I’ve had eight months that should’ve come with a warning,
not a little bad patch or some character forming.
The sort of months that sit on your chest,
then ask why you’re not breathing your best.
My daughter got groomed through Roblox,
a kid’s game, for fuck’s sake.
I had to learn how evil gets WiFi,
and how fast a parent can shake.
Then work kicked off, so I opened my mouth,
because someone had to say what was wrong.
Funny how truth makes you difficult,
when you’ve been useful for too long.
Relationships cracked, people walked,
some left quiet, some left loud.
And I stood there trying to act normal,
while bits of me fell through the crowd.
Then I unmasked, not by choice,
life ripped it clean off my face.
All the noise I’d kept boxed up for years
came charging out the place.
CPTSD from being a kid,
that old shit with brand new teeth.
Turns out if you bury pain deep enough,
it still learns how to breathe.
Then my brother died by suicide,
and the world just kept moving along.
I had to write his eulogy,
stand there, speak, and somehow stay strong.
I gave him my words at his funeral,
with my chest held shut by thread.
Trying to honour the brother I loved,
while my brain screamed, he’s dead.
Then came burnout, proper burnout,
not tired, not lazy, not weak.
The kind where your body still answers,
but your mind can barely speak.
Blackouts started joining the party,
because apparently life wanted more.
As if grief, trauma and pressure
hadn’t already kicked down the door.
Then the genetic test was wrong,
what a laugh, what a twist.
Turns out I do carry the family jackpot,
cardiomyopathy on the list.
So ADHD meds got complicated,
because my brain needs slowing down.
But my heart’s sat there like, careful mate,
we’re already close to town.
I held it all in for months,
because that’s what I’ve always done.
Smile on, head down, carry the load,
pretend the bastard thing weighs none.
Waiting for EMDR like a lifeboat,
while the sea kept filling my chest.
Everyone saying help is coming,
while I’m running on no rest.
Then I read the reports.
And sleep got worse.
My brain made pictures
I never asked it to draw.
My head fractured,
then the mask fell off,
and I couldn’t hold the door anymore.
Enough is enough.
I’ve carried more than one man should,
more than most would even say.
And I’m sick of being praised for surviving
when I’ve been dying quietly every day.
I’m not made of stone,
I’m not some machine with skin.
I’m a bloke who kept taking hits
while the cracks spread further in.
So this is me saying it plain,
no polish, no brave little grin.
I’m still here, but I’m not fine,
and I’m done pretending I’ve been.