self-portrait as frankenstein’s monster by Jasmine Marshall

self-portrait as frankenstein’s monster

we are mortal beings.

you can’t destigmatize a condition constructed on a foundation of bigotry.

environmental stimulus incites evolutionary response: emotion, nature’s behavior-motivation system.
as tension wants towards release, my indignant rage burns against your systemic oppression.

then, you, the gods, assert: that’s just the way it is.
my voice silenced.

a compromise: combat retreats into endurance. indignant rage recoils into inconsolable grief.
adapt. survive.

when obstructed, a plant grows sideways in order to reach sunlight.

nature now pathologized, symptomatic of a disease you created. invented. marketed.
correct the plant. no need for release if tension is stamped out. extinguished.

non-falsifiable framework, your industry, a thinly veiled religion under the guise of science.
sacrifice innocents to your gilded idol, capitalism, as you convert the deranged savages to vindicate your own pious saviorism.

so progressive as you tout the virtues of your modern-day colonialism, the conquering and controlling of a people deemed other.

only this time, via mind rather than land.

same shitshow, different shit.

you think you’re so woke, but you’re just too scared of the dark to let yourself dream.

welcome to the dystopia: where being human is punishable by diagnosis.

and all in the name of righteousness. morality. you, the ultimate moral judge.
meanwhile, you are playing god. literally.

how dare you play the god of my universe.

like you know what’s best for me, stripping me of my fundamental birthrights:
autonomy. affectivity. humanity.

dehumanizing me until i believed it. became it. your wantless puppet.

the only madness here is yours, munchausen by proxy. your medicine, a poison. i wasn’t sick until i swallowed your treatment, unsuspecting trust.

having been given a prescription to never trust myself, who else could i trust but you?

some scientific breakthrough it is: this chemical lobotomy that disturbs the homeostasis it claims to restore.
then, manipulate the data, me, to fit your narrative.

what a medical marvel that you can sedate into submission those you call deviant! praised for progress when our intensity of passion becomes dampened into apathy. indifference. resignation. conformity.
far more conducive to keeping the peace.

and when it fails? noncompliance of the patient. a character flaw. a defect evidencing our inherent deviance. what a pity.

or maybe, the real pity is the failure of your overconfident input-output model to consider the intricacy of this living, breathing organism: the physical mind.

when obstructed, a plant grows sideways in order to reach sunlight.
adaptive. resilient. seeking a new homeostasis.

then, my drug withdrawal mistaken for relapse. blame the victim for the self-fulfilling prophecy of your design. the blood of my wounds still dripping from your smugly pointed finger, scolding, see? i told you so! this proves that there’s something wrong with you!

religion as an opiate for the masses doesn’t sound so metaphorical now, does it?

i say, not the way it is, but the way we’ve made it.

what hands can make, needs only hands to break.

fearful, threatened, disturbed by my undeniable deconstruction of your precious moral constructs that you so uncritically take for granted – quick! forge a diversion! – a convenient straw man: my deconstruction, a disregard for morality. disturbing. disgusting. truly a disgrace.

but ad hominem accusations ring hollow without the echo chamber of your cult of followers.
your claims of wanting to understand, to help, so directly contradicted by your intentional distortion of my words into weapons that you then corner me with.

the only reason that you, a just and generous god, could possibly misunderstand me, is if i’m simply not understandable.

go ahead, then. condemn me, the sinner, for questioning this faith.
you, the ultimate moral judge.

who made you god, anyway?

we are mortal beings.

remembering how to be the god of my own universe, i will make no apologies for authenticity.

if being deviant is wrong, then i don’t want to be right.

i hope this poem disturbs you.

my being necessitates no trigger warnings. if that makes you uncomfortable, listen.

grow. adapt. let’s seek a new homeostasis.
because it’s time to disturb the fucking peace.

the only condition i’m afflicted with is the human condition.

we are mortal beings.


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Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.


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