You utter it gently, but
your eyes are accusing
when you say, “you can 
swallow your problems in a pill and
watch them dissolve
in your stomach.”

I know what you really mean–
that I’m taking the easy way out, 
that I’m cheating at life, that you have
real problems. 

Because standing in the kitchen for half
an hour with a jar of peanut butter in my 
hand, counting numbers in my mind and
debating whether to eat
is stupid. 

Because skipping my best friend’s birthday
party because I can’t breathe
in large crowds
is dramatic. 

Because having to write down everything
on a piece of paper before talking to
someone on the phone is just me being
a perfectionist.

Because making someone else order
for me at Subway since I am overwhelmed
by the options– because I can feel the people behind
me in line drilling their eyes into 
my skull, is me
being shy.

Because when I’m having a panic
attack and I choke out, “I can’t breathe,”
I’m being emotional.

Because when I am down and
I can’t figure out why, I’m 
being distant and cold. 

Because mental illness isn’t
real. Because I’m just 
weak. Because struggling with 
what you take for granted every day
isn’t a big deal. 

Every day I must teach
myself to walk, when everyone around
me is running. 
I must learn to quiet
the earthquake in my throat when
my voice shakes. 
I must learn to brush off
the darts you spit
at me. 

You say I am weak,
and for so long I believed it. 
But I am learning my own
strength.