Flow of Thought

         The thought of losing discourages me. The constant anxiety overwhelms my body and I don't know where to turn to. My mind is fragile and all I can think about is what could and didn't happen. My leg shakes like an old trailer house next to railroad tracks and I think it's the stress my mind produces trying to escape me like a bad memory. They say there's always someone who has it worse but where is the line drawn? My medications sound like a Nirvana song and I can smell the gun powder. How am I suppose to live when I have to pay to stay alive? Medication isn't free but it's the first recommendation you get from a psychiatrist. You're told to be honest with the doctor but if you are they lock you up and treat you like a prisoner and surround you with stress. Some guy who works for minimum wage tells you to calm down or you'll be sent to the third floor where the man who bit another patients thumb off is. The doctor will only see you for five minutes each day and will never look you in the eye or take you serious because the complaints of broken minds has left his empathy numb. Everybody acts so surprised when they find out someone they know is depressed and they treat them like an attention whore and ask them why didn't you say something before. We said something with our body language. We said something by backing out of plans. We said something by not doing the activities we once loved. We said something by not saying anything at all. It's not that you never saw it coming, it's that you didn't want to believe it. My anxiety disorder started when I was in the fifth grade. I was thin as a rail and still sucked in my stomach because I thought I was fat. I was bullied everyday and when I told my mom I was having thoughts of suicide she told me I didn't even know what it meant. When I told my dad he said he would send me to a mental asylum if I kept talking like that. Eight years later while my dad was yelling at me telling me I was a worthless punk who wouldn't amount to anything I cried. He kept probing telling me I wasn't a man, saying I would never be. That's when I grabbed a knife and cut my arm open while looking him in the eye. If he couldn't understand my pain I was going to let him see it. Then he beat me senseless. As I sit crying with blood everywhere he said "Why are you doing this to me you dumb motherfucker?" He brought me to the ER and told me to tell them we were roofing and I cut it on some tin. He said if I told them what He did that He'd make sure I was sent to a mental hospital. So I lied for the only dad I have. It's been four years since that happened but it still feels fresh on my mind. My mom wants the best for me but doesn't know how to help. Anytime I have a disagreement with her she makes me feel guilty by bringing up all the things I didn't do for her and won't listen when I tell her all the things I have done for her.