostalgic for what?”

I don't know how to talk about this
Without inviting you down with me
Without letting you join me in the spiral

“What if I want to see what the spirals like?”
You don't want to.

When recovery is no longer yoga mats and pills
It's hard work
“What's hard work?”

Not wanting to die is hard work
The therapy sessions are hard work

“Oh, I'm sorry?”

And not wanting to die isn't the same as wanting to return to where I used to be
In the worst of my depression

“I am sorry”
So body forgive me
“I hope it does, I'm sorry I doubted you.”



A Note From the Author:
I wrote a general idea of this poem, based on one of my favorite spoken word poets, Blythe Baird as an assignment for my English class. (Although I do have an interest in poetry outside of class.) In class, my teacher reviewed that first draft poem with me and she suggested that I should o verse by verse of what someone with depression would say verse some that doesn't have it. I kinda took that idea and created my own with someone that doesn't believe in depression and they can be read separately or together, to get all perspectives. I hope you enjoy.