A poem about the time an SSRI fucked me over.
“What brings you in today?”
How do I describe this? I feel incapable of conveying the absolute atrocity inside my mind and body at this moment.
At first, I think that maybe I am angry. My hands are clenched and shaking as I try to hold the pencil to write my name on the intake paperwork. But no resentments bubble up to the surface of my conscious thought, though, and besides the visceral reaction in my body I don’t “feel” angry.
I think I feel heavy? Actually, everything feels heavy. I have to take breaks when I brush my teeth, when I even manage to do it at all. My toothbrush must weigh 40 pounds.
It’s more than just heavy, though.
How long has it been like this? Forever, probably. I can’t imagine a time when I didn’t feel this way. I am starting to believe that it will always be like this.
I am not my illness, but a survivor amidst her chaotic, destructive path:
She shows up at my door, dirty and in tears. “It’s 3 a.m.” I say to her, still half asleep. She looks up at me, duffle bag in hand. I know what comes next. “Can I stay? Just for a few days?” I open the door wide and allow her to come in. I don’t want to let her in, but am afraid of what she will do if I don’t. I go to the kitchen to pour her a glass of water but as I come back to the living room I see she has already helped herself to the whiskey. “You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had already.” She seems to have calmed down a little but there is an edge in her voice. It’s going to be a long night.
“It’s Bipolar!” The psychiatrist spoke as if she were wishing me a happy birthday.
There is a lot that reminds me of the hospital: dial bar soap, individual boxes of Raisin Bran, luke warm showers.
I’m reminded by sudoku puzzles done in pencil (no pens allowed), hospital socks with grips on the bottom (no shoes allowed) and my sweat pants that now sag well below my waist (drawstrings removed upon admission).
Heavy eyelids remind me of Haldol induced sleep.
I sit in my therapist’s office and I tell her how bad of a person I am for ending in there this time.
“You, know when I was real fucked up — ”
“When you were sick.”
“What?”
“When you were sick.”
In 2 years I have seen the inside of 3 different hospitals and participated in 3 different outpatient programs. I should have a punch card for psychiatric care.
“If you have another episode, which you most likely will, then you can be more prepared next time.”
“Right. Yeah. Next time.”
