My Grace - a poem about mental health

Mental illness is a whirling cyclone of messes, often wrongly labeled,
and self diagnosed. Often, too often perhaps, often enough that so many,
including myself, have trudged along thinking we were broken, or are broken
depending on what level of the trek you are on. Fitting then, to have revelation,
an epiphany, eventually, to what is bothering you, truly. Truly, a descriptor
of truth, my truth, some others truth, but that you are broken, and you cannot
always control every aspect that you wish you had.

There are methods to fix the bits and pieces, and to oil cogs that turn,
continuously, grinding and causing mayhem afresh in the mind.
The simplest of these methods is admittance,and it works wonders
to be able to say it aloud, to yourself, to admit that something
out of your control has been chipping away at what could be considered normal.
It works in a number of ways. Ways that we don't always grasp at first, addictions,
trauma, they work in ways much similar, where you must admit to your problem,
must accept that I have irrational fears that whisper like shadows in the dark,
but not ominously, just self-defeating, but it cannot all be fixed with a pill,
but for me that helped. Medication, that at first makes the process seem fickle,
but later blooms into clarity, and an understanding that something imbalanced
inside has been righted, and that it wasn't all just a product of my attitude.

The cyclone can be made furious by the wrong people in your life,
the ones who take no responsibility, and choose not to understand that you
have an issue, or do not take actions to settle accusations. It is not an excuse
to behave that way, but it is also unfortunate that some people don't recognize
the weakness infused in the problem, and will hammer away at the chips
on the gears, cracking them further. This is why understanding, and communication
are so important, true and real understanding. Someone to bear witness to struggles,
and see that you are doing your best. Social anxiety, and depression are my illnesses,
but they do not control me. Once upon a time I may have removed myself
to a place of utter self-loathing, believing the matter damaged, and me, broken,
beyond repair broken. Simple truths emerged recently, truths that I knew because I'd
researched enough for myself. A simple truth that I recognize my illness from my true self,
and that I have people, and a person who I can confide in, and who sees me,

and recognizes the residue of my illness. We must be grateful for these people,
for they will put up with the matter, and we should not judge them for feeling hurt
when our problem becomes apparent, and should they run, which they tell you they won't,
we must understand that we must work harder to mend ourselves, and not lay the burden
squarely on their feet. I know me, I know my true self, and i know the issues of irrationality
that can come to square off with me, that is a giant step, to admit that you are broken,
but functional, and to be big enough to go for help, and to be big enough not to excuse
your actions, and to be grateful enough to accept grace. Always be grateful for grace,
and never taken it for granted. I never take my grace for granted.