In response to mental illness

There is an element of comfort in diagnosis,
As in my particular case.
At last or at least
I have an excuse; a reason why
I Can’t grow up, only down and slantways, as if I am afraid of heights.
But I am only half-ways to being
Checked out. It is a painful enigma.
Being able to feel the drop, the wind whistling in my
Face, drying, cleansing.

If I were at bottom,
I would not notice so much, you see.
I can’t even lose my mind properly.
I think this is what
Limbo must feel like.
A huge field, lush and brilliant.
The tall grass tickles me.
But not to the point where I am compelled to laugh out loud.
It is almost like
A deprived sort of moderate torture.
I want to wholly embrace the green.
I want to bathe in
Self pity there, in that field.
But I am afraid
Of the bugs getting all over me.
So I walk. Tickle. Tickle. Tickle.