A Conversation

So, my mental illnesses and I are talking
in my head,
and it looks like one of those therapy-based support groups.
I’m sitting in the middle since it’s my turn to go.
They all have their outfits.
Autism wears the third new outfit that day,
bright and mismatched but so very me,
rocking slightly in their chair, hands fidgeting with the hem.
ADHD is pacing, barefoot,
their oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder,
an iced espresso cup in one hand,
a notebook in the other,
filled with half-finished ideas they’ll never revisit.
Dyscalculia is sitting cross-legged on the floor,
surrounded by a scatter of receipts and numbers
they can’t quite make sense of,
their face scrunched in frustration as they doodle
to forget how lost they feel.
C-PTSD sits stiffly in the corner,
wearing what I wore on the worst day of my life,
their eyes darting like they’re waiting for the floor to crack open
and swallow us whole.
Eating Disorder lounges on the edge of the group,
clutching an empty plate like a trophy,
their oversized hoodie swallowing them,
a smirk on their face that hides the ache underneath.
Sertraline is there, too,
sitting quietly off to the side,
wearing scrubs like a patient nurse,
passing me a glass of water and a small yellow pill.
They don’t say much,
but their presence feels steady, grounding,
a whisper that says, “Keep going.”
ADHD blurts out, “We’ve got so much to do!”
Their words overlap with Autism’s,
who mutters, “Can we just do one thing at a time? Please?”
Dyscalculia groans, “Do we have to do anything involving numbers?
I’ll mess it up again—I always do.”
C-PTSD doesn’t speak, but the weight of their silence is deafening,
a constant reminder of the shadows we carry.
5
Eating Disorder pipes up, their voice sharp and sly,
“We should skip dinner tonight. You don’t really need it, do you?”
Their words cut, but Sertraline catches my gaze,
steady as ever, reminding me to breathe.
And me?
I sit in the middle,
the only one without an outfit,
holding all their voices like tangled threads.
“Maybe,” I say, though my voice shakes,
“maybe we don’t have to figure it all out today.
Maybe the fact that we’re here,
talking, breathing, existing,
is enough.”
The room doesn’t fall silent—
it never does—
but for a moment, it feels lighter.
And I think,
maybe I’ll make it through another day.