Poetry

“You are sick. You are unwell,” said the man in the white coat. “No rational person believes 9/11 was an inside job. Alas, You are a very sick man, and we are going to make you well. We can cure you. We used to burn witches, yet we’ve grown more Sophisticated in our methods. Now we leave the body intact - but not The mind. Look at what we did to Julian. No one can escape us.”

At times my vision is shallow and short-sighted as I see my loved-one cope with the challenges we label mental illness. At times through shallow eyes I see a future stunted, my loved-one's possibilities not fully realized.  ...But then I look deeper. ...There I see unnecessary expectations created by me, held by me, and fully releasable by ...........me.    

After 25 years of chronic emergency, 22 mental hospitalizations, a stint at a “community mental health center,” 13 years in a "board & care," repeated withdrawals from addictions to legal drugs, and a 12-year marriage, I plan to live every last breath out as a survivor, an advocate, and an artist.

Schizophrenia, to me, is nothing more than a word. All it really means is that you experience psychosis on a regular enough basis that it’s a factor in your life. And that you actually do, as the word “schizophrenia” indicates, have a mind that you share with some sort of outside presence.

The Hopkins psychiatrist glances up at me, then looks at my chart. “I remember the first time—and the second—when the depression lifted I felt like a party girl.” How long did that last? “A couple of days…three, maybe.” That’s a couple of days too long. You have all the signs of bipolar II.

A secret city exists in your mind, where left brain and right brain bind. In the center of your eyes, but hidden behind, where your consciousness is aligned. The source of awareness for mankind

I found meaning where it was all along in the living of this moment the breathing of this breath the pictures in my mind in my view of the world

The dark-suited man slithered, Shock box in hand, To our bedsides, four girls, innocent, naked, Waiting….waiting….waiting, Sticky-headed, One by one.

There was never “an American dream” Only a nightmare, so it seems. Such an innocent girl full of belief In a country from which she now seeks relief.

The doctor is calling. She says to you, without saying, tell me what I want to hear, verify the hastiness of all my generalizations, the quick imprecise diagnoses and the bias-based confirmations,

Do not swallow the pill, This condensed mass of powder That the world has convinced you Will “fix” you, your “problematic” self My darling, you are not broken You are not lost, you are not crumpled You are merely a being living In a society, in a culture That you were never meant to be forced into

Just yesterday evening they let us know you were gone Joanne the plans they made for you Did not go through The job description just did not...

i attended your funeral today in fact i was the one yes, won that organized it

she is the one that i want the one that i love she fights for justice like a wild cat fighting for her cub fangs and claws because freedom is everything

This thing that stirs can’t be overcome. It starts like a steady, aching hum

I’m peeling off the labels, The adjustment disorders, the bipolar disorder, I’m peeling off the labels, the borderline - the avoidant - the emotionally unstable personality disorders. I’m peeling off the labels, to find ME, MEEEE that’s hidden.under.all.these.labels!

Let go, Of all that shit, That is holding you back. Let go of fear, Let go of uncertainty, Let go of anger, Let the unpredictable be just that, Unpredictable. Let go of your need for control of things you cannot control, Hold on to your truths.

It hurts, the medicine, which turns you into a robot, taking away your power to question, bringing you to silence   But the greatest pain of all is not to be...

I had this idea I could join the system and change it from the inside but you can’t join the system and not join the system

A statement about grief, art, existence and “madness”

The professionals act like the theft of half my life was no big deal because they didn't mean to.

I am quite insane, I speak in rhyme that often doesn't, expecting to find reason. I live in a world of ritual and season.

I bring a small basket of flowers for my friend in the psych unit, the nurse buzzes me in. She silently yanks the plastic card-holder, then chides me, It has a pointy end. My friend tells me later, “No one gets flowers here.”

Why little? Belittle? Do little? Do little harm! I'm wishing for a doctor who does little Little enough Enough little little

The ugly blackbird came back It survived I did not pound it hard enough It has come for me Its talons are sharpened, ready to repay