Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: bipolar

  • Poem: Am I To Blame? – 05/06/20

    Poem: Am I To Blame? – 05/06/20

    By the skin of my teeth,
the scraping of my nails,
I’m fighting for escape,
freedom from this personal hell.
 
How did I get here?
Perchance, do you think
I even know?
 
The aching and the longing,
the pain, this vivid suffering,
guttural shrieks,
I’m alone,
but not completely by myself.
 
For these dull thoughts,
their lack of rambling,
their mind-dulling medications,
 
my blurred, stunted abilities,
no longer independent,
only permitted a stupor
behind elders and staff
I am meant to be following.
 
No bright sparks,
my light,
my synapses have been capped,
 
I’m disgusted with myself,
the mental apathy,
physical lumbering 
I show and have within,
the aftermath.
 
Is it my fault?
Because I went off meds?
Seeking that glorious manic high,
to ride those ecstatic waves,
is there a suitable alibi?
 
For eventually, I plummeted,
deep despair,
I could barely swim,
coagulating sin,
what have I done,
the wreckage before me:
life’s comical misery.
 
And I wallow
in the blackest, languid part of me,
is this what they call barely living?
My mood, my pace, my life,
simply crawling?
 
The prince and princess fled in my tale,
only grimy kingdoms
are where my soul has been called,

the hollowing,
never-ending emptiness,
this gnawing depressive hell,
for the former intensity of my world
I plead and I beg and I wail.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Anemone123 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Sticky Gems – 31/03/20

    Poem: Sticky Gems – 31/03/20

    I jolt awake,
back into the night,
where I wearily breathe and pad around the kitchen and hallways 
without any sense of brightness or light.
 
Sleepily, I guzzle liquids,
after all, I crave them,
strangely,
must it be due to the medication once forcefully fed to me?
 
I press myself to stay awake but 
the effort is too much, 
I crawl back into bed,
there’s a soft rustling,
a half-asleep groaning,
oh dear, my insomnia
has awakened him.
 
I cannot help my medical condition,
it is appearing to rear its ugly head,
the precipitation of an outburst of my other condition,
my positive yet negative malady?
 
I shut my eyes,
I tell myself it’s only for a moment,
then roused all of a sudden:
where am I?
It feels as though another continent.
 
Desperately, I call out for Mother,
my pleas are like sticky gems from the oceans and earth,
waiting to be accepted and acknowledged,
recognised perhaps, but not until the end of process.
 
I call and call
but I cannot find her,
perhaps she’s around the corner,
giggling with a close friend,
why, what mirth with that other,
 
And my father is watching protectively to the side,
making certain nothing untoward happens,
because in one fell swoop the world can change,
this I’ve sadly discovered.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Aline Ponce from Pixabay

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  • Prose Poetry: The Stormy Sky – 28/03/20

    Prose Poetry: The Stormy Sky – 28/03/20

    I sit by my window and stare at the sky. There is nothing more beautiful in this very moment that I can capture, nothing else which can cause my heart to swell with appreciation. The clouds, they gather in wisps and blobs – light though, they are – they have this sort of moodiness about them, this white and grayness culminating in the distance.

I am pleased with my seated position, for here I can observe that which I wish to, the land of kingdoms above, and the land below, that which we are blessed to walk upon. I smile to myself at knowing that one day, I will be permitted to enter the kingdom above, a knowledge that makes me feel such warmth inside, I cannot adequately describe the feeling. 

Thus, I relax, and observe, and suddenly two gulls pass by and through my vision. The sea is such a calming place, even when the wind is gusting and the nearby sand dunes are throwing speckles of sand onto the skin of my face, I still can appreciate it, I am glad that I live here. These gulls are a sign of hope: they are out foraging, no doubt. They are alive and well, just as we are, within our isolated worlds. It is a necessity to be alone sometimes, and I know that this precious time can be taken to understand and hold gratitude toward everything positive presented to me in life. Even the negative, I surmise, because these experiences have taught me lessons.

I continue to stare at the sky, the clouds now gathering angrily: cumulus, fierce, dark. It is as though they are forewarning of a time when my mind will grow stormy, the thoughts clouded in my crammed mind. Sometimes there are too many, they stagnate within my skull, washing away the peace and tranquillity which was originally there to be felt and observed.

And suddenly, through the open pane, the first smell of rain permeates into my nostrils, that deep soil-like odour, mixed with the humidity of the pavement. I relish this scent; I have cherished it from years prior, during my childhood where it reminded me of the pre-empting of some of the most glorious and appreciated downpours ever to be seen. I wish to dance in the rain, you see. Unfortunately, this cannot be.

Instead, I watch a new pair of birds soar and duck and dive, their forms so delightfully wonderful, streamlined and sheer perfection. Sometimes I wish I were one of those birds, if only for a moment. I could fly to my heart’s content, and never feel the need to further understand my yearning for it. But in a few seconds, they are gone, and I am left with their vision in my mind’s eye. Their freedom mimics that which beats within my heart, a desire, a yearning, for freedom outside the closed doors.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.   
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay 

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  • Poem: Holding Charge – 05/03/20

    Poem: Holding Charge – 05/03/20

    Will I hold charge? I wonder. 
Will electricity pass through me and back out to them?
I contemplate how my mind will handle the surging volts,
Will it crumble or will it take the brunt?
 
Perhaps they do not know precisely what they are doing,
How to discover whether the procedure is a success?
A general turn around in mood, I’m expected to about-face,

I’d like to thwack someone out cold, 
he or she who approved this cruelest decision,
But hey,
Doing so would warrant more charging,
And the thoughts of this hardens my face.
 
I’m out of control,
My moods have escalated,
Neither the nurses nor doctors can control me,
Plan A for me: out cold,
Electrocute,
See how she is later that morning.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 024-657-834 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Medication – 10/01/20

    Poem: Medication – 10/01/20

     The medication swims in my forehead,
 for some reason it’s affecting me there most,
 tonight I am hazier, staying up far too late,
 allowing the dosages to overly affect my consciousness.
  
 I want to make the most of my evening,
 but with these tablets I cannot,
 they drown my lobe; I feel the tightness in the frontal,
 a pressure of sorts, 
 I want to remain awake but I am fighting 
 a losing battle.
  
 The chemistry, the man-made cures for 
 bouts of temporary madness, which tames 
 the imbalances within my brain,
 I succumb to their placating of future ferocity, 
 I am now a sedated meerkat. 

  © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved. 

 Image by Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay

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  • Poem Trilogy: As Close as Could Be – 29/12/19

    Poem Trilogy: As Close as Could Be – 29/12/19

    Part I: The Ebb and Flow of Healing 

     Press forth,
 her gesture whispered,
 you can do it,
 reach that realm.
  
 Her hand gently pressing the 
 small of my back,
 encouragement to reach that certain angel.
  
 An angel who would heal me,
 remove from me all 
 the pain and 
 suffering
 that I was feeling,
  
 brought upon me by a being 
 so nasty and calculated,
 I don’t know why or how I loved him. 
  
 With him I felt the drag,
 with her I was allowed to
 be myself,
  
 I could stay awake until three,
 write, draw pictures, sing, dance,
 do anything.
  
 Feverishly I wrote and wrote,
 wrote and posted, 
 in my crumbling state of 
 heightened illness,
 I made sure I was heard by my world.
  
 These people, I did not know
 who I had reached,
 whether I was well received
 or even understood.
  
 But the numbers didn’t matter,
 it was the act of self-expression,
 to be prolific in my work 
 was very important.
  
 It was most important 
 that the ideas were expelled from me
 like endless buzzes from a 
 curious yet insidious bee
 turned rogue wasp,
 I wanted to be belligerent in my exposes,
 to a certain degree.
  
 Because some needed to be spoken of,
 others needed to be hidden and taken care of,
 but I most needed healing –
 purging was my means of achieving this.
  
 Meditation also called to me,
 I practiced it religiously,
 sometimes thrice daily. 
  
 And once I removed the 
 sin from my system,
 forced upon me via devilish means,
 I felt a sense of tearing,
 a breakage within,
 I wept and wept as though 
 a staining upon my soul
 had been removed. 
  
 I healed in her presence
 but I still longed for the perpetrator,
 in both my mind and reality 
 he was the culprit
 but of my heart, 
 somehow he would be my saviour.

    Part II: The Cost

     He came into my life, 
 she came into yours,
 jealousy seemed to rear its ugly head.

 We had always had each other,
 but now we had lovers to occupy our 
 hearts and time,
 less and less did we see each other, 
 and when we did, 
 mostly talk did we of our others in our lives.
  
 Becoming tamer and more domesticated
 we calmed in times of love and lust,
 another’s hand to hold and to accept us
 for who we really were in life.
  
 They seemed to be more
 than our friendship could provide,
 but these unions came at a certain cost.

    Part III: Who I Once Thought You Were

     Who I once thought she was,
 is not who she is now,
 her new identity is now sharper, 
 harsher,
 well defined,
 strikingly and painfully real.
  
 Her care, love, and concern,
 dispersed to other sources,
 grown apart, it does seem,
 new friends in her current life courses.
  
 We were like slippery fish playing together,
 rolling in the deep, 
 enjoying each other’s company,
 slapping our tails playfully, 
 even taking on a curious eel 
 who simply wanted to grin.
  
 Then, prolonged silence, 
 we would no longer speak,
 for an age it would be that we would 
 not bother to take our fill of 
 each other’s words or efforts at counselling.
  
 Disapproval from both ends of the spectrum,
 who knew what was unfolding, if even anything?
 The silences initially made me angered,
 but I would not call, I would not give in.
  
 And so, I observe the changes, 
 not the physical, but the mental and emotional,
 it appears there is a great disconnect 
 and unsurprisingly 
 I can feel the presence of it. 
  
 My fellow slippery finned friend who was 
 once well featured in my life,
 where day by day we shared each other’s moments,
 then side-by-side we fell from one another’s 
 stories, both public and private. 
  
 And now it seems as though we are
 on the way to becoming strangers,
 it’s amazing how these things can unravel,
 this notion of being “best friends”
 it sometimes ends in upheaval. 

 © 2019 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Story: The Most Unique Little Fruitcake You Ever Did Meet – 15/08/19

    Story: The Most Unique Little Fruitcake You Ever Did Meet – 15/08/19

    There was a little fruitcake, who was as fruity and unique as could be. He loved to perform amusing antics, such as jumping high then falling upon splayed feet. Another of his tricks was standing on his head, while barking and picking away at the fruitiness that was inside his form, in order to self taste test. His fruit was very tasty, having been soaked in liquor prior to his baking, the content made him a little inebriated and rather distractedly happy and loopy.

    Fruitcake loved to pop his happy pills, he would carry them wherever he would go, these were filled with corn starch and maize, but also alcohol and sugar, to taste. The combination of the ingredients of these pills made Fruitcake go, “WOW!”, his energy would rise, and his fruitiness would grow. He didn’t need these pills but they aided his cause, to be happier and happier, and fruitier because, that was the point, wasn’t it, to be unique and eccentric, different from the others, so utterly fantastic. He wanted to ensure that if ever anyone had a taste, of him they would cherish his decadence, that this would not go to waste.

    But what of Fruitcake’s mindset, was he of soundness or unbalanced? Did the liquor within him make him a danger to the lot of us, to the residents of town, to the lot of them? Was he a hazard, was he a danger, and was he a harm, should others keep him at a distance, away at the length of an arm? What you need to understand was that he was a slight danger, not to others, but himself, because he was simply of a slightly strange nature. His hyper energy caused people to get going, they would see him striding forth with purpose, then pacing, his energy racing. He needed to get things done as fast as he could, he understood that this was an important point and thing to perform and do.

    Then came the rush of thoughts, this was what happened when he slammed his personal thought door, the area in which he subsisted daily, his thoughts he captured in a small area, then flailing, he would bask in his convoluted thoughts within his mind, swimming in the glory of them, outlandish and grandiose were they of this kind. And then the rapid bundling of words, flying, word vomit, out of his mouth, sometimes he was barely able to catch them, they escaped from his lips, tongue, mouth. He could not stop being verbose, he was always over expressive, in the past, perhaps he was more curt, but this manic slew of words could be oppressive.  

    Then with the excessive highs, aided by his overdosing of happy pills, came the irritation that aligned, with the rise and the falls, and the rise. For with every excessive rollercoaster of emotion Fruitcake experienced, the fruitiness inside him grew and danced. He knew that the irritation would slowly erase, when he caught up on the sleep that he had been direly missing. That was part of the rise, he would lose patience as well as sleep, but the benefits of being fruity meant he could always join in a festively spirited world.

    As an opposing mood, Fruitcake occasionally experienced deep sorrow, in which he would pick at his fruit and eat it with sorrow for days, nights, and tomorrows. It was simply the consequence of overindulging and having his moods so high, Fruitcake knew that when he reached this state, he would remain there for a while. Fruitcake loved how his moods would flit here, and flit there, it was all part of his charm, and of others’ opinions he did not care. He was happy to bounce from one polar end to the opposite, even it meant that the lower times were not so abounding.

    One evening, I believe it was Christmas, Fruitcake was designing, in his own mind, his perfect missus. Rather than focusing on her physical traits, he was designing her from the inside, with her personality traits, to be perfect toward him, to be able to handle his ever changing moods, there to comfort and see. But then Fruitcake decided to stop for a while and indulge in some of his fruitiness within him, and some pills for tea. He was extremely looking forward to this combination; it always served him well, and provided positive brain connections. The pills, along with the fruit were comprised of a dangerous dose, but Fruitcake knew what he was doing, he had performed this often, rightly, he believed, and just so. And pick and pick at his fruit did he, and swallow eight crushed happy pills, this was his delightful tea, and relaxing back into bed now, he understood the next few hours would be a desirous dream, he closed his eyes and of his perfect little cake he thought of, knowing that whatever he believed, most real it would seem.

    Poor Fruitcake felt he was sinking in the middle of the night, his consciousness falling, falling, his grip on reality gone, he was gasping, for freedom of the heavy weight now bearing upon his mind, he felt he was slipping and slipping, and if he let go he would quite possibly die. He had never experienced anything like this before, the waking with a gasp and feeling of a sinking, like an elephant was sitting on his mind, to be sure, to crush any option of the rise, and powerless to fight off its dead weight, he fell deeper and deeper into his unconsciousness, until it was simply too late.

    Or so it seemed, for Fruitcake would live another day, just not that day being too soon, for he was discovered by his roommate, roused for over sleeping, and then with horror, she realised what Fruitcake must have done. With a deep sharp intake of breath, she, shocked, called triple zero, to fetch Fruitcake and rectify what he had done, she hadn’t known that he was so depressed that of this life he wanted to go.

    In the emergency department, Fruitcake awoke confused, why was he in a strange bed in a purposefully whitened, glaringly brightened room, guarded by a burly looking member of security? With his arms folded tightly around his barrel chest, he looked down upon Fruitcake with a mixture of curiousity, and a feeling of “ What is that?”

    “Awake, now?” he said gruffly. 
    “Where am I?” Fruitcake asked, “Am I in hospital?” The guard nodded, then seemingly switched off.

    “But why?” he pressed.

    “Your overdosing may have earned you a place in the inpatient mental health ward,” he replied. “You’re waiting to be assessed by the doctor now.”

    “But, BUT!” he said, a feeling of flailing filling his soul, he hadn’t overdosed, he was simply making his evening meal, he did not wish to be locked up, he couldn’t then do as he pleased, they would take away his freedom, and label him with a mental health condition with great ease.

    When the doctor came, he took away any chance for him to express his truths, twisting his answers into those of someone unwell, of a nature that capitalised upon his thoughts of him being extremely unwell.

    “I’m fine,” Fruitcake insisted. “There is nothing wrong with me!”

    “I beg to differ,” the doctor stated. “From speaking with you, you possess grand delusions, suicidal ideas, and racing thoughts, all under the umbrella of Tricolour Three.” Fruitcake didn’t even know what Tricolour One was, let alone three. But what he did know is that he didn’t fit under any category such as this. He was simply himself, although often inebriated and skittish, he was not depressed, nor wanting to be comatose, he just wished for nice meals of his happy pills and dried fruit treats. Was that so much to ask for, to be himself, and not be labelled with something that surely wasn’t even real? These doctors, making up conditions, why were there even three versions of the illness to be seen? It made no sense, he wished this was just a terribly horrid dream.

    For four and half weeks Fruitcake was in the ward. He always protested that he wasn’t unwell, that they could see it, this was his cause! To highlight to them his completely normal, not abnormal behaviour, yet they kept him there, as long as they could, claiming he needed much help from them. The help basically consisted of being assessed daily by his doctor, and being fed tablets morning and evening, not his happy pill favourites, of course, he’d tried to sneak them in but was caught, oh, what a blunder. Then the sociable activities such as the patients all eating together, and performing daily walks or other activities, perhaps to get them to focus not on themselves, but a holistic approach of healing oneself and all others. Then came discharge date, he was allowed, released, with his bag of chemist goodies to take. His four types of medication that he was now required to swallow, he detested them, they made him heavier and slower, but he was required to conform, to the mental health act, it was so.

    Still remaining in the system of community mental health to this day, Fruitcake knows not to take risks with his mental health and avoids eating his liquor soaked fruit and happy pills popped once frequently throughout the day. With his current medication, he is more focussed now, his moods less erratic, and his depression he now no longer knew of, it is essentially unknown of, not catastrophic. All of his characteristics which he had always thought of as being part of his personality were now firmly controlled, with the assistance of his medication and the mental health system in all its capacity. He could now be in command of himself, no need was there for racing thoughts, he was still the Fruitiest Fruit Cake there was, but reigned in were his temperamental moods and thoughts.

    © 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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