Sarah M.
Hello my name is Sarah. Over the past 8 years I have kept a journal and written poetry often reflecting my inner world. A lot of my poetry is inspired by reading the philosophy of Eastern religions, such as Buddhism and Taoism. This following selection of poems reflect my experiences as a mental health consumer. At age 19 I had a massive breakdown and have been on neuroleptic drugs most of the time since. The drugs have nasty side-effects including massive weight gain, slowing of the psychomotor system, destruction of both hand-eye co-ordination and energy levels. I would like to share my experiences...
= Something awry
In the shaping
Of my brethen =
Psychiatric patients
Hospitalised.
Then
A life
Of Drugs
And the mind's
Degeneration
Furthered
With chemicals,
Torturing
The Brain,
Thoughts
On a roller-coaster
Spinning
Painfully.
The thought patterns
Of the human mind
Developing, expanding
Filling out
According to a genetic
Blueprint.
The Godly design
Of the mind
Of the psych patient
Invaded, distorted
With drugs,
A chemical-pattern
Stimulus for an ugly
Recipe of growth.
Drugs overriding, competing
With the wholeness
Of the genetic trigger
To thought.
To be free of drugs
A liberation for true
Transformation,
Perhaps only achieved
With death
In a society
Forcing the chain of chemicals
Upon Us.
Lined faces
Eyes and eyes
Submerged
In alienation.
Ears and ears
Duality of listening
To the spaces
Between words;
Sinking Deep
Into catatonic
Silence.
Forced
Into the Earth -
Trancelike.
In solitude
Keeping secrets
Never to
Surface.
Barriers
Between
Me and
The world
Hurdles
That I
Cannot Jump,
Contrasting
With the ease
Others have
In reaching
These heights.
Yet I
Can walk
Around them,
With patience
I find
Another way,
A solitary path,
The path
Of the resourceful
Of the hidden
Those hoping
To find
Each other -
Casualties
Of the
Psychiatric system,
The peoples
Of patience,
Slowness
Of talk
Of yearning
Of suffering,
Lying together
Holding hands.
Sarah M
There's food for thought here. It's certainly worth noting that the "talking therapies" of psychology and psychotherapy are not readily available in Australia to many sufferers of emotional and psychiatric illness, or to sufferers of "physical" illnesses who invariably find it difficult to deal with the emotional and psychological impacts. It's often the people who are sick who are least able to afford to pay for these alternative therapies as they're not subsidised by our public health system. This leaves patients solely dependent on the chemically focused discipline of psychiatry with all its attendant side-effects and long-term physical impacts. It's worth questioning the long-term cost/ benefits of such an approach as the public health system will ultimately have to pay for the physical consequences of chemical treatment. Just a thought...
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Liam Guilar
Carefully
leave your plans
in the pockets of the clothes
abandoned on the peg.
Anonymous
in white,
stumble down the corridor.
Firm hands, brisk voices.
A little pain
Might prove you're still alive
Returning
to the cubicle
those clothes belonged to someone else.
The pockets have been picked
by circumstance.
I 've never liked spectator sports
and now it seems I am condemned
to stand as witness to my body's slow decay.
What's to be learnt from this:
the future is a myth we all invent
to make the present seem less fragile?
Or, "Life", stripped of all metaphors
and metaphysics, is just the beating
of a heart. And nothing but
the beating of a heart?
So here's to say, mine's beating yet
or was while I was writing this
Liam Guilar
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Janice M. Bostok
Janice M. Bostok dedicates this series of poems to her intellectually disabled son, Tony. She says there is now "great discontent" about the "behaviour modification" that was practiced in the 70's and 80's. She feels it only added to the problem with her own child...
Somewhere deep a stirring this must be dying this fighting the darkened womb this
carelessness of pain this relinquishing of identity this attainment of light
and
a son is
born
First light rises touching the body of the boy my words dappling the softness of
indistinguishable gurgling sounds coming from his throat
bright leaves
in falling streams circle
slowly down
From low-slung boughs of a tree outside the window a willy-wag-tail spasmodically
announces the new day a day which appears to hold the same promise as all of the other
days which have dawned before
midday
a cool breeze deflects
the sun's hot rays
deceiving its ability to burn
A scurrying of unseen things rattles in dry grass halting my heavy footsteps towards the
future
A seedling cupped in hand trembles knuckling deep into warm earth conscious of the
slipping through my fingers of the delicate texture of his mind terror tears at my mind
claws rip into flesh the skin parts and blood flows freely am i this frightened animal
clinging in the dark
in the distant classroom
the panic crying of my young son
is sharpening my senses
to the modern decor
the perfectly designed playground
the pseudo-bushland setting
from a stringy gum -
its leaves showing white
in the rising westerly wind -
a crow suddenly hops
onto the slanting roof
head to one side
he peers at his reflection
in the glass of the skylight
in the resulting silence
left by his raucous call
my son's screaming closes in
change is the key to behaviour modification so we are told to change one inappropriate behaviour for one more readily acceptable (to society) by means of modification look it up ,modification' alteration variation transformation and mutation such change can be tricky the parents of special children must also modify their emotional responses to this behaviour modification the average parent who loves their child must stand by while seemingly their child is being harassed and tortured to the point of agony by strangers it isn't a natural response to stand before a two-way window and watch as your child is being hustled into a small dark windowless room and left to cry alone only to be taken from that room back into the light when their crying stops i've seen parents with tears streaming down their cheeks in sympathy with their screaming child safely home from the city the local school has no window-less and darkened time-out room modify adapt take up the challenge good thinking teacher use the toilet cubicle to lock him in alone my son learnt to rip the toilet seat off every toilet he came in contact with for many years after his ,behaviour modification' his motto become search out and destroy that offending article
not being physically able to chew large pieces of apple and too afraid to swallow such a huge lump he sits his jaws agape begging for someone to extricate the piece his constant cry for help together with nature's salivary response to food produces a stream of spittle which drools from the corners of his mouth and down his chin his jaws ,soft' from never having spoken (a note on his file indicates that his father and his sister are suspected of being allergic to apple) returning from my own lunch i quickly retrieve the offending lump and watch his pale facial features relax in gratitude and his aching jaws slowly close as he wipes his eyes with his sleeve how do i ask the forgiveness of a son who cannot hear cannot read was never taught to sign and has never been able to speak
daily the command that he must stay seated at the table until all forty-seven inmates have completed their meal was more than an active boy could bear with a good appetite strong in body but not so of mind he soon learnt that the quickest way out of the communal dining room was to upend the table sending uneaten food across the floor and over everyone's lap that day the staff also learnt to modify their thinking giving in a little as they made new regulations to sit him at a small table alone allowing him to leave as soon as he had finished eating his own food home at term-end no such restrictions apply nor are they necessary
Janice wrote these poems while she was nursing her terminally ill husband. She wrote in March 2004 that "as I sit and hold his hand, feed him, even shave him, I write in my head and then when I come home get on the wordprocessor"
not the floating through
gardens of flowers
the weightless silk touch
of clouds
but the unnecessary breathing in
of daily news
and no longer the freedom offered
a dog by a bullet
so many times the farmer expelling
energy splitting logs leaves
euphoria
elation
now that halo settles
lead-like around you on the bed
your hands unable to penetrate
its coffin-like shape
i search myself for his non-
dying his slowness to come to it
the agony i might be forcing
on his body remembering the recited
sins of the parents are visited
on the children
i am not his mother but could
the sins of wives be visited
on husbands or my sins on other relatives
on members of reincarnated
family groups
or are the horrendous sins of this
world visited on everyone equally
2.
reasons no longer conjure
the questions once hung in deep breaths
why becomes i no longer want to
the living continues without
desire the strength to die still
not ratified
by the committee of ancient beings
an owl hoot in daylight
indicates a soul off course
the journey home no longer tolerated
because of the pain the gravel road
worse after flooding rains and wind
torn trees
paw paw fruit and the stewed water
from leaves performs miracles
but the die-back has already set in
and the body swells with over-ripeness
providing compost when it drops to earth
cancer-pillars (caterpillars)
eat themselves into
a cocoon
the forthcoming design
designated long before
it shows deep within the body
attaching itself to an organ
the released eggs
flow freely where they may
when the time comes
to hatch the butterfly
attached to the tummy provides
more sting than any insect
known to man
as the liquid morphine flows
each time the needle bites
surprising
a grinning puppet pulls
its own strings
invisible
3.
for three long years
frustration and terror
now deliver
a pre-death erection
beneath her hands he has
the right one more time / perhaps
the last time her right
will be to stimulate his
the doctor chides her no man
can urinate with an erection
not a doctor she knows
things only a man and woman
can know secrets shared
in other worlds other times
when no shaping of their bodies
was necessary the convex and
concave fitting perfectly
their silently begging skin
toppling the wall
months of building the wall
fall away in seconds
when they decide the medications
are now being withdrawn
they are no longer necessary
the time has come to stop
the pretence of living
the pretence that this body
will ever be a man again
Janice M. Bostock
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Liz Hall-Downs
Liz Hall-Downs writes about the experience of living with Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA). A disease found worldwide affecting approximately 1% of the total population and all races. This poorly named disease is also poorly understood in the wider community and confused with common forms of arthritis, such as osteoarthritis, frequently suffered by the elderly. RA is actually a chronically disabling auto-immune disease. Onset usually occurs between the ages of 30 and 50. Liz was diagnosed at 20.
at the point of diagnosis it's all
too much to take in, so you refuse
its clammy entrance, and make plans
- to hitchhike across the nullabor
while you still can
- to go out dancing every night,
to emulate flight, to be high on life
high on the vibration through the soles
of your beating feet
that take you where your brain
commands, without fuss, no refusals
you know that the blood
will refuse soon enough,
and may wage war
on your innocent joints
so you refuse its daily attacks
- its morning conundrums, its
cold night sweats -
take raw life in, pure oxygen
racing against time / to get it all done
all the things you thought
several decades would take
reduced to a slim / volume of years
reduced to diagnosis / tears
overnight, the tight spring
that had just begun uncoiling
snapped closed. gone in two words
the dreams of years, the plans
to set my world aright through
hard work and endurance
i did not need
to consult the medical textbooks
still, I looked, vapid hope
that things would be better than
my nurses' memory had filed away
- 'rapid degeneration',
'out-of-control-
auto-immune reaction',
a very sad song;
prognosis: lifelong
my own white cells, oh macrophages!
turn against me, eat my substance,
my joint capsules, choosing a specific site
for each feasting, I go to bed and sweat
and sweat, nurse my pain and swelling
with beer and codeine
take the pills, the specialist says, endure
the savages of stomach lining
the fuzzy nodules of fainting
suppress this excess of self-preservation
this immunological self-destruction
and plaster on a braver face
be 'nice' inside this iron maiden
take my hopes, abandon them
susan who shares this
in the neighbouring bed
keeps a grinning face, she was
eight when she got it
neck bones fused and knees
replaced, her hands
can't lift a teaspoon
she scares me, takes obediently
the penacillamine, the steroids
turns her head as they
inject her joints
the tea tray comes
but no nurse
i lift her
up the bed
rip open
the plastic packets
of biscuits
physio plunges
my hands
in hot wax
the social worker
and the doctor, tag team,
lecture me
wrestle my
youthful ego
say
you must realise
you can't have a life
drag me to
support group
to talk about it
everyone else
in wheelchairs
or on sticks
how can i speak?
i still have feet
funny, he said
i saw you around, thought
you were staff
poverty
knows the bar-propping stranger's
hand on my knee, only
an arm's length from hunger
knows fifty-five brown rice
recipes, winning ways
with plain potatoes
knows how to scam that extra
tenner, how to fight for its rights
with rich doctors
poverty
knows the food store at st vinnies,
knows the well-meaning grin of home visitors
who promise prayers and novenas
smiles and says thanks
for their icons
their ridiculous pictures of jesus
knows to not appear bitter
to not be a feisty fighter
to be grateful for handouts of warm winter clothes,
to be quiet, to be nice, to be nicer
poverty
knows there are no guarantees
that life sometimes throws you a curveball
and as hard as you stretch it sings past
and you fall
knows the cold of winter when the power
cuts out, choice of eating
or paying the bill
knows the paint-peeling dwelling
the room with no view
the carving knife under the mattress
poverty
knows generosity is not the province of the wealthy
but comes from strange quarters - drug dealers,
hookers, and toothless young men with stealthy grins
who shout you bread money, or coffee
knows about invisibility, how to be a nameless statistic
knows there's no social status, no respect when you're sick
- you're a vagrant, a loser, no-hoper
if pride is a sin
call me sinner
- this, or open my legs
to the monster
These poems were taken from Liz's collection, My Arthritic Heart. This work was completed during her study for the Master of Arts in Creative Writing at the University of Queensland. The collection explores many important issues related to living with a chronic illness, including those reflected here: the resulting poverty and other people's perceptions of the "non-visibly" disabled. -
Liz Hall-Downs
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