They don't understand that I want to be productive, but crippling anxiety holds me as a hostage every morning. They don't understand that I want to get up, but the feeling of impending doom disguised as butterflies holds me down.

My parents don't understand my mental illness.

They don't understand that my constant trade between limitless euphoria and agonizing misery are not just mood swings. It's mania and depression fighting a perpetual battle in my head.

My parents don't understand my mental illness.

They don't understand that my room isn't a mess because I'm too lazy to clean it, my room is a mess because when depression wins the battle, he strips away any ounce of energy or motivation I could've had to do so.

My parents don't understand my mental illness.

They don't understand that I don't sleep all day because I stay up all night. I sleep all day because sometimes it is better to feel nothing than to feel everything at once.

My parents don't understand my mental illness.

They don't understand that my mind is always racing at a speed faster than my body could ever reach.

My parents don't understand my mental illness, but neither do I.