by Marisa Zaremba
(adapted from George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From”)
I’m from irrational thoughts,
from monsters that lurk in the back of my mind.
I’m from observant eyes,
from pounding heartbeats in my chest
and the sound of silence
whenever attention is drawn to me.
A walk through a room means, “Everyone is looking at me.”
I’m from droplets of sweat forming on sticky palms,
and the lump in my throat when called on.
I’m from avoiding crowded hallways and eating lunch alone,
from the rehearsal of words: “What will I say?”
and the end of the world when it comes out the wrong way.
I’m from a fog that occasionally appears,
lingering both over body and mind.
From the rhythmic spin of the ceiling fan,
keeping time with the tick in my brain, “Sad thought please go away.”
I’m from veins pumping adrenaline more than blood,
and that drop-in-your-stomach feeling.
From hearing, “You’re fine. Just breathe.”
while my chest is tight and I’m ready to flee.
I’m from the indented cushion of a therapist’s sofa,
from the tears drowned on my pillowcase.
I’m from ups and downs to in-betweens,
but that’s not me.
That’s where I’m from, but not where I continue to be.
I am me, not the thoughts that consume me.
