I’m Lewis, a perfectly imperfect human, like you. Just wrote a poem I would love to share I thought of it in the bath and wanted to get I down on paper. Wondered if others would relate to it or find it useful. I don’t often do things like this but thought it worthwhile. I don’t really have a description for it just leave it for whole ever reads it to interpret it how they would like.
What’s your diagnosis?
Well, going to work, you may call it depression.
On my way home, I’m feeling good-maybe too good, so call it mania.
Since these are extremes, maybe bipolar.
All this indecision and maybes is a course for anxiety.
At night I dream, I see, hear, feel what others do not, which can happen in the day—a daydream, maybe?
No, must be psychosis, and if I carry on, schizophrenia for me.
Best get to a service; may obtain PTSD.
Back in time, I would eat at night, for it was a struggle to be me.
Though it has stopped, I guess you would still say I’m a binge-eating disorderer, because once it’s there, it’s there for life.
Right?
So what is my diagnosis?
Seems to be the classic case of a perfectly imperfect human.
I call it me.
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Mad in the UK hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.