The Funeral Procession

The following is a poem about my depression, OCD, and anxiety disorder on its worst days. It may appear dramatic, but these feelings can be very real for all those who relate to having a mental illness. Some days will be good while others will be bad, but healing isn't linear! Writing out these cloudy thoughts has helped me to release a lot of pent up emotion that I have been storing. Ultimately, I hope my readers can find solace in these words too, and that they know they are not alone.

____________________________________________

There is always a black hearse that pulls into my neighborhood, every Monday.

It drops me off at my house, just before the start of the week ahead.

My emotions are laying in the back, and my brain is prepared to go through the same cycle of grief once again.

There's the shock and denial that I am by myself, and that my health is swirling around in a pool of numbers to rank its intensity.

When I sense the hearse coming to a halt, I feel pain. The black paint glistens as I try to choke out why I am crying.

I scroll through instagram, feeling anger at how I went through the motions of school.

I did everything in life I was told to, but I am still looking at it from the outside in.

Why do others get to return to my home in Chicago, but I can't?

Why am I stuck reliving the same processes, and unable to move?

I feel jealousy.

The lawn encourages me to turn into a sea of the same forest green earth in which I plant my wilting flowers.

The exact same flower petals that get thrown at the tombstones of my old neurons shedding.

When I let go of the anger, I realize that I am very small.

Holes that I thought were covered with black duct tape come undone, and I am leaking everywhere.

The bed welcomes me back in, and I remember how I have mastered the art of silence while draining.

The upward streak is when I convince myself that I need a partner to get through my trials. They usually laugh, they listen, and they seem hopeful.

Grief is supposed to mend into acceptance and hope, but my imagination doesn't always do that.

When others would get tired of me and dinner dates go sour, the true skin of my sadness reaches out a hand.

But, they don't reach for it.

I know I must figure things out alone, and somehow do so with ease. But the hearse doesn't stop coming.

Grabbing the box of tissues from the driver, I feel an endless funeral procession.