We never discuss mental illness.

Yet, it runs in my family.

From ADHD, depression and anxiety,

to bipolar disorder and OCD and addictions.

A lot of us have it, but it’s too uncomfortable of a subject.

So we never talk about it.

Ever.

We just ignore it, playing it off as a phase.

Sweep it under the rug and plaster a smile.

Make everything look seamless because no one can know.

We decorate our houses luxuriously,

make the children study to be doctors.

Post pictures of happy family vacations in exotic places,

But we don't acknowledge how if you look in my grandma’s closets it’s stacked to the ceiling with newspapers and random items from 50 years ago.

Or how my mother sleeps all day to avoid reality.

It’s as if there’s a person screaming in the corner

But no one seems to hear.