Under Construction

Sometimes, I feel as if my anxiety is trying to build neighborhoods in my empty stomach.
Anxiety does not deserve to make homes in my gut;
after all, I never placed a welcome mat on my tongue.
The pathway from my throat to my belly remains closed for construction,
but for years, I have been unable to say “stop” to the scaffolding that made my anxiety stronger.
I am paralyzed in this village of unease.

Sometimes, I feel as if my depression is attempting to create interstates in my racing brain.
Depression does not have the right to construct roads in my nervous system;
not to mention, I never invited such pain to pave over the hope in my head.
The imbalanced chemicals that control my emotions cause traffic jams,
and for months, I have been stuck on an endless route to nowhere.
I am immobilized on this highway of unhappiness.

There are road maps that are constantly changing without my consent,
and there are houses that are being built— trapped in cement.
It’s like my mental disorders are stuck on cruise control,
and no matter how many times I press the brake, they won’t deaccelerate.

Yet somehow, in the midst of manufactured chaos,
I am embracing the architecture that has been arranged,
turning it into a home for my health
an interstate for positivity.
I am working to open the roadways
finish the residences,
so comfort can compose commands for my mind to follow.
Maybe one day,
I will sustain a society of satisfaction,
despite my disorders.

Poem by Dharma Gilley
Edited and filmed by Rachel Searcey

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