One day they will understand.
They will know why I stayed in my room,
and why I tugged on my long sleeves in the spring.
I was raised in a home where mental illness was a plague
that would never reach our beloved walls.
I was told that our unconditional love was good enough,
that others had it worse,
that there was no reason for me to feel so sad.
I loved my parents so much in spite of their blindness
that I kept my pain a secret.
And they might understand why I am sensitive or anxious
or why I cry too much.
But they will never know
that I used to think about my dad being empty-handed down the aisle.
They can never understand that their loving daughter
used to dread the morning smell of mom’s breakfast
because it reminded her that another painful day was about to begin.
And so as I continue to grow and get better,
maybe one day they will hear me and finally
understand my mental health.
But honestly, how can they understand
that their “love” was merely medicine
and not a vaccine for my plague?
