deepundergroundpoetry.com
Not A Disability
I do not have a disability.
I am not disabled.
So I feel when I collect my money from the state every beginning of the month.
When there are people with bum legs.
And no arms.
People with messed up hands, feet and other limbs.
If I say I collect disability.
At the age of nineteen.
People will look at me with that confused expression.
That glazed over look in their eyes.
The question bubbling up from their throat, and burning a hole through their tongue.
"Why?"
Because I am depressed.
Because I am paranoid.
Because I am afraid of people and being social.
Because I have panic attacks.
Because I cut myself.
Because I wanted to die.
"That's a not a disability, you're just taking money from the state so you don't have to work."
I can't work in place.
With people.
And rules.
And regulations.
My mind wanders and I look for places to hide.
That's why I dropped out of school.
And for the longest time stayed inside of a hotel room and cried.
What people don't know is that I do work.
I write.
But that's not a job.
Not until you get published.
And what if you don't?
What if you don't get published?
What do you fall back on?
It's always a possibility hanging above my head.
If I don't get published.
And don't make a name.
Than I am just taking money from the state.
And so I write about sadness.
And dreams.
And fictions.
Girls who are hopeless in love with Love.
And girls who would rather hide from ever being tricked again.
Fantasy stories of a heroine from another world.
And haunted houses with vengeful ghosts waiting to be heard.
These character haunt me and their stories are as real as my own.
But the depression comes over me.
And everything I write is sad.
And dark.
And mournful.
That I might as well bury the ink pen in the ground.
And burn the pages in the night.
Because the characters lives cannot be written if my mind is not right.
And I do not live in the outside world.
And see things like other people do.
I hide from being social.
And get scared too easily.
That when it comes to writing I don't know how.
My imagination gets stifled and I feel like I'm choking on a toxic poison.
Infecting my heart & soul.
But I am disabled.
Because it cannot be seen.
The scared girl, rocking back and forth among the books in Wal-Mart because I cannot find my mother, boyfriend and baby. Because they have left me and as many times as I pace back and forth around the store. I cannot seem to find them. And so I curl up the ground, my heart beating hard in my chest, and tears on the brink of being shed.
But I am not disabled.
When all I want to do is lie in bed. And when the razors ginger marks don't hurt, but the accidental paper cut does.
I am not disabled.
Because a character on a TV show is alone, I tune into his sadness and now I am alone as well. Standing under a permanent rain cloud while my family awaits me in the sun that I can never seem to find.
I am not disabled.
I am not disabled.
Just collecting money from the state.
Don't need medication.
Don't need therapy.
Don't need my therapy pet.
Take it all away.
Just leave me.
I am not disabled.
Just fine, numb, dead & cold.
But those are just words.
Feelings inside of my brain.
Because the brain cannot be sick.
And a person's mental state cannot be corrupt.
Ask my high school?
They'll tell you all about it.
How I was forced to drop out.
Because I left, skipped & ditched.
Because I told them I was social phobic.
That's not real.
Stop self-diagnosing yourself.
And when I get a real diagnosis, I'm lying through my teeth.
Just too lazy to work.
And want to collect money from the state.
Because I am not disabled.
Right?
For the "Invisible Chronic Illness" Competition.
I am not disabled.
So I feel when I collect my money from the state every beginning of the month.
When there are people with bum legs.
And no arms.
People with messed up hands, feet and other limbs.
If I say I collect disability.
At the age of nineteen.
People will look at me with that confused expression.
That glazed over look in their eyes.
The question bubbling up from their throat, and burning a hole through their tongue.
"Why?"
Because I am depressed.
Because I am paranoid.
Because I am afraid of people and being social.
Because I have panic attacks.
Because I cut myself.
Because I wanted to die.
"That's a not a disability, you're just taking money from the state so you don't have to work."
I can't work in place.
With people.
And rules.
And regulations.
My mind wanders and I look for places to hide.
That's why I dropped out of school.
And for the longest time stayed inside of a hotel room and cried.
What people don't know is that I do work.
I write.
But that's not a job.
Not until you get published.
And what if you don't?
What if you don't get published?
What do you fall back on?
It's always a possibility hanging above my head.
If I don't get published.
And don't make a name.
Than I am just taking money from the state.
And so I write about sadness.
And dreams.
And fictions.
Girls who are hopeless in love with Love.
And girls who would rather hide from ever being tricked again.
Fantasy stories of a heroine from another world.
And haunted houses with vengeful ghosts waiting to be heard.
These character haunt me and their stories are as real as my own.
But the depression comes over me.
And everything I write is sad.
And dark.
And mournful.
That I might as well bury the ink pen in the ground.
And burn the pages in the night.
Because the characters lives cannot be written if my mind is not right.
And I do not live in the outside world.
And see things like other people do.
I hide from being social.
And get scared too easily.
That when it comes to writing I don't know how.
My imagination gets stifled and I feel like I'm choking on a toxic poison.
Infecting my heart & soul.
But I am disabled.
Because it cannot be seen.
The scared girl, rocking back and forth among the books in Wal-Mart because I cannot find my mother, boyfriend and baby. Because they have left me and as many times as I pace back and forth around the store. I cannot seem to find them. And so I curl up the ground, my heart beating hard in my chest, and tears on the brink of being shed.
But I am not disabled.
When all I want to do is lie in bed. And when the razors ginger marks don't hurt, but the accidental paper cut does.
I am not disabled.
Because a character on a TV show is alone, I tune into his sadness and now I am alone as well. Standing under a permanent rain cloud while my family awaits me in the sun that I can never seem to find.
I am not disabled.
I am not disabled.
Just collecting money from the state.
Don't need medication.
Don't need therapy.
Don't need my therapy pet.
Take it all away.
Just leave me.
I am not disabled.
Just fine, numb, dead & cold.
But those are just words.
Feelings inside of my brain.
Because the brain cannot be sick.
And a person's mental state cannot be corrupt.
Ask my high school?
They'll tell you all about it.
How I was forced to drop out.
Because I left, skipped & ditched.
Because I told them I was social phobic.
That's not real.
Stop self-diagnosing yourself.
And when I get a real diagnosis, I'm lying through my teeth.
Just too lazy to work.
And want to collect money from the state.
Because I am not disabled.
Right?
For the "Invisible Chronic Illness" Competition.
Published 9th Jun 2013
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