Thick Skin, Blue Soul

They called it crazy
when my body shook from carrying too much truth
when my voice cracked under the weight
of everything it had to lower into a whisper.

They said I was overreacting
as if grief should arrive neatly folded
as if anxiety could be tamed
by pretending the fire inside me was imagined.

They said I made it up
because I remembered too clearly
and forgot what made their story easier.
I asked for proof
and they mistook steady breathing for guilt.

They studied my silence
and called it suspicious.
They studied my exhaustion
and called it unstable.

They never studied the system that failed me
only the pieces I tried to stitch back together.

They turned trauma into spectacle,
my pain into something to analyze,
then waited for gratitude
as if letting me defend myself was mercy.

But anxiety is not madness.
It is the body remembering danger
long after the room has changed.
Insomnia is not weakness.
It is the soul refusing rest
while its name is still dragged through shadows.

They mistook survival for collapse.
They mistook confusion for guilt.
They mistook healing for rebellion.

They wanted me quiet,
easy to misinterpret,
easier to erase.

But I learned the difference
between losing control
and reclaiming it on purpose.

I learned that calm is not silence.
It is the sound of boundaries closing in place.
It is the peace that rises
when you stop begging to be seen
by those who never looked honestly.

They wanted me small,
but I became steady.
They wanted me gone,
but I became rooted.

And now here I stand,
not cured but clear,
not silent but certain,
not broken but rebuilt,
not crazy but completely awake
in a world that feared what it could not break.