Normal life
is something unknown to me.
When I was in 3 East,
many of the people there
were trying to come off
something or other
legal, or otherwise.
The screams made the
flesh crawl. Personally,
I sat on my bed at night
listening to the lady next
to me screaming her lungs
out, and I
fought
the urge to
either rip my eyeballs out
or go in her room
and slit her fucking
throat with a piece
of broken glass.
I know it's hard to quit;
I've had to do it. But,
we get used to our labels;
they're convenient excuses
when we need them to be
I couldn't help putting $7,000
on the credit cards - I'm
Manic Depressive.
Yeah, that'll carry you for
awhile, but at some point,
at some point,
you may find yourself
out on your ass
all on your own
you've used up your last card
and what'cha going to do then?
huh?
I long for things. I long for
things I can't begin to
describe, but while I am
affected chemically, I
ultimately need to assume
responsibility for my
actions
and
if love counts
and life counts
then
I can't be a sleepwalker.
I have to
choose,
lie down with my choices,
make my efforts,
try to get better,
live to see my
illness,
not through crazed eyes,
but through the eyes
of a shared language -
reconstructed
depths of
wholeness.