Poems

Play, Pause, Stop

"My psychologist tells me to allocate Worry Time. 20 minutes to write everything down. Then let it go.
She laughs and says "Do you have 20 minutes of content in your head?"
I laugh because I have hours.
She asks if I'll try it.
I say yes. One part because I'm sure she is sick of not finding solutions and one part because I want to go home.
But now that I'm home I'm not sure where to schedule my Worry Time.
Do I have it when I wake up and I can't get out of bed or do I wait until the first time I look in the mirror.
Or when I'm standing in the kitchen trying to decide what to have for breakfast.
Or if I should have breakfast.
Maybe when my wardrobe holds nothing that makes me look skinnier. Maybe the second time I look in the mirror. Or the third.
Or the seventh time I check my wallet is in my bag or the fourth and fifth time I look in the mirror.
Or when I'm walking down the street trying to remember whether I locked the front door.
Maybe when I drop my ticket on the crowded train or when I walk up the main street at rush hour.
Maybe when I walk into class or when I have to answer the tutor's question.
No I'm gonna save it for the stranger who sits next to me on the train ride home and the list of assignments in my bag.
Or the phone call I can't answer and the excuse I can't think of for why I can't go out on Saturday night.
Or when my sister comes home and I remember my second inpatient stint drove her to her own therapy sessions. She is laced with anxiety.
Or dinner time.
Homework time.
Midnight. When I can hear my sister crying in her bedroom.
She craves sleep. This isn't her scheduled Worry Time.
Because it doesn't work like that.
Mental illness doesn't come with a pause button.
Depression didn't give me the day off on my sister's birthday.
Anorexia didn't let me finish my ballet exams.
Anxiety didn't wait for the end of the school year.
There is no time sheet.
Because if there was. We all would've punched in "0 hours" years ago."

-Erin Donohue