Aanchal Narendran
I remember my little trip down a funny road,
The roads glistened with rain yet no croaking toad.
I bought up a topic that I knew was amiss,
There could only be hits and never bliss.
The day before, I was in the lush office of a therapist,
A quaint modern place and a weird misfit.
The flyover near her place bustled with traffic,
I was here to tell someone everything in a graphic.
She calls me in, a stranger who tries to give me hope,
For 1000 bucks an hour, you bet I’ll whine and mope.
After an intense hour and half, trying to ponder,
She tagged me, Borderline Personality Disorder.
I sat in bewilderment at the end of our session,
Everyone talked about anxiety and depression.
I greeted the waiting room magazines,
Hoping they had relief from routines.
With no information except from the internet,
I went to someone who promised a safety net.
As I confessed my condition,
Expected a little compassion and protection.
I was told to shut my mouth,
For the fear that it would ruin my clout.
They asked me if I had told my cousin,
Pressuring me like a traitor for a confession.
Damage control they said had to be done,
Lest the word got out and I turned into a clown.
I was barred from meeting a counsellor,
Instead they pointed at a Goddess and said council her.
I was not supposed to talk about it in a loud voice,
Lest the neighbours hear and I lose my poise.
The family absolutely cannot know about my case,
Does not matter even if I was in a daze.
What would people think,
Turned far more important than saving their child from the brink.