Another morning with tears and sunshine, reads the day’s journal entry,
along with a quiet warning to keep my feelings close to the vest.
The propensity to over share about my mental fragility
can always be counted on to come back to haunt me.
The threat from my youth of a “mark on your permanent record”
Seems to have followed me into adulthood.
I know that they have the best of intentions
All those that would save me in spite of myself.
Their unbidden appearance, not in response to any cry for help
reminds me they are always watching.
My writing, when not paralyzed by depression is a way of coping,
But honesty on line or to the therapist is likely to end badly
If you read the news, a wellness check by the local police
Is as likely to get you shot, as earn you a trip to the hospital
Even Facebook is watching, eager to help
and put you on a list for future scrutiny.
So, I write in my journal where it’s safe to say
I really don’t understand why I want to be alive anymore
And in the real world I drop subtle hints about where
My mind is really dwelling.
So, if I don’t survive they can go back a read
The truth about it.