ON MENTAL ILLNESS

Voices are not sweeties.

But they could be “onjects,” quavers, syllabubbles, sonic machinations at the periphery of sound.

The pills I pop meanwhile in motley conglomerations like pool balls or song-cells could be “poetry buttons.”

Mental hospital could be Monopoly Jail.

I used to say the nature of visionary experience is not amenable to the dialectic of sickness and recovery, the language of sterile medicalese; that one’s sickness is more congenial than one’s health unto those in charge of one’s health for monetary reasons, meaning Big Pharma, who can advertise anywhere and with-hold a cure until the price is right…

but now I see the illness is not a conspiracy.

The men in white coats may diagnose on form not content, may not be happy until you become a cabbage, but the illness is real.

That’s why I like my medication.

The empty packets build up so fast, as days become weeks, weeks months and months years.

Even literature could be seen as a machine for remembering to take your medication.

Some progressive doctors say medicine is a waste of packaging – meaning they can reach you somehow in your distress.

I would say in the writing life of a mentally ill patient, watch our for repeat prescriptions between the lines.

In mental illness you read into things too much, to support your own narrative of fear.