I Wasnt Sick Until They Told Me I Was

I Wasnt Sick Until They Told Me I Was

I Wasn’t Sick Until They Told Me I Was
I walked in scared, not broken—not yet,
Just shaking in places I hadn’t titled regret.
They said, “You’re safe now. You’ve been through hell,”
Then labeled my silence like a product to sell.
They gave me a folder with a barcode and a tag,
Said my sadness had shape, said my thoughts were a flag.
They smiled like saints while they checked off a list,
And turned my confusion into something they could twist.
I wasn’t sick—not in the way they mean,
I was grieving. I was quiet. I was something in between.
But they needed a title, a reason to sede,
So they diagnosed the ache and carved it into fe.
I wasn’t sick until they told me I was,
Until the diagnosis gave my sorrow a cause.
And now I take the pills just to play the part,
Of the pient they imagined when they charted my heart.
I started to forget what I felt before,
Before they locked my title behind that file drawer.
Now every word I speak tastes pre-approved,
Like I’m playing a script I can’t remove.
They asked if I still hear the voice inside,
And I said yes—since I had nothing else to hide.
But that was all they needed, all they required—
One “yes” and the trements never expired.
I wasn’t sick until they gave me a title,
Until they labeled my hurt and blamed the flame.
Now I’m a number, a chart, a line they recite—
And I’ve started to wonder if they just might be right.
Sometimes I say I feel better just to see them smile,
Even when the truth’s been missing for a while.
Since it’s easier to fake than to break their plan,
Easier to swallow than to stand.
So now I nod. I take the pills. I breathe on cue.
I speak in words I no longer choose.
Since maybe the lie becomes the skin.
When you’ve been told enough that it lives within.
I wasn’t sick until they told me I was—
But now I breathe diagnosis since.
So file me under “stabilized,” mark me “clear,”
And keep me mediced until I disappear.