The back door to her mind swung open and cracked down the middle, bursting into flames.
A blazing inferno swept through, charring fragile and ragged structures,
Transforming the landscape into bleakness, apparent ugliness, impending desolation.
Except for one very small area, barely visible to outside observers, the clinicians.
A few wild flowers struggled to survive as attempts were made to put out the remaining flames.
If only they would not storm this new world, trampling what remained, rather than
Protecting and nourishing the remaining beauty, life, and uniqueness from the old world.
Because the wild flowers could thrive and spread, strong, defiant, beautiful.
***
Diana Spore, PhD, MGS, is a mental health advocate, social gerontologist, and older adult who now lives with the labels of Bipolar Disorder and GAD. Â This poem was written years after she sustained a major psychotic break and was hospitalized for psychiatric reasons, was overmedicated to the point that she almost totally lost the person she was — her identity and soul. Â Her family and she were told that she would not recover. Â The mental health “experts” were wrong in their assertions. Â The recovery journey can be long, hard, and nonlinear — but recovery is possible.
***
