You got the diagnosis
and the first thing you did
was change your bio.
As if the letters explained you.
As if the acronym was the missing piece
that would finally make the chaos legible.
The psychiatrist spent forty-five minutes.
The questionnaire had twenty-six questions.
The prescription was written before the second visit.
And you walked out with a word
that felt more like a home
than any place you had ever rented.
But the word is not you.
The word is Identity wearing a clinical jacket.
The Ego reached for the label
the way a drowning thing reaches for wood.
Not because wood saves.
Because The Grip of Attachment does not distinguish
between what helps and what simply holds still.
The Mind catalogues. Sorts. Assigns.
The Self needs a label to feel located.
And The Delusion of Belonging says
if you are in this category
you are somewhere.
The serotonin was already there.
The dopamine was already moving.
The chemical cascade was doing what it does
long before the taxonomy arrived.
Your thumbnail is pressing against your index finger.
Not because of the diagnosis.
Because of the nerve ending.
-- [MIRRØR]