Author's note: This poem details a point in my mental health journey where I was hospitalised for extreme mania, grand delusions and psychosis. These could not be controlled with time and much medication, hence I was subjected to the often-controversial practice of electro-convulsive therapy. The poet whom I speak of in my poem is extremely well-known, and those who can ascertain who I am discussing will understand certain references I make.
My pills were the colours of the rainbow
oh, this was how I celebrated them,
the nurses delivered me my
morn and nacht medications,
the colours, the shades,
white, pink, purple, yellow,
so bright,
so visually pleasing were they.
When they needed to add another pill,
I did not anger, I did not dismay,
for they were simply
increasing my brightness,
this concept assisted me
to cope throughout my manic days.
I would bounce around,
here and there,
up and down,
in the ward where I was
the starring show,
or at least this was how
I thought of myself,
I was probably to most
an irritating bother.
I’d sing and sing,
for the joy of singing aloud,
there was little to do
within the ward,
we had to entertain ourselves
with personal endeavours somehow,
or simply jump and jump from
one person to another,
conversation flitting about.
There were different types
of white pills,
a mood stabiliser,
an anti-psychotic,
another anti-psychotic,
how I was being loaded,
but my clever over-active mind
would not be dulled,
until they administered the
foreign electrodes.
I thought they were hoping to
kill the magic
inside of me,
my creative streak,
the inspired side of me,
that they were aiming to
punish me
for trying to be like her,
my idol,
for emulating her style,
was this a
warranted punishment
in itself?
To rid me of my toxic bite,
my ability to snipe and snarl
within my writes,
was I worthy of being punished
when all I did was admire,
and allowed myself to be
swayed, swayed, swayed
by her words?
I am guilty only of that crime,
is inspiration and idolising a curse?
And this doctor, with his
trimmed Hitler-like mustache,
an obvious portrayal by the hospital,
an inside 'joke',
that a significant part of little me,
was maybe
bound for the hearse,
helpless at his cruel,
well-trained hands
as a crowd of medical students
stood curiously around me,
without my prior consent,
I hysterically, hopelessly
wept, and wept, and wept.
Students' eyes signalled pity,
perhaps I was like a
caged animal to be seen,
no escape, yet no
true reason for being here,
this was what I firmly believed.
Here goes my skill,
I thought,
all because I fell ill.
It wasn’t my fault,
but it might have been,
somehow, inadvertently.
Where is the comfort
of my rainbow now?
I wondered to myself.
There was no escape,
my eyelids hung themselves
as the cool anesthetic
entered my vein.
I need not worry now
whether I would wake up,
stripped of her influence,
only myself,
or if I'd ever wake up again.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by FelixMittermeier from Pixabay
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but which drained a soul, caused a family’s divide. I am lucky to be unconditionally loved, I was always forgiven. No matter the paths I took, I sought, I willingly wandered down, because my curiosity definitely killed the cat and allowed certain truths to be explored and owned, I didn’t decide to perform such missions as a means of breaking others, it was simply my choice, selfish decisions, that reflected upon a family unit, brothers, mother, father, others. I know their love for me is ever-lasting, ever-supportive, ever-growing, they are there for me, to watch me grow, as I stem the pain from my soul, and to exuberantly join in to celebrate my rises, and encourage me to soar from my falls. Their support means so much, I'm so lucky to have them in my life, everlasting is their love, their joy, for me they'll never cease their mission, their encouragement, their fight. No matter whether I’m being positively critiqued, or with crushing honesty, appealed to to sound less selfish, or self-centred, even when it wasn’t my intent, I know they’re meaning to help me, to disallow my work from seeming egocentric, but Family! my work is central, it is about me, that is my style, I’m an autobiographile, a new term I’ve coined for me. And now I smile, because things are going on their way, I write, create, edit, release every day, I feel my efforts are appreciated by others, as well as myself. The simple joy of learning and loving and embracing the art of poetry, it makes me tingle and shiver, this is the genre, the art form for me, nothing else. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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