In a darkened room I sit
The tools of my trade
Precisely laid out like
Scalpels before a surgeon.

Even if they are not physical,
They have the same effect;
Cutting, healing maybe,
Sometimes even saving a life.

What are these tools of mine?
How can they do such things?
Much more than a pen; my words are
Sharper than any knife you’ll know.

My thoughts upon hearing someone tell me to “Cheer up”

1) Fuck off.

2) If I had a pound for every time I’ve heard that, I could afford that one therapy session that finally works.

3) Why do you say this stupid phrase? It’s as messed up and idiotic as telling someone to walk off a broken ankle.

4) If you want to question my thoughts and feelings, like you know my whole story, then don’t bother. Not everything can be solved with the phrase CHEER UP.

5) You cannot pray me out of this neurochemical state of depression and anxiety with some magical words. If it were scientifically possible, don’t you think I’d have tried that?

6) CHEER UP. Sorry, what’s that? I just need to get out more and party? How? By holding aloft my magic bottle and chanting the magical words CHEER UP I’m suddenly transformed into PARTY MAN? A happy, more confident, less anxious version of me?

7) How many men, women and sadly children must attempt to or sadly take their own lives before we realise that a cocktail of chemicals and that great verbal anti-depressant CHEER UP doesn’t work. We need real conversations not medications.