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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Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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