Every beginning is weak.

Every step forwards leave me catching my breath.

This is a diagnosis for the weak.

Handling every day life has become a mission I set forth to concur.

I stand with the crowd.

I wish I had courage to stand alone.

This is a diagnosis for the weak.

It's always the loud ones with the dirty hands that point the fingers.

My anxiety has become a wet match.

I've got no flame.

This is a diagnosis for the weak.

I came.

I faught.

I was captured.

This is a diagnosis for the weak.

Normal was just an illusion I wore.

Anxiety was my clothing.

Depression was my dinner.

This is a diagnosis for the weak.

One year with a diagnosis and four pills a day did nothing to cure the bullies.

One year of torment did nothing to stop the pain.

This was a diagnosis for the weak..

Except..

I still cared.

I still cried.

I ran and I laughed and I smiled when everything was shattering apart.

This wasn't a diagnosis for the weak.

It was evidence.

Evidence to show struggle and strength and how I had the amazing ability to continue living with it.

This was a diagnosis for the Strong.