In moments of passion and deep thought
Through hours of writing, not a moment was caught
Not a second wasted, not a breath in vain
Yet misunderstood, labeled with disdain
When the world saw ‘manic,’ you felt just fine
In your own rhythm, in your own design
Emotions ran deep, your spirit soared high
Yet judged by standards that couldn’t apply
In sadness, in disagreement, you stood your ground
Mis constructed by those who couldn’t astound
You were imply you, a complex symphony
Unfathomed by those who failed to truly see
She struggled to grasp the essence within
You, a universe of thoughts and emotions akin
Misunderstood, but nor denied by her view
For you were always you, authentic and true
I’ve talked before about how my mother used to tell me I was manic or depressive simply for being me. I struggled with insomnia for most my life. I haven’t had a problem with sleep over the past 5 years. I get tired easily, and wake up an actual morning person. My insomnia was due to her, and my traumatic life. However, I was manic, to her, and she would tell my doctors that. If I was up writing all night, I was always manic. Leaving out the fact that maybe my creativity just hits at that time, but whatever. If I shed a tear, I was depressed. Do you get the picture? My mother couldn’t handle my emotions, because she couldn’t handle her own. My emotions were severe, because she designed them that way. She never healed from her own personal trauma, and the fact that her own mother didn’t have the emotional capacity for her, either. I still struggle to this day, to not feel crazy, manic, and out of control when I achieve something, or when I feel content even. Always waiting for the shoe to drop, to be forced into psychiatry, to be put on meds I don’t need, despite the ever-changing positivity in my life.
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