Blossom by Ashleigh

To be beautiful.
What is that?
What does that mean?
Size two, toned, tan, and ready and waiting
Ready for what?
Waiting for who?
The prince charming promised in all my movies, all my books
All my stories growing up
How could I find a prince, when the only man I had known with that much respect
and love for me was gone?
After my father’s death, I froze.
Tearless, rock solid,
A hard exterior, that became a crutch
And, I stumbled through, day in and day out hiding my grief with the façade of

The memories of his last day.

My habits to cope with his absence.

By the society in which I lived.

And then a breakthrough! An opening to a world I had never known was possible.



“You’re sick,” they said
“You’re tired,” they insisted
Love. More love than I had ever known, or felt greeted me every minute of every day.
A spiritual awakening. A door to another dimension.

A door slammed shut. Locked up.

“Try this pill, it will make you feel better”
Body stiffening, hive producing,
“Ok, so that didn’t work, we’re going to try this one”

Crazy. Mad.
Wild. And angry.
Lonely. Reliant. Desperate.
Desperate for a friend. For an ally, for a chance.
Desperate for someone to hear me, to see me, the real me.
The real me that was being punished for not fitting in their box.
Their size two, toned, tan, ready and waiting, fucking box.

You cannot box me up.
You cannot hush me up.
You cannot fuck me up.

And I don’t want to.

Because I am resilient.
I can be labeled, but my anxiety, my bipolar, my mood disorder, my eating disorder,
my depression and my experience have led to this:

I am a gift.

And understanding this: I can label me too, and I choose a flower,
blossomed into the season of my life in which I thrive despite the odds.

And the odds are, I am ready
To be me.
To live for me
To love for me, whoever that may be.


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Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.


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