People assume you aren’t sick
unless they see the sickness on your skin
like scars forming a map of all the ways you’re hurting.
-Emm Roy, The First Step
What is mental illness? Would words describe it? Would medicine heal it? Would we finally understand it?
“Talk.” They say. Therapy will help. Relax more. Eat well. Sleep well. Pray even. Huh. Have we figured anything out, really?
Trapped, in a dysfunctional pattern.
Cold bodies and empty souls.
It feels like a cage, most times. Like I’m trapped in my own mind, and there is no escape. It’s dark, and it’s cold, inside my mind.
I fight within, to live. A losing battle. And my will is not as strong as it used to be. I’m learning to let go, more. Heard it’s the way to go. Seeking peace, heard she was locked up in a cell too.
I’m shelving it, bottling my feelings up. It’s messy when they’re all over. And now I’m suffocating. I try to find air, to breathe. But this hell in a loop!
I’ve not seen the light, in many days. My best of 365 days lasted for 4 days. It felt perfect. I smiled and lived, for the 4 days. I was free, before I was back in a cage. Self-made. “anthem of my life.”
I’m trapped, in a dysfunctional pattern, and I don’t know what freedom feels like anymore.
Benson Langat is a poet, fiction writer, and freelancer. A dreamer, he realizes a world of possibilities through stories and explores life in poetry. Benie is a dad and lives in Nairobi, Kenya.