I Won't Apologize

These have been sombre days lately. I should talk to my dr. but I wrote this instead

i won't apologize                      

i won’t die on your terms
my small rebellion will
be a pool of blood
or scattered pill bottles

i won’t leave behind soothing words
of remorse or apology
i won’t let you believe
there was nothing you could have done
i will die angry at your apathy

i won’t be a silent shadow
you will know why
i made a decision

i won’t be a whispering pen
a note and ink splotted by tears
telling you i wished for a better way
than pills or a knife or a syringe
why would i lie
at the perfect moment
when being nothing takes hold

i won’t apologize
and you won’t grieve
my last words
will not be
i’m sorry

Still Here

After many years, living struggling and breathing with bipolar disorder, I often feel like I did long ago and wonder if anything can change. This is how I feel still, it's depressing to consider.

I’m here when I know I shouldn’t be. There are no good reasons for my life to have continued this long. I’ve found ways not to die. To breath. It’s just reflex now.

It’s a fluke of nature. I’m a freak of nature

I’m here, again and still.

But I remember. 25 years ago, I was introduced to myself. Hello, crazy man meet bipolar disorder.
 
Hello, crazy man, it’s all the rage and depression and elation and creation.

Hello crazy man.

Welcome to yourself. You aren’t going to happy about what you see. You aren’t going to happy for a long time

25 years ago became 10 years ago. Became 5 years ago. Became now.

Hello crazy man. Look at what has happened.

Look at what hasn't happened.

Truth is a vacancy, dream, panic

last night, i fell into a deep sleep. i didn't wake up for a long time. when i did, i was confronted by this great vacancy i have become. i am so keenly aware of fragility at this moment.

this is what i remember today.

truth is a vacancy, dream, panic

i dream in panic
afraid that I will wake up

i dream of falling
as panic spills out of my pores
in relief
i have a nightmare
that i don’t wake up from

i live with thoughts of
beginnings becoming endings
transforming the panic of indecision
with the final choice
of surrender

i cannot wait

for a revolution of clarity
or resolution of the ache
for the right time

we all knew it would come to this
we shared a secret, violent in its silence
no believes circumstantial evidence
people want ‘show-me-the-scars’ truth

my truth is a vacancy
i’ve never been in a place i should be
the search has been bitter and bloody
my era of trying to be seen is over
everything has broken
as casually as closing
a bank account
there’s no interest
in saving a life
already declared lost

Plans don't mean shit...

This summer I did something I've not done in a very long time - I made a plan. I dared to look into the future and visualize something happening. Something that I made happen.

Plans are dangerous. Each plan I make has to be put into context. With bipolar disorder, plans can be rockets to the sun or as dreary as grey laundry.

I'm hyper-aware of this and know from the past that most plans I make have little grounding in what can actually be accomplished or not accomplished.

I know better than to make plans. But this summer I talked myself into a plan for the future, or at least the next few months. I planned to go back to school full time but the plan was crushed by the reality of limitations.

Now, my plans have disintegrated and I have disintegrated along with them.

I let myself hope and hope has played its usual hand. I lost as usual. I should have been cautious and more realistic. All this summer, I told myself this was possible but I was stronger now. I guess that was a lie. I guess I'm not that strong.

Everything feels brutal and hard and too much.

And tomorrow I'll wake up and this will all feel the same.

Collecting Pills

this was a difficult poem to write. i wrote it many times. i started more times than that. sometimes you write something that's so true to you that it opens wounds. sometimes writing a post like is dangerous and subject to hospitalization

collecting pills                        

i’m collecting pills again
still; hiding them like land mines               
i never stop:
i don’t know why that’s hard to admit

right now,
i’m sorting the pink-orange hexagons
anti-psychotic and boring;
psychosis is a matter of perspective
sometimes
no one asks for my opinion
anymore

anti-psychotics are slow,
i sleep on the edge of coma;
i’m not interested in sleep;
my attention is fixed
on the mortal side effects
of the pink-orange hexagons;

i keep a variety of pills;
they comfort me, wait for me, always ready
valuable multi-coloured pills, still unopened,
any reputable collector would be envious,
i collect them to eat them;
all pills are made to be consumed

the cabinet in my bathroom
is a storage facility for lost pharmaceuticals,
pills i don’t talk about,
these lovely creatures aren’t my call for help
they are my last hope for resolution;

if i reveal this secret
i can already see admitting papers
smell the acrid hospitals halls,
i’m already wearing the bracelet
that tells people my name