Recovered?

Recovered?

The symptoms have diminished,

Yet the feelings are still there.

Everyone thinks I’m better,

But I still need to know they care.

 

I continue fighting myself,

Each and every day I go through hell.

Happiness equals losing weight.

Dear God, am I ever going to be well?

 

A part of me clings to the symptoms,

As if to assure myself something is wrong.

Why am I so different than everyone else?

Why don’t I feel like I belong?

 

The other part of me wants to get better.

Yet I can’t give up on my dream.

It’s the only thing I’m living for,

No matter how dangerous it may seem.

 

6/26/1985

(17 years old)

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