Poetry

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.

She flies with a broken wing looking for a branch to rest on Somewhere safe to lay her head waiting for the warmth of dawn, She knows the branch that welcomes her even in the dark She’s nestled there many times to rest her weary heart,

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.

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.    

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

The wind howls across the spine of shale and abraded rock ridgelines where Sentinels stand tall in the twilight, Gods watching the story of the desert night unfold.

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...

“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.”

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

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

I need to be loved, As a child, Who will never be left, I need to be loved as a woman, There's an empty hole, In my heart that needs to be filled

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.

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

A rant dedicated to all “seniors” in geriatric wards and nursing homes we’re sick     we’re stuck     we’re fucked we’re labelled     we’re libelled “demented”      “incompetent”

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,

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.

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

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!

Instead of calling me "mentally ill" Call me beautiful Instead of mentally ill call me capable, meaningful and real Call me mentally ill if you must but call me responsible

Do you remember the first time you were told you were Broken, by a man with a clipboard and argyle tie?

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

Fear is running our lives. Fear of being different. Fear of being inadequate. Fear of being not good enough.

To be beautiful. What is that? What does that mean? Size two, toned, tan, and ready and waiting Ready for what? Waiting for who? The prince charming promised in all...

A voice echoes in my mind, I need to rehabilitate mankind, I need to contain the schizophrenic, with drugs powerful and eugenic

I won't be The right type Of victim. I won't be the Quiet type Of victim.