Recovery: A Broken Psyche, a poem by Drem

 

Recovery: A Broken Psyche, a poem by Drem

Written June 23, 2016

“I don’t know when mine started breaking.

I will say it wasn’t a beautiful event.

It just sort of happened.

Not out of nowhere.

Though still unexpected.

And nobody saw it

even though it ran deep

on both sides of the family.

And even the doctors

with all their degrees

were completely oblivious

to what ugly was going on

inside of me

and to the root cause

of why I like

to ever so much

rip my body apart.

And why my happiest dreams

are those of me

not existing.

See, I haven’t been living

for a really long time.

Breathing doesn’t count as life.

I’ve been breathing

but dead for years.

Living with these,

these ups and these downs-

Land legs on water

and fisherman feet on land.

Never steady anywhere.

From shut-in and phone off

to insomnia and starvation for vanity’s sake.

Shades down and bloody arms

to the world’s best friend.

Flash, FLASH, flash PTSD

to pills, pills, pills and dreamless sleeps.

I must have missed a lot of time.

I haven’t been around.

I can’t remember most of it,

though that’s not the worst thing in the world.

I don’t want to remember

what I do so clearly remember.

What does slip out, I shove back down

because it’s very sad.

With whatever I can grab I grab-

prayer, pill and/or blade.

Still what a lot of time I’ve lost

that depression has taken from me.

A lot of missing days…

I’ve been getting really high

to try to remove

myself from my body

and see things otherwise unknown.

Or things forgotten.

(That sounds too fancy. I’ve just been using medical weed).

Things that happened

during my orange bottle days.

The synthetic drugs I was on before

put me in a purple slumber

where all the people mumbled

and walked around slowly in gray

and the world was covered in static

like a bad TV channel.

I didn’t know what was going on.

I didn’t even know I didn’t know.

So, yeah.

I’ve been removing myself from my body.

Figuring out, or trying to figure out,

the turning point.

My mom’s psychotherapist

says we’re all formed by the age of 3.

I don’t know what was going on then.

But if that is the case, some sick shit happened

in those three short years.

 Whatever happened, happened.

Whenever it did, it did.

Whatever the case,

I’m still in recovery

for having a cracked psyche.

And I’ve learned doctors

really don’t know shit about real life.

And I’ve learned psych wards

aren’t a safe place to get better.

And real life

might not be worth living.

But it’s something else to do

to kill the time

I’m fighting.”

(C) Drem 2016

http://www.ArtOfDrem.com

 


 

This poem was inspired by Broken Mind by Opinionated Man.

Featured image is by James R Eads. Please look up his stuff. I do not own this print myself. But, I am an avid collector.


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