They threaten to define my entire being.

Major Depressive Disorder.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Inattentive Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.

“Disorder.” 

As if to say, 

“This is what is wrong with you.”

~

I’m not like other people.

My brain works overtime—

Spinning and spiraling,

Like a tornado desperate to destroy everything in its path.

~

Labels.

Mentally ill.

504.

Lazy. 

Sticky notes slapped on my skin,

Layering like the tasks they hand me.

They blur together,

A collage of what the world has decided I am. 

~

I’m not like other people.

They don’t see the way I love too deeply,

How I feel everything all at once.

They don’t hear the way my thoughts 

Ping-pong back and forth,

Restless, electric, alive.

But they call it broken.

They call it a disorder.

~

Still—

Beneath the noise is something steady:

A pulse,

A rhythm that doesn’t need fixing.

Just like everybody else.

~

Labels.

I’ve stopped trying to peel them off.

Maybe healing isn’t erasing the labels,

But learning to live with their echoes.

Maybe the noise will never fade.

Maybe I’ll never feel like everyone else. 

But maybe that’s still enough.