He cocked his head. “What kind of mentally ill?”
The kind that puts mush in your head and lead in your bones.
The kind that cuts your skin into ribbons and leaves you dripping blood.
The kind that has you rolling on the floor singing children’s songs.
The kind that keeps you awake.
The kind that makes you sleep.
The kind that is terrified of life as a concept.
The kind that is lazy.
The kind that hates you for everything you do.
The kind that has you wandering through the forest at midnight,
that has you in fear of leaving your room.
That makes you listen at doors.
Muffle your footsteps.
Hide your face.
The kind that makes you scream,
That punishes you for every word you say.
The kind that whips you, cuts you, hits you.
The kind that makes you run so it can catch you,
hide so it can find you,
give so it can take away.
It leads you to the end with a trail of bread crumbs.
“So… what’s your diagnosis?” he said.
I told him, smiling.
But I know better.
I am me.
And I am mentally ill.