Poems

The chiropractor would snap crackle pop my back

Pat me on the shoulder, say ice and rest, see you in 3 days.

He was the only one who would substantiate the reality of my pain

But he could never get rid of it.

During the day I struggled in silence only telling those closest to me

That the feelings I had in my neck were so intense that I knew something

Had to be wrong. But who am I but the owner of the pain and one doctor after another doctor and pawning me off on yet another doctor kept

telling me that Tylenol and ice would fix my problem.

Twenty four hours kept rolling over into another twenty four hours

And never- not even for a moment did I get relief.

And this went on for years as it became clear that none of the doctors

Believed the reality of my pain. They would read my chart,

See the history of my mental health, read all the pharmaceuticals

I had been on or still was taking and my words became empty.

The validity of what I said was tarnished, false, or just conjured up in a brain they assumed was unable to distinguish between what was real and what was made up in my head. But let me be clear- having bipolar disorder or any mental health issue does not negate physical pain.

Finally one doctor said Let’s get an MRI “just in case”

but never discussed what “just in case” meant.

The cold slab ushered me in a tomb like structure

With noises so loud headphones hardly helped.

I wanted to writhe as the pain magnified, but I was determined to

Lay still to get an accurate picture of something I

Knew had to be real.

The follow up could not come quickly enough

but the wheels of time in the medical community

Are not even close to reality- a reality where a patient

Lives with a thousand questions hoping to get answers.

Finally answers came and a report was concluded that

My spinal cord was caught in my vertebrae- a highly

Dangerous diagnosis as spinal cord injuries can lead to

All kinds of paralysis and even death.

Now the wheels of medicine moved at a pace so rapid

I could hardly keep up. Race to the neurosurgeon, get

Insurance approval, book an operating room, schedule surgery.

For the first time I was believed and my worst fears were correct-

I had always felt something was seriously wrong and it was.

Eight hours on my back, my neck cut open by some incredibly

Steady hands, my vertebrae removed and replaced

With titanium baskets and finished up with a plate

That fused it all together. I would now face limitations

But the unrelenting pain would cease.

For two weeks I remained house bound in order

Not to disrupt the delicate procedure that would bring me relief.

For six months I wore a very hot and cumbersome collar

But I was not taking any chances. This was my one chance to get it right.

Years later I’m so grateful to the machine that is the MRI

Because it didn’t let me down as I had been so many times before.

I got the truth from a doctor saying “just in case”. I don’t know how

to change a broken system or how to teach people

that individuals with mental health problems do in fact have pain

Which is most likely caused by a physical condition and not a mental one.

If I could scream from a roof top or from the pinnacle of a mountain

“We suffer from pain! Believe us!” I would. But time after time and ailment

After ailment I am doubted, I am questioned, I am disregarded

and unfortunately it can entirely endanger one’s life and can even lead to death.

Wake up people, mental illness should not be and must not be equated with lies. I can guarantee you that by the time we finally drag ourselves to a doctor and risk being labeled and unheard we are immensely physically unhealthy. Furthermore being in pain plays a huge part on our already fragile mental health. We become more depressed, more anxious, and more confused as our bodies now betray us and there is no system in place to correct it.

My lion’s mane is swirling around me

as I lay weightless in the sea.

The salt on my lips, fish swim underneath, 

there is a buoyancy that allows me to float

rocking with the waves. I feel the water

but not the ocean.

The ocean is full of creatures, and I become one of them,

but I’m also scared because this space is not mine-

it belongs to the sharks with their teeth and 

the jelly fish with their stretchy tentacles

filled with a poison meant to sting.

The ocean is full of creatures, and I become one of them,

Am I plankton that unknowingly gets eaten 

as their predators just open their mouths

as they search for a meal.

Or am I a tiny fish- eaten by a bigger fish-

eaten by an even bigger fish?

Who is captain of the sea?

Or am I like the mammals-

the playful dolphins, the smiling manatee,

the turtles that swim slowly

with no place to go and never rush

to the surface to part with the water

for a necessary breath of air.

Are there mermaids saving sailors?

Is red at night sailor’s delight actually true?

We live on land surrounded by water that

separates us or joins I’m not really sure.

There are sunken treasures, gold maybe?

Entire ships have fallen down- deep down

to places we cannot see. 

Unpredictable weather takes place 

and tosses the fishing boats

that provide us a feast that we 

fillet or crack open, endless recipes.

There are luxury liners where people

party, eat, and sleep over the water

where the horizon disappears,

trusting the captain and his tools to

navigate the path to the next destination. 

The ocean does not trap us on land.

It’s tides rise and fall, leaving beautiful 

sand landscapes where we lay and 

listen to the waves and see a menagerie 

of boats and watercraft pass by.

So as I lay here in the sea have I joined

the creatures that can not live on land?

Or am I just a visitor, taking a vacation 

in a world not meant for me?

I’m starting a new year, but it is really just another day.

Balloons, champagne, a midnight kiss doesn’t change a thing.

I am still my father’s daughter and he is not here.

It is now 50 years, a half a century, that I have lived without him.

The black and white picture of his face

sits on my desk in a frame that is

the sun on one side and the moon on another-

a reminder that I wake up without him and

go to sleep with only memories of him.

I was so little when he was in my life-

how much can I actually remember?

He would pop me on the kitchen counter

and he would cut vegetables that

I then got to put in the salad bowl.

He would place my bunny in my lap with a carrot

while I watched Sesame Street, but I was jealous because

then he would leave me to watch Hogan’s heros

with my brother in his room.

And then he was gone- was it days or months?

I’m not sure but I was sitting in a church,

words I didn’t understand were spoken,

songs were sung that did not please my ears,

and it ended with a poem.

The poem had rhythm and it had rhymes.

I didn’t understand the meaning,

but it somehow it moved into my heart

and it was the last good bye to my dad.

Moving on through school-

elementary, middle, and high

I gravitated to poetry-

I rewrote books of poetry every summer

and latched on to every word the teacher said

when we would have a brief unit on poems and poets.

I spent entire semesters in college studying

poets, poetry, and creative writing.

Any time spent with poetry for some reason

made me feel a deep urning in the pit of my stomach

and an aching loneliness that made me miss my dad.

My family never talked about my dad,

and my questions and curiosity

were met with indifference and even lies.

I was never given any of his possessions when he passed,

nor were stories shared to keep his memory alive.

All I had was a brown paper bag a quarter full

with pennies that my dad had saved for me for my

seventh birthday, just days before he died.

It wasn’t until my mom passed that I went through

boxes of papers and some really damaged photos

that I got a new glimpse of my dad.

The most precious item I found in that box were

letters from my dad to his foster sister.

My dad was in an asylum for trying to commit suicide,

as he apparently suffered from severe depression,

and he wrote these letters begging his sister to

help take care of his kids. He was undergoing

electric shock therapy with the hopes that

he would someday return to his kids.

Every word in every letter was carefully crafted or not,

but they had a cadence, a rhythm, a style that was

poetic and beautiful. The words embraced me

like a hug. His words were so unique,

it was like a fingerprint that not only did he have

but that he had passed onto me. His phrases

were identical to my phrases- his juxtoposition

of words was identical to mine.

I FOUND MY FATHER!

OR DID MY FATHER FIND ME?

My appreciation for EE Cummings, Walt Whitman, and others

had become my surrogate fathers, but now

I had my own father, and I am his daughter.

Every poem I write, every metaphor, ever simile,

that both came and still comes pouring

on to pages in front of me carries

the spirit of my Dad.

Am I complete now?

No never.

But what was once an incredible aloneness,

a mystery, an enigma has been solved.

I write like my father, for my father,

and although he sits in a frame on my desk

and I am still without him when I wake and when I sleep,

I write every word on every page with his spirit

guiding me and sharing his wisdom of words with me.

Everyday there lingers an anxiety

which in itself is a problem

but it stems from the fact that

at some point I will try to sleep.

Sleep is not overrated it is essential.

Without sleep I bustle around in a foggy haze

or is it a daze? I count the hours- the minutes

that will bring the time when I can attempt sleep again.

Lie down, fluff the pillows, pick the perfect blanket,

set the thermostat for optimum comfort.

I coder to sleep, i beg for it, i stay quiet

trying to coax what should be inevitable-

but it isn’t.

At night worry kicks in as there limited hours

for the rest I need to have a productive day.

Turn on the tv to drown out the thoughts-

good or bad that occupy my head racing around

like a merry-go-round just circling

or flying loose like a runaway roller coaster car.

Sometimes 600 milligrams is enough

sometimes it isn’t- some people take

200 milligrams and can’t get off the couch.

I feel like a sheep wrangler. Catching some ZZZs

is like trying to catch the bubbles made

by the wands held by little kids.

Melatonin- check. No caffeine after noon- check.

What are the secrets to a good night’s sleep?

Routine- check. Early to bed early to rise

circadian rhythm- nature’s clock

why does it mess with me?

As daytime comes to a close, I see the animals

putting themselves to bed, the stars rise-

tiny flickers of light that appreciate the need for dark.

But my darkness also rises leaving me in limbo.

Will REM come tonight or will tomorrow

be plagued with yawns and fatigue?

I close my eyes and tell myself to just rest.

Is it the pain in my hip, the pain in my shoulder,

the constant tingling and burning in my feet

that no one can diagnose that perhaps

prevent a good slumber?

It’s ok I tell myself-

tomorrow is another day

followed by another night

I try my hardest to release the anxiety

That keeps me awake.

It doesn’t matter how many doors you open

or how many you close

what route you take or

how many times you change direction.

It follows you like a shadow on a sunny day

or a ghost in the dark

Issues with Mental health means a brain diseased

with highs and lows, and once in a while the elusive

but yearned for plateaus.

Give me a boring life,

teach me how to become numb,

practice and practice through the birthdays

and experiences meant to teach me a lesson.

But the rain does not wash away the tears

and the Sun does not shine on the aching soul.

We all struggle in some way at some point in life.

Sometimes the struggles get better

and something good comes from something bad.

But sometimes the wrestling of rational and irrational thoughts

become and everlasting plague- and plagues often kill-

maybe not the physical body but they can be the death of a spirit

even though the spirit is a constant energy that fights for life.

How does it end? Does it ever end?

In the half century I have lived it does not.

There are masks in the beautiful things in life

but underneath there remains a current like

electricity that ravages the biological and the spiritual

that tempts me to trust the light but I know with a flick of the switch

it all becomes dark.