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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