Annie, Are You Okay?

I need to talk about my defective brain from the imaginary A&E inside my head that makes this a perfectly acceptable illness.  Acceptable enough to go to a doctor with and seek emergency medical care and receive some sort of understanding and kindness for the lack of control I have over my mind. 

Can you stop telling me that it will be okay when it gets worse as more time passes? Can you not look at me in disbelief and tell me to change? Can you not tell me I’m imagining things? I have been broken for a long time and if I could change my thoughts, if I could swap my brain for a shiny new one believe that I would in a second, even if it meant forgetting all twenty eight years of memories I would exchange it for a happier rest of my life and make brand new memories with no suffering or struggle to fit into a world that believes the facade.

I sit sometimes opposite my partner and think of his need to have children of his own, but I can’t have them, I refuse. What if they turn out like me? What if I hurt them, becoming a terrible neglectful mother, too ill to get out of bed to take care of them, who would understand? Nobody. They would take them away from me because I don’t know what the next day will bring, I cannot predict myself, I have no control, and not one single person will understand it.

The hospital bed in my mind is calming, it deludes me into thinking that somebody would care about my invisible affliction, that there is a cure. If I were to break down and cry in the street people would come to me, ask me if I’m okay then leave believing my lie but who can look into my eyes and see that I’m not fine? Who can save my body from my mind when it tells me it wants to die?

The world is dressed in scrubs walking around me, they can’t see the problem, they don’t know how this feels and I am my invisible illness. Paint a smile on, leave the room, lock the door behind you.

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