After months of looking down my throat, the psychiatrist told me that I needed a wheelchair.
Sure enough I looked down to see one leg was three-quarters the size it should be.
I have been hobbling down a yellow brick road toward this imaginary Emerald City called Health, and all I’ve been told is to run faster, by a good witch or a bad witch I know not
Now I am swimming through the waxing and waning of suddenly outdated prescriptions. Of anti-depressants that turned into symptoms. Of anti-anxiety pills turned into long term cigarettes.
I have held onto Paxil like a band-aid on something that needs stitches
And I will limp through this forest Blind if it means that I can find my hot air balloon back over the Rainbow: the misdiagnosed gateway to hospitalization.