My insides are worn thin. Raw. From all the running ’round,
Doing all the things. Everything.
My body is worn thin, from doing all the things.
I cannot go. I cannot do.
I must just BE. BE must be enough for me.
I will BE.
Like a tree, I will root myself to the ground.
I will be solid. Heavy. I will move sway by sway and leaf by leaf. I will be. I will be, like a tree.
I will exist. I will continue to be.
August 21, 2019 — I wrote this poem as I began to recover from an extended manic phase. The anxiety and insomnia is the worn thin part. I lost five pounds because I had no appetite and no ability to sit still and rest. Resting was uncomfortable. It wore me thin, the mania. More than a month later, I can remember how my lungs felt raw. How the tension clung to my temples. Existing, then, was a challenge. Minutes raced or stretched out. I decided, in that moment and every moment after, to be. I’m proud.