I've hidden my mental illness from you.
I shelved my diagnoses in-between books you'll never read.
I stuffed their symptoms in my closet before you visit.
I take my yellow and blue prescription pills when you leave.
I am so afraid you won't like me when I tell you (let alone show you) all the dark parts of me.
If you know me now (in my best) maybe when I tell you I have bipolar, and depression, and anxiety, and PTSD you won't run away from me.