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Mental Illness Makes My Mind an Attic


I decided today,
My mind is like an attic.
Everything is in here,
Somewhere.
There is not enough natural light to see,
But if you have the right torch
And balance it just so,
You flood the room.

But sometimes you can’t find the torch,
Or the batteries are flat.
Sometimes there is nowhere for it to stand,
Or it gets knocked over.
And there are bogeymen.
Mostly at night.
I can handle bats, mice, spiders.
But the opaque?

Sometimes the dust and cobwebs are cleared,
Just for a few hours.
It is still gloomy and disorganized,
But I can breathe and move more freely.
Slowly, the items are arranging themselves.
But they can be thrown or knocked
Or magically shift,
At any time.

My mind is like an attic.
Because it has depression.
Anxiety.
PTSD.
When I moved in it was already worn,
Occupied. Second hand stuff.
I’ve continued to fill it since.
And all the while I try to clear it, clean it.
Reach the window to let in more light.
It is an endless fight.
Especially with those bogeymen.

This story will not finish here.
I don’t know when it will.
Hopefully, in many years,
On a sunny day,
My attic will be clean and bright.
Organized.
Not in an accident outwitted by opaque.
Not tripping over, then eaten by rats.
Not locked in and starved.
If I disappear, please knock on my door.
Bring me into the light.

Come into my attic.
You will find treasures here.
Things to laugh at.
And the bogeymen and dark
Won’t seem so real.
So fearsome,
With you by my side.
We can make shadow puppets,
And climb to the window.
Maybe there is a view.
We’ll never know – I’ll never know –
Without trying.

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Thinkstock photo via lolostock.