Note: I was challenged to describe a mental illness to someone who does not suffer from one. As I suffer from anxiety, this was the result.

The only thing that I can tell you is that you fall.

Perhaps you watch yourself fall

Onto a palette, dissolve into paint,

Into a stroke, into childhood’s mindset,

Dividing toys into the little compartments of your mind,

Try to count down and stay calm.

Other days, there is nothing but a pit, and you

Don’t even get to start out on your feet,

Have the dignity of a proper fall

And you find yourself solid and yet slipping

Into the watery land, the crashing earth, and you are

Sucked

Into

Oblivion

That

Disappears Under fingernails

As you claw your way to safety.

(At least...you try.)

At least the surface is smooth,

Rolling like a marble bowling ball,

Its impact about the same

As you crash into the screw up you surely

are.

And then you

p

l

u

n

g

e.

Just because you can.

And on the nice days, only your words slip,

be it off a page,

or out of your mind.

The panic sets in slow those days,

and you are only expected to fade.

Push yourself up, and move in place.

In your head, your imagery is eloquent.

From your mouth, it’s gibberish

that no one can hear.