Depression Is Not a Fever

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is an original poem that I worked extremely hard on.

Submitted: August 27, 2018

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Submitted: August 27, 2018



Depression is not a fever,
It’s not something that can be whisked away with pills,
Or alleviated with the stroke of a physician’s pen, advising me to wait it out, and get some rest.
It isn’t something that repairs with given time,
It’s an undiagnosed disease that lasts for a lifetime.
Though it would be welcoming for all the voices in my head,
who attempt to convince me I’m better off dead,
To simply dissolve under the influence of a prescribed controlled substance.
Yeah, it would nice. But life doesn’t work that way.
I have uncontrollable anger mixed with heart-wrenching pain,
when I gather up the endurance, it’s too difficult to explain
without being labeled legally insane.
So I’ve kept solely to myself,
until I realized I needed help.
With every hour that God allows to pass, it’s getting exhausting to hide,
all the emotions I’ve managed to build up inside.
My feelings are invisible to those around me,
hidden behind the forced crayon smile upon my face,
stashed underneath the deceitful pretenses which protrude from my lips.
I was trained as an expert to carry my burdens alone,
so I could repair myself in solitude, not allowing any one person to know,
however doing so has morphed my once vulnerable heart to pure stone.
When I awake from my sleep in the evening, and work my own nine to five,
I seem to function like the average human being, but I can’t say I feel alive.
Like a walking android, analyzing the social normalities among my peers,
furthering my concrete belief that I distance myself from sanity, rather than drawing me near.
I bear witness to these interactions, between random strangers,
the darkness enters my mind, reassuring me I don’t possess whatever ability these souls were granted,
and this is my destined path, from the beginning to the end.
I remain lost with the emotions within my head,
bad thoughts running through till the early a.m.
And then, I will try to sleep.
I never grounded the ability to tell anyone,
I’m so scared they’ll get up and they will run,
so I choose not to speak.
I do miss the times when I was younger,
the days seemed to be so much funner,
weren't they? I honestly can’t remember.
And, oh, I would love to book an appointment,
but it’ll just be yet another disappointment ,
I’ve been there before, they’re all the same.
When the doctor says “you’re fine,
take one in the morning, and one at night,
these pills will help you remember how to smile.”
But what can he possibly know?
Everyone around me always tells me I’m alright,
cause the doctor will always say “I’m fine,”
treating this monster that lies within me like a stomach virus,
when in reality it’s a parasite devouring me from the inside out.
My own mind likes to lie to me,
they all say it’s just some simple anxiety,
However I believe, that it’s just me.
I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost so many years,
my worn pillow acting as a tissue for my tears,
that no one ever sees.
I imagine a world where I could talk to a doctor,
but he doesn’t care about me,
he gets to go home to his perfect family.
Why is it, that no one can see,
I’m not the man I wish I could be?

© Copyright 2018 Andrew Patterson. All rights reserved.

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