My tapping foot, a metronome for the orchestra of panic. Crashing symbols, and climbing scales singing in my veins.
My scratching pencil, quietly parading through the margins of my notebook. The thin led, a daunting dam holding back an ocean consisting of fearful creatures and dangerous emotions.
Toxic thoughts shackle my feet, immobilizing any opportunity for advancement. Digging burning blisters into my ankles, as I continue taking steps forward.
Stress comes in collapsing waves. Eating away the shore one grain at a time. Eventually devouring the home that once stood with a widows peak towards the moon.
Depression is broken fingers. Shattered from digging out of my own grave. Clawing towards daylight just to spit on the scripture below my name.
My mental illness is many things. It is everything and nothing. My greatest strength, and greatest weakness.
I am many things. I am courageously strong, and innocently vulnerable. Brilliantly naive.
I am not my mental illness.