🕯️ Before You Diagnose Me, Read This (Kurdish Edition)
You sit behind glass.
A pen in hand.
A screen between us.
A smile rehearsed
just long enough to make me forget
you’re waiting
for me to fall.
You say you’re here to help.
But I know what you want.
You want to capture my rebellion
in a sterile word.
To turn my clarity into crisis.
My fire into imbalance.
You’re not afraid of my pain.
You’re afraid of how articulate I am about it.
You wait for me to say
“I’m being watched”
so you can write
paranoia.
You wait for me to say
“My ancestors were denied a homeland”
so you can write
obsession.
You wait for me to say
“A man followed me in Sofia”
so you can write
delusion.
But here’s what you don’t understand:
I am not unraveling.
I am remembering.
I am not unstable.
I am unfiltered.
I am not sick.
I am not broken.
I am just someone
who never learned how to pretend.
So write your notes.
Underline my sentences.
Circle my pauses.
But know this:
Your diagnoses are not cages for me.
They are mirrors for a system
that cannot survive
an honest woman with no leash.