Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
b e mccomb Oct 2016
scared is not
a good enough
word for how
i'm feeling

peeking through
a crack in the
curtain of who
i am as a person

(like a dumb
teenage boy
hoping to see
some girl's skin)


and being
surprised to find
the lights on and
no one home

(not that i should
find that surprising
when i haven't seen
myself around town)


like i moved onto
the back porch of
a stranger and never
went back home

(sleeping in the weather
and knowing that i've
chosen to be homeless
in pursuit of a feeling)


trapped in a
small town
by small mentalities
of who i should be

getting drunk and
laid while wishing
i was burning trash
alone in the woods

(the long
and short
of it is
i lost myself
or that i never really
had myself at all)


we hold onto
things and places
people and faces
that feel like home
even if we don't love them
even if they don't love us
because we want security
while growing up


(can't shake the memories
from dresses hanging
in the backs of closets
clinging like that knockoff
pink perfume that took
last shreds of innocence)


and i'm scared
i'm ******* scared
of being
okay

because i've  hung
onto my sadness
like i hung onto
an old hoodie

(walked hand in
hand with darkness
the only thing i've
always had to fall on)


and now i'm standing
tapping on the window
trying to figure out if
the person i'm looking
for is hiding behind the
stacked moving boxes
if they were ever here
in the first place

i don't see her
but i have to find her
and i can't escape
i can only drag
myself up with a
questionable safety harness
determination and
broken fingernails

**this is ativan up
not ativan out
Copyright 10/11/16 by B. E. McComb
heavily inspired by the album Under The Cork Tree by Fall Out Boy and what's rattling around in my head tonight.
Thomas W Case Jan 2021
Often, when I'm on the
streets, decaying in *****-
degradation of the soul,
I go under the bridge and watch
the ducks.
Sometimes I talk to them.
They don't talk back.
Some days, it's the only
beauty I can see.
I think and dream of
a different world.
A land without
brutal lunacy.
I can handle madness.
It's the wicked,
smiling hatred that I
can do without.
The Iowa River beckons
me to come swim-
float blissfully to heaven.
But I know better.
Katie and Perry drowned not
far from where I sat.
It's usually at this time that
I'm fresh out of bread for
the ducks and I have milked the *****
bottle for all it's worth, that a
warm blanket of a thought comes to
me- I need help- go to the hospital.
I stumble my way there,
sometimes by ambulance.
I go through nightmarish withdrawals.
At around the third day, I get a
laptop from the patient library.
I catch up with neglected family
and friends, then I try to write.
The first four days, my mind is
like a smashed snail.
But usually, the magic comes back.
The muse kisses me gently, and I
put the shaking pen to the paper.
I can order whatever food I
want between 6 am and 8 pm.
I discovered years ago that they
have phenomenal cheesecake.
So when I'm able to eat, it's the
first thing I order.
My withdrawals are deadly.
Diastolic blood pressure
numbers like 103,109.113.
So they give me Ativan.
It helps tremendously- Ativan and cheesecake.
**** the muse's ****, then more
Ativan and cheesecake.
If I'm lucky, I'll turn out a
poem or two-like this one right now.
brandon nagley May 2015
Ativan hits me,
                          Panic leaves me,
As a lover to her train!!!

Ativan smooths me,
                                   Midday fantasy,
I float,
Float,
Float,
Float,

Carried away by its alleviation leisure!!!!
samasati Mar 2013
there, your bed is rocking
as it cradles another woman
beneath your chest
lips beneath your lips
I’m not sure if I care or not
I do a little bit
but I signed up for this without hesitation
a part of me wonders if there was hesitation
in your head
when you heard the front door squeak open
and my bedroom light turn on,
then quickly go out as I shut the door behind me
you’re not loud at all
but it’s 12:47
and I knew you were seeing her tonight
I knew you don’t usually fall asleep this early
I knew I would be coming home to this
I knew I’d have to face what I thought I’d be fine facing
but the ativan is kicking in
boy am I glad I brought it with me
and I’m not sure if I can hear her moaning
or if that’s just a car vrooming past my window outside
a lot of people call this kind of situation
****** up
or extremely strange
I don’t feel ****** up
maybe I feel a little strange
I’m just starting to question
so much,
everything
it’s healthy but it’s hurting
not as sharp as betrayal hurts,
because I’m not being betrayed in any way
it’s just the fogginess of confusion  
that makes you not know where you’re going
and it’s that familiar stagnancy and going-in-circles routine
that has begun to wring my head around
and my heart too, ever so slightly
but I’ll sigh instead of cry this time
not because I’m forcing back tears
but because I really don’t need them right now
and I’m okay
as long as I’m still wanting to live
and truth be told,
I am still wanting to live
because I need nothing but myself, really
that’s the truest truth there is
I’m fine, though a bit torn
but I’m fine and that’s basically all that matters
tread Sep 2013
winter creeps
like Rastafarian
dreadlocks

3, 4th, intervals
calmer then an
Ativan pill.
NitaAnn Sep 2013
I'm done! Overdone! BURNT TO A CRISP!

I am so sick of people looking THROUGH ME!
I spend all day…every single day… attending to the needs of others! Work demands...there's always a fire to put out, 250 people to deal with, each having his/her own special 'need' or demand that must be met, no matter what.

"Nita, I need this information now!"

"Nita, they don't understand, they take advantage of me, I need your support."

"Nita, I realize this isn't much time, but can you pull this together by Friday?"

"Nita, I understand they made a mistake, but can you just correct it?"

"Nita, can you please do 'this' for me, my child is sick, I received some bad news, I just need a favor, you're the 'favorite' - he listens to you....." and on and on and on...

Then home demands...get the kids up, clean the house, do the laundry…and on and on it goes…

After work: dinner, walk and feed the dog, do the dishes…and on and on it goes…

"Mom, can I have some ketchup."

"Mom, can I have some more milk."

"Mom, can you help me find my toothbrush"

"mom, can you...mom, can you...mom, can you..."

Friends need consoling, flowers need watering, dog needs petting, kids need tucked in, husband needs attention...I need a DRINK!

No one ever asks how "Nita" is doing.

No one says, "How was your day, Nita?"

No one says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Just ignore me, as though I'm no longer here.

Dear husband goes to bed, falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, while I stay up, take ativan after ativan...wash down with a glass or two of wine...just pray for it to END! All of it!

My chest is constricted, my breathing is shallow - I HURT ALL OVER! I'm exhausted but cannot sleep. Does anyone even notice? No...

Last night, took pills, tried to **** the pain, the voices, the hopelessness...I picked up yet another glass of wine, looked at it and a fleeting thought told me that I probably shouldn't drink it - that I had taken too many ativan, that it probably wouldn't be good...but I didn't even care. I just needed PEACE & QUIET!

From the outside world, and the inside turmoil. I woke up at 3am, outside on the swing...did anyone come to check on Nita? No - because no one cares, that's why.

I've known since I was 5 years old that I was born to serve others. My needs don't matter...most days I try to forget that I even have needs. Of course, thank you therapist for reminding me that it's "okay" to feel, and to have needs…because that actually hurts even worse! Actually feeling "needy" for a minute but no one gives a ****!

I want to disappear. I want to cease to exist. I want OUT of this "Contract"...I need to know what the rights of termination are!

Because I'm DONE!

FINISHED!

Je suis fait!

Sono Fatto!

Estoy hecho!

Ich bin fertig!

and...in the white trash language I grew up with:
F$%K IT! I'm finished!

It doesn't even matter anymore…In fact, it never did!

I never mattered, I am worth nothing....that's the way it's always been, that's the way it is now, and how it will always be...if there's nothing to look forward to in the future, but more of the same, I say, why bother?

No one would notice my absence....well, until they needed something.

There's no "life worth living"! It doesn't exist! Face it, Nita, your father f$%ked you up beyond repair! Throw me out with last week's leftovers! I can't do it anymore!
NitaAnn Jan 2014
I often wonder if anxiety manifests in your body in a physical sense. I feel despondent today…I’ve been nauseous all day. I lack the enthusiasm and energy to do anything. I am fearful every evening of what will come in the night. I know I should just grit my teeth and push through this phase. ..but l currently lack the fervor and oomph.

Darkness has closed in. My body feels like it’s filled with lead. I am exhausted physically and mentally. I’m walking in the rain and the wind caught under my umbrella and pummeled me into a brick wall. I am constantly fighting against the winds. The winds of my fear, my anxiety, my hopelessness and shame…and the anger, holy smokes! The horrible anger that overwhelms me.

I don’t sleep, the darkness invades my dreams. When I do finally fall asleep, it’s only a half sleep. I toss and turn and wake up multiple times during the night.

So much of what I feel is irrational and the logical part of my brain tells me that – but Ms. Logic can’t win against Ms. Scared –Angry (she has a hyphenated last name). I need help – I know that. I know that I am not “me” and I am not in control of us, not anymore. I know that the strength and spirit and determination I had has been drained from me.

I have been thinking terrible thoughts at night. Thoughts like: what if I just take the entire bottle of ativan and chase it down with a chug of *****. It isn’t about suicide – I assure you, it’s about making it stop! It’s about stopping the crazy voices inside my head; it’s about killing the physical and mental pain in my body. I realize how twisted that sounds…like the mentality of an ‘addict’. Something I never want to be.

I never wanted to be ‘this’ woman. I used to be strong – a fighter! And I have been through worse! But I feel like a runner who hit the wall. I just don’t feel like I can push forward anymore, not now. Thinking about the darkness that overwhelms me at night is like looking down the barrel of a shot-gun. I just wait for the bullet to come…wait for the past to start ravaging my body and my mind once again. And I hate it! I hate it! I hate the voices, I hate the feeling that he’s here with me. I hate the way my body aches, the way my hips hurt and my chest feels tight. I hate the way my breathing gets shallow and I hate that I can’t seem to stop it. DT said I should be able to stop it. I don’t understand why I can’t do that. Why can’t I do it?

I feel so anxious so sad and scared. I am such a disappointment. I’m so ashamed of myself. People tell me how inspired they are by my courage and perseverance, and here I am…thinking of overdosing on anti-anxiety and sleeping meds. I need help. I’m so ashamed. This isn’t me – I don’t even know who this is. What do I need to do? I don’t know what the answer is. All I know is that I need something – something to hold on to. I’m overwhelmed by fear and darkness. Thunder and lightning are raging in my head ALL OF THE TIME! And I’m scared.

The SI is back, and I’m so utterly disgusted with myself for falling back into that! But like an alcoholic, I cannot stop after I make that first cut. The endless crying is back – it’s all back with a vengeance! The deep hole inside of me is growing like a cancerous tumor. It’s so hard to even stay alive and no one gets it. Each day is more and more difficult to get out of bed, there isn’t a better day now – and there isn’t another escape that I can think of. This is killing me anyway – a slow painful death, eating me from the inside out – what’s the difference? Why hang on for more pain, when I could just take a bottle of ativan and stop it myself. Take control of my own destiny. I just don’t know how much more I can take – I’m drained, worthless, helpless, sad, angry, disgusted, self-destructive…I hate it! I hate all of it! And I need it to STOP!

I am an evil, bad, mean, nasty girl! Father was right. I am terrible! I don’t deserve love or care. I am undeserving. Hopeless. It is hopeless. There’s nothing left. I’m too tired. I can’t bleed or puke the badness out of me. It won’t leave!
If you even read this I am not writing to cause concern and alarm. I am writing this because this is it! This is my struggle… this is a transparent and honest account of what I’m feeling. I realize everyone has their struggle – this is mine. There cannot be hills without valleys – but I’m caught in a landslide! I don’t know what I’m asking for… I just can’t seem to face it anymore. Prayer? Strength? Faith? I’m so flipping sick and tired!
Dina?
Deanna?
Deena?

What was her name?
A diminutive of something
Or a shortening.
And I don’t even think that I am close

I miss you.

a small concrete table
white
a group of girls
Smoking and smoking and smoking
Trading lipgloss
I don’t remember what we talked about

But I do remember that the meds made you so
Hungry
“Are you gonna eat that?”

That’s how it begins in such places
Passing off a cig
Or trading processed food
Or just giving it away.

Have a lie down
or hand over the pill stored in your cheek
for someone
needier.

You said after your second plateful of anything
Make sure you let me know if I start getting fat

I tried not to follow you around
We had breakfast
Cigarette breaks
lunch and dinner
I could have sat with you all day and night

But I let you roam like a yearling
talking too much to too many people
Spinning around in the hallways
The skinny girl
on the floor doing a striptease on her back
in the streaming sunlight
I could tell
That you got paid for this at some point
Even the imaginary boa scared these boys

You loved to talk about God
I, however, do not

You loved a ****** ******
They were your favorite
and would reminisce with the junkies
Always sitting close-by
You claimed that you could make a man cry
By what you could do to his body
I can only imagine
what you’ve done so far
At your age
and you have a kid

I know
that you’re frightened
to be alone
with your mother
She’s so small
You wouldn’t want to hurt her

And I see her
that one time
with candies and soda
that you made her bring from
the 99 cent store to share
with all these people that don’t like you
that she is
a tiny thing
Yes
anyone could crush her
I see your point.

Deena
Dina
Deana

I can’t remember your name

You’d wake me for breakfast
Or, I you
You said the voices never stop in your head
Not just voices but other strange noises too
You acted like it was
a drag
But in fact you were **** scared

I can hear sounds too I offered
Bells
And Strings
Faint Voices calling my name
Offering succinct advice
Can’t everyone?
Leaning against a wall
with you at my feet
I saw your head snap
To the right
I said
Don’t worry
I heard that too
And you were so relieved
You grasped my feet in gratitude

You said that you are three.
Dread is the bad one
a male
And another
a ****** female who’s name
I can’t remember either
I suggested that there were more
Perhaps.
I met the ***** and I did not like her
at all
In anger I returned your sweatshirt
And you said
You know she’s terrible
I told you that
Take back the shirt
It’s cold

The men here don’t understand
our
Relationship
They assume that it’s lovey
Their minds are blown by
Companionship in difficult circumstances
Holding hands might help you through
You never know until you try

You loved to have arguments over the Bible
I would make a lot of noise to shut it down
I cannot listen to that
You would talk on that phone on the wall
With the father of your child
About god
You missed your boy’s
first day
of kindergarten
You called him on that phone to make sure that he got the plastic truck
or some such toy in your absence

I wonder when you gave up your life
When an injection of Ativan in your ***
and a night
In an darkened empty room
Bound
became an ideal resolution.
You couldn’t figure out
why you had a lump on your head
And I explained that
it was the result of
banging it repeatedly
against the wall.
Side effects of Lorazepam include:
Little recall

You seemed to have a plan.
Visiting and writing up the coast
The Dean Moriarty of Hospitals
But what about your kid?
The doctors say you can’t leave until you’re well
I couldn’t even tell what’s wrong exactly
Or what he’s really trying to tell you
Other than too much too soon
But that’s every girl in LA
Isn’t it?
You said that
It
Emerged at age 24.

I think about your son.
I can’t believe that you have one.
And your mother
Who adopted you.
What did she in fact bring home?

Deanna.
Dina.

When they called to say that my car was here
That I could go
You covered my neck
With kisses
And said Thank You Thank You
I Don’t Know
What I Would Have Done Without You

What is your name?

Dee.
D.
Just the letter.
I remember
Thank you.
Alison Shulman Mar 2016
I think I may be becoming a functioning drug addict
although I don't know if it's technically an addiction if the doctors still giving it to me, or that's what I say anyways because I don't want to admit to anyone that I might have a problem
because if I admit it they might take it away
and I don't want that

I know that sounds like something a drug addict would say but I don't really need them all that much, I just like them for when life gets hard
and I can't handle the world
and I don't feel like a person
they bring me back to normal

you decided to text me after we hadn't talked in 7 weeks 6 days 15 hours and 39 minutes and my heart sank to my stomach and I felt my breathing stop and I chewed up two tiny little pills because I needed to work and be a functioning person that day

when I finally responded you said you were just wondering how I'd been and even though I've been well before now all I could do was cry so I chewed up six more in an attempt to get you off my mind and I fell into a dreamy paradise where nothing was real, not even me

I had dinner with my grandma and as an appetizer I had two more tiny white pills so I could mask the face that would tell her how much I've been thinking about death
I think it worked

I wrote a note in my journal saying to only take 2 so when I couldn't sleep that's what I did but I found one in my bed and so I took that one too and I drifted off into nothingness without you rattling around my brain

I think I may be a functioning drug addict, but I'm not ready to tell anyone because I'm not ready to stop
Robert Zanfad Dec 2013
there's a fat plastic tube taped sub-clavian carrying ruby fluid
from a clear bag that hangs overhead
draining mysteries of modern alchemy
into your body, its lifetime measured, silent droplets
inside a hermetically sealed hourglass we can only watch, not touch
but they don't change you

by protocol your nurse wore her nitrile gloves doubled-up
lest she get this stuff on her fingers - it's toxic -
advised you to flush the toilet twice,
making certain to eliminate stray molecules that might
be exposed to sitting innocents

i should be in the next chair, holding your hand

we might share complimentary raspberry danish,
stare at a silent TV on the wall
as it broadcasts flashing pictures of calamity from
the latest war or storm savaged country
but we’ve been living there for years already
our home not populous enough to draw serious media attention;  

we’d wrestle sips of anemic coffee from free paper cups
yours going into a red can when you've finished
because that brilliant color insinuates itself into saliva, eventually
as it does to blood and *****;
i could take mine home

i'd read moving captions at the bottom of the screen
to know what's going on in the images
while you'd feign interest in this tedious world and remind me, again,
how life is tenuous

ask me the name of that dripping liquid just to see if i was listening,
an appellation alien - if life were fair it would be easier
but i’d get the pronunciation wrong
maybe it could be a French word i remember reading to you from a menu in Paris
we might paste it thickly, soft cheese onto torn chunks of baguette
savored between sips of cabernet from long stemmed glasses;
pronounce it “good” as if we could own it

****** and gigolette -
we’d stolen the whole earth that moment,
grinning like a pair of cat burglars at a cafe table where i'd held your hand
but here we are, old again, bitter enemies
for the moment, i'm glad for Ativan and Motrin,
the only names i can remember from your tray of saltines and ginger ale

instead, i'm sitting alone at home with cigarettes and bourbon,
more congenial poisons
staring at a white, unmoving ceiling, pretending I’m working
we're like that, you know, tug and tow - where you go,
i'm heart-bound to follow
Doctor Jack insists i'll live much longer, a little sicker after
i might adjust expectations for a worn-out liver, headaches,
possible blood pressure elevations; short warnings written on the label

while yours smile, with more tricks than carnival barkers
they say, now, a handful - or only two - more tricks up their sleeves,
the grinning, white-coated thieves
Jack smiles, pats my hand, a warm man

smoking is prohibited in the clinic
i'd hang from the window ledge to get the next nicotine fix,
but it won't open to alive, mowed grass outside -
these proceedings always sequester hidden behind curtains in private,
a secret art of undertakers doctoring flesh to look still-living,
love making in mid-evening darkness we've long forgotten

i’d draw deeply chemically-treated air, forget it’s now happening
remind myself a paternal need to stay healthy for survivors
while trying to avoid living in midst of your horrors,
a preoccupation that subsumes my mind

if you’re right - and you always are - how could i bury you?
when the dog died,
i dug her hole in our garden myself, deep through tree roots to bedrock,
then beyond, depth a measure of devotion;
carved a stone with my own fingernails, her name in a crossed heart
and we two cried like shivering babies
as we shoveled all the dirt back in to cover her

these are words of a weak man, selfish ******* that i am
and really, all of life's slumped over in my lap right now,
just this little girl sleeping
but i should be in the next chair
if you'd only let me sit there
again
samasati Sep 2013
what am I supposed to do?
I’m high on ativan
but that’s a secret
and it’s not the kind of person
I am anyway;
I promise, sometimes in life, there are acceptable exceptions --
a big fat scary monster has swallowed me up
whole
and I feel like Pinocchio
in the musky dark,
in the stomach of terror;

did you know
I bought 3 books today,
they’re classics
and were on sale,
"how perfect," I thought, "something to read on the plane; something to read over and over again for a whole year abroad."
but my suitcase is empty
apart from the three paperbacks,
intimidating me
and I’d honestly rather die and never hear anyone talk ever again than pack for a whole year

this is a poem of fear
but that’s a secret, though I’m sure
the consumed ativan
clearly gave that away;
— I’m moving
to the complete opposite end of
the world —
Kimmy-Nichole Apr 2011
oh yuh
***** dubstep bumping like an 808
partying like a rockstar

marijuana molly ***** nyquil ativan adarall
baby bash
waka flocka bumping super H E L L - UH loud
the party downstairs

will be raging with under age kids all night -
here we go again

the peeping land lord- and the drunnk guy outside my bathroom
the sketchy anti social other room mate
the 2nd story appt
and the kids downstairs partying like i did when i was 19


wait a minute

i am way to old for this ****
Sjr1000 Feb 2016
When
cheaters and liars
rise to the top of the polls

When genocidal speech
wanna be torturers
let their goals unfold
advocating killing relatives
Something every drug lord knows

When words don't mean anything
Images are everything
When words and images disconnect
When words don't work

It's what we call psychosis
in the psych biz

We're all thinking
That can't happen here

A cousin they call Germany
Refined
Civilized
Educated
Defined art
Music
Ethics

Found out exactly what every **** head
knows when you go too far
There's gonna be advanced window patrol
Getting out the duct tape
Wrapping up the house
Can't let any light
in or out
You may end up in leather restraints
On a plastic sheet on a metal bed

America better call the crisis hotline
Stand in line for same day services

5150/Legal 2000/72 hour commitment
Being a danger to self and others
Rapidly becoming gravely disabled

Hold on, I'll write that Hold now

Bring out the atypicals
Risperdal Zyprexa Serequil
Take an Ativan
Take a Zanax
**** it take a ******

If you don't come back down now
Find the ground

You'll be okay
In a decade or three
The suffering of course
Will be burns in the third degree

Psychosis can be unkind

All civilizations have their day
Incline
Recline
Decline

It can't happen here?
Chaotic brutality knocking on the door
You gotta know what's in store

We need an intervention
Breathe it back on in
It can still be okay

Reality check

Words sometimes mean something
And people sometimes mean what they say

And though
Images dissolve
Evolve
Fracture and split

Those that are seeing and hearing
What's going on
are holding their breath
Wondering how crazy it's really all gonna get.
anonymous Jan 2012
I should love you as an eight year old,
asking to be excused from your third grade class
to go throw up in the bathroom.
Leaning over your desk in fevered prayer,
hunched over two tender nubs of breast.
Sitting down with your counselor
and a pack of giggling girls to have “the talk”
while bleeding into a *** of toilet paper.

I should love you as a twelve year old,
blue eyes lined and lipstick smudged.
Crouched behind the bushes, expelling chunks
of non-digested pizza and coke.
Taking two bottles of tylenol and laying down
on your kitchen floor, watching the broiler burn.
Calling your boyfriend, and whispering
so your mom won’t hear
“I love you, I hate you, don’t go, leave me to die”

I should love you as a fourteen year old,
thin as a pencil, hair black and straight
Walking with a humming in your head
to your eighth grade classes, slipping away
to the library and reading books on dying
and so you steal a bottle of ativan
from your grandfather’s medicine cabinet.
You take 10.

I should love you as you are now.
Seventeen, eyes darkened to a jade,
and burnt out on suicide attempts.

But I don’t.
here comes number two
this time I didn’t want to be through
this is the second overdose
at least I’m not comatose

first I had this headache
but then I felt my back ache
my hands were kinda trembling
my legs wouldn’t stop bending

my head began to tighten
my mom needed to be enlightened
I tried to talk with her
all my words were blurred

they asked if they could help in a way
I just needed to keep my body at bay
it was hard to breathe
I knew I needed to leave

in the car came more spasms
I don’t think she even fathomed
this is what happens you see
when you need meds to be

they ask me how much I took
to overdose on lithium
I just gave an astonishing look
I didn’t do this for fun

I’m here because I’m seizing
on a dose that was wrote
by my doctor you see
so I could finally be
normal to me.

you just lay me here to quiver
and you’re in here faking
this alarm is awakening
BP one forty three over ninety four
I’m convulsing, almost to the floor
my heart rate is up to one fifty
this could not be anymore ******

you wanna give me ativan
after I tell you they said no benzos
plus I’m on this other,
atypical antipsychotic
oh, I forgot to mention that other overdose.
I don’t need to frolic
in a white pill sea
that’s now beneath me

I just want this to stop.
this constant convulsing
the unwanted tightening
it goes from bottom to top

over an hour later
it finally chose to stop
when the blood work was fine
my heart was on a normal line
Astor Feb 2016
i feel like melted butter
and i wont remember anything in the morning
if you want to use me tell me
SheOfNeverland Feb 2014
I didn't know his name
Though it still would be the same
Had I known I'd be in pain
I never would have played his game.
I didn't know I'd die
When I looked him in the eye
If I had I might have cried
But of course, like most, he lied.
He told me I'd feel good
That I'd feel the way I should
With what happiness I could
I proudly told him that I would.
So I tried it and I loved it
And I wanted some more of it
Down my throat I tried to shove it
The feeling others seem to covet.
Feet are high above the ground
I'm lost and don't want to be found
There are words, I hear no sound
My heart and soul no longer bound.
Soon the buzz wears weak and thin
And the pain comes from within
Now the withdraw will begin
And we prepare for our next sin.
I'm so glad he introduced us
I don't care that he seduced us
With this new love that I feel
I'll never care for what is real.
Thomas W Case Mar 2023
Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.

I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.

The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t  
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?

I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.

The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan.  Everything is a  
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.

I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.

He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color.  He’s a young  
drunk;
a madman and a  
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.

Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a  
cerebral prison.

The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a  
hospital room.
NitaAnn Sep 2013
Just pray harder, Nita....

I have been on edge and triggered all day long…actually all week now…there are a variety of reasons…and the mere fact that it is almost the  weekend tends to steer me toward the ’bad place’ – and I am falling quickly into the darkness tonight.

There’s no comfort tonight, other than in a bottle of wine and a pill box full of ativan...the therapist would tell me, “Nita, there is no reason to be scared. Find your safe place. Listen to your grandmother’s soothing voice.” Nothing to fear? Are you serious? And the safe place comment always cracks me up! Do you really think there was any place ‘safe’ to go then? Where the hell would I find safety in a 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom, filthy trailer? There was NOsafe place. There was no place to hide! Except inside my head.

I should pray about it. That’s what my very religious grandmother would tell me. ”Just ‘pray harder’ Nita.” God answers prayers. Just pray harder, Nita…pray harder. My grandmother was very religious and very private. Don’t ever air your ***** laundry to anyone, well, with the exception of God. Pray harder Nita…pray harder…

Why didn’t God every answer MY prayers?

Why is that?

Because I wasn't "good enough"?

Because I didn't pray LOUD enough?

Because I didn’t pray HARD enough?

Because no one cared!!!!!!

That's why!

No one really cares now either…throw it all in a container, spray some holy water on it, drop to your knees and PRAY.

DON'T you dare tell me that my fear isn't 'real'. Don't you dare tell me that you ‘care’! No one does! And it doesn't matter anyway - no one can accept the 'unacceptable' - apparently not even GOD!

My grandmother was loving...yes, she rocked me, she sang to me when I was sick - she spent every night with me when I was in the hospital repeatedly for recurring kidney infections... because kids that get f@#ked tend to develop recurring UTIs which left untreated lead to bladder infections which then lead kidney infections. She was THERE! But she NEVER asked me! EVER! No one did!
But I guarantee you she fell to her knees every single night and PRAYED for her f@#ked up alcoholic son and her ******* up grandkids.

Just pray harder, Nita. Just pray harder!

Yeah - I should get down on my knees RIGHT NOW! And PRAY For f@#king  RELIEF!

If I'm still breathing tomorrow you'll know HE heard me!
manicsurvival Aug 2013
I worry that the only reason I have to write is because no one will listen to me
I can't leak my thoughts to my psychologist or psychiatrist or parent because I know that my words aren't safe and that legality triumphs anything I say
I know that I'm like lava at its boiling point, about to erupt
I know that I'm self destructive and that things are only getting worse
I have so much to say, maybe if I told the entirety of the truth, I could be helped
But I fear the corrupt system too much
And I don't want to say anything to my parents because they have watched my prolonged mental distress and they have seen my breakdowns and hysterical fits and they've heard my screams
I've been medicated
SSRIs and Xanax and Ativan and Prozac and Klonopin and Lexapro
I've spent hours in a therapist's office, only to censor my life and hear a psychology major regurgitate everything I already know
I can't stand it anymore
I want to be high on **** forever and laugh at nothingness
I want to be drunk to the point where I forget that life is even a thing
I want to kiss his lips and touch him every moment of the day because I'd feel loved even if I wasn't
I hate what has happened
I hate what is happening
I hate that I've changed
I hate how hard I try because the payoff never seems to pay off
And that I try to keep changing but everything isn't enough and everything won't ever cut it
I don't know what to do
I need endorphins and serotonin and beta-blockers and benzos
I need to know that this isn't a never ending cycle
I need to know that what I'm feeling is temporary and that this isn't what my life will be like
I need to tell my therapist and my doctor and my psychiatrist that I don't know what to do anymore and that the thoughts that control me are no longer bearable because I know that I want to live
I know however, that if I say the wrong thing, my words will be reported to DCFS and I could be baker acted and I don't want that to happen
So all I have in the end are my thoughts, killing me inside every moment of everyday
Tearing me apart like my lungs can no longer expand
Like my heart can no longer pump
Because my mind controls everything, and everything is in flames
NitaAnn Jul 2013
A bottle of white...a bottle of red...perhaps a bottle of rose' instead...…
A bottle of red, a bottle of white...Whatever kind of mood you're in tonight…
Thank you, Billy Joel for the prologue…
I am literally swarming with the urge to hurt myself tonight.
My skin feels like bugs are crawling all over me.
I'm barely breathing.
Right now I am tense. I am frustrated. I am angry.
I have a migraine. I feel out of control.
I can’t breathe.

Argh!!!! I want to take 10 Ativan
And wash them down with a bottle of white & a bottle of red,
But I don’t want to deal with the side effects tomorrow.
Seeing that my head hurts already,
I should probably refrain from adding bountiful amounts of sulfates to the never-ending ache. Breathe. I’ll give it an hour.
I would think that if they can make glasses in about an hour,
Surely I can talk myself in from this ledge.
I just need to breathe.
It’s that simple – freaking breathe!
I’m sure I’m rambling now…I'm just trying to ride this out.
I just need to breathe.

GD! Shut up about the breathing!
I'm trying to breathe.
God, my chest hurts right now.
It feels tight, constricted – that’s why I can’t breathe!
Okay.....think…what will help?
I wish I could hear your voice right now!
Tell me to freaking breathe!
Remind me where I am!
What the hell am I sitting on….I’m not hot or cold.
But my freaking chest hurts!

Still trying to not go down the “dead-end street of self hatred”…
Trying…trying…that’s all I can do, right?
Try. Breathe.
Trying to understand why?
I seriously need to puke.
And I want to cut myself.
But instead I’ll go shut myself in the pantry and scream into a kitchen towel.
I need an escape and I want to go away right the f@#k now!
From what?
Frustration – anger – fear- no one listening to me?
Is anyone out there?
Nope – all I hear are the voices inside of me.
Nothing else!
Just the freaks inside of me who won’t shut up!!!!!!

I’m breathing….
Okay!....
I’m freaking breathing!
I am exhausted.
I have zero energy -
There are dishes in the sink
And I’m too tired to do them
(tomorrow morning when I have to look at the filthy mess in my kitchen,
I’m going to beat myself up about it).
j carroll Dec 2013
"what's that? you can't get out of your bed?
too weak to be alive, too lazy to be dead?
well! take your zoloft effectively
just inhibit reuptake selectively
and soon you'll have the energy
to end your life impulsively
or be rid of feelings entirely
a chipper, cheery half-zombie"

"your panicking fits interfere with your day?
i'll lay out a feast, a benzo-buffet
ativan, klonopin, xanax oh my!
not just for those who are too scared to fly!
pop two and kiss all of your worries goodbye
and your memory, too, if you come to rely
on hours spent watching your life pass by
just try and object through that stubborn tongue-tie"

"your circadian rhythm is not quite right
you're asleep with the sun and awake in the night
so take one of these twice before closing your eyes
and wait for the dreams that will doubtless arise
too vivid and real to know truth from lies
and the nightmares will be an unpleasant  surprise
but stopping abruptly is duly unwise
so just find your stars in trazodone skies"
part 1
The Ripper Dec 2016
Broken body's rack
new life into lung
Gold vvrapped platinum sludge
Decadron makes buzz
6 months in the novv
MRI goes clack
Ativan don't quell
Image movement shakes
labyrinths Nov 2013
i don't know much
about life and love
but i know far too much
about falling apart
and the hatred for this city
and those around you
who watched you fall
but did not extend a hand
to help you up
they simply watched
with looks far too amused
pressed upon lips
that once said, 'i love you'
and eyes that once read, 'i need you'
until you began to crumble
and realization struck
(there were no meds)
(there was no therapist)
(there was no one to turn to)

"it's over and i'm so sorry,
but i woke up one morning
and i just didn't care
it's not you, it's me."

you speak with such
elegance and such class
(sarcasm)

but it's okay because
i never
loved
you

"if you love me
let me go"

your tight grip against my wrists
thumbs digging into my veins
teeth clawing into necks
hooked on kisses i never really felt
and words that never really meant
anything to either of us

yet we're here
and letting go isn't an option anymore
i can't get you out of my head
where you got lost in my thoughts
and made a home for yourself
like a parasite
the doctor just says i'm depressed
(ativan, prozac, celexa, ambien)
but no, no, i know it's you
and your slow whispers
telling me how worthless i am

*don't you think i already know?
summer 2013!

boys are stupid. don't let them get into your head!
NitaAnn Dec 2013
I want to be numb. I don't want to feel any longer.

I remember in the 80s a popular song was:
Red, red wine you make me feel so fine......

I've been drinking red wine tonight,
taken a couple of ativan with a shot of *****
and I'm still not completely numb.

What can I do to just be numb
and no longer feel any of this bone crushing pain.

How does anyone get through this?

I leave my mask on all day long,
and ignore the lump in my throat that never goes away,
making it nearly impossible to swallow.
All day I choke back tears - and anticipate the darkness,
when my husband and children are asleep
and I can finally let loose the tears of sadness and anger,
and remorse and hopelessness that have been building inside of me all day long.

Alone,
I cry until there are no more tears,
and I fall asleep from exhaustion.
Then I sleep for 3-4 hours
and the whole process begins again.

It doesn't get any better.
Morgan Bechtold Mar 2014
Death has always been like an unwelcomed guest in my life. At the tender age of three, I lost my grandfather to complications from a stroke. Within that same year, I lost my great grandmothers. I’ve experienced death many times, but it was the loss of my step grandfather, Paul, that influenced my decision to volunteer at Hospice. I thought I was prepared for anything, but I’d only scratched the surface. It only took one day, one shift out in the field to realize just how much I didn’t know about this mystery we call death.

      On Wednesday, February 9, 2011, I was scheduled to sit with an older lady from 12:45 to 3:45 P.M. who had been diagnosed with COPD, a consequence of years spent smoking cigarettes, a habit that she still couldn’t conquer even after her terminal disease made breathing incredibly difficult. In fact, during a prior visit, she said to me, “If I’m going to die, I might as well enjoy the time I have left.”  On this particular day, I arrived at around 12: 30 P.M. I walked into the house from the garage door, through the kitchen and into the living room where she lay unconscious on her bed by the window.

I was taken aback by the state she was in. Her every breath was a desperate gasp for air followed by long, horrifying periods of apnea. Gurgling noises came from the collection of throat secretions in the back of her throat. The death rattle, I thought to myself. She moaned several times. Her vitals were taken and it was determined that transport was needed to take her to the hospice unit at the hospital. I stood in shock, but my emotions were bluntly interrupted.  I needed to notify my supervisor. “Stay with her until they transport her. There’s no need for you to go to the hospital,” she told me.

       Back into the room where my patient lay dying, the nurse stood beside her, holding her wrist. “Her pulse is 122. That probably won’t come down again. Her lungs aren’t working right, so her heart has to work harder, but she can only sustain this for so long,” the nurse explained.

My patient’s husband walked in from getting a breath of fresh air. At the sight of his wife’s deteriorating condition, he sighed in defeat. Suddenly, her eyelids opened; her glassy eyes were rolled back. We knew it was time to say goodbye. The nurse gave her a combination of Roxanol and Ativan and then the room became quiet as our patient became calmer and this faded into a few moments of absolute silence.

     The nurse checked for a heartbeat. “2:15 P.M.” The nurse called out. The words were so final and that was a moment that will forever be etched into my mind.

“She’s gone?” The husband asked, sounding truly broken.

     It was the demise of my patient that taught me how to cope with the ghastly rawness of death. This experience, one of the most profound of my life, allowed me a greater understanding of the blurry line between life and death. Minutes after she passed, I touched her hand, feeling the smooth, cool texture of her skin. Blotches of purple and blue covered her arms, her nails were completely gray. I looked to her once beautiful face and her mouth locked into one position. Her eyes, though slightly open, were vacant. The essence of my patient, her spirit, disappeared. What remained was a body containing its many systems of organs, or “parts”.

      Death is eternal, life’s final chapter, but I still believe in the possibility that somewhere her spirit remains alive.
Jay Vasquez Nov 2014
Thunderbolted finger nails and clean saliva
*******
******
Ativan
Xanax
jordyn Dec 2015
a balloon floats over a child’s birthday party that the fat girl wasn’t invited to.
the balloon is the art of maintenance.
let some air out, blow some in, until it’s just right, and then tie it off.

when i was born, i weighed ever so slightly more than six pounds.
that was the last time i’d be slight.
i grew big and grew bigger
years of eating, years of blowing hot air into a balloon hard and fast
with thick, humid inside filling and filling
no longer clear but cloudy and clotted and sick and bigger, and bigger, skin ripping, breaths uncaring, breaths unwavering—

my mother was terrified i’d pop.

i came close in high school, weighing in at two hundred and eight pounds
at the doctor, when i accidentally saw the chart that i was so afraid to see
that i hadn’t seen it in years
and now, here, i saw the weight that i was so afraid, all of this time, to know that i carried.

but i felt it qualitatively
not in the knees, where they tell you you’ll feel it
not in the tightening and narrowing of my overstuffed clothes and arteries
plaque lining them, hardening into tunnels that the blood
can’t find a way through in more than needle thin streams
little brooks in a body born with rivers

not in the heart pumping hard to keep up
not in the swollen, alien stomach that i am sure does not belong to Kate Moss
but i am unsure truly belongs to me.
it looks nothing like the plus size model’s tanned, toned, macro version of a micro Moss
flawless and shiny and glazed with the flecks of photoshopped light
i am a photographer myself, i know the tricks
i felt it in the way the world treated me.

and i know that woman, my designated sister in size who couldn’t fit in my pants and whose shirt I’d drown in, the predetermined champion of my cause,
my implied, targeted marketing role model gimmick and plea to the outraged girls with thick thighs to settle
for someone shopped, just like everyone else.
edited, audited for body parts like stretch marks and pale skin and lines of hair
called happy trails but are sad
that scream desperately for air and an ending when someone,
someone they call brave, runs his tongue along the clearing where they ripped out our flowers and called them weeds, a sad reminder
that i call him brave, too, because they told me he was.

they told me he was brave for adventuring my hills and valleys.
he is no explorer, most of the time.
he is simply a tourist.

they tell me to settle for a woman who still doesn’t look like me.
and they set me a new standard to aspire to—
“FINE, BE BIG, BE PLUS, BE CURVY! YOU CAN BE THEM, BUT YOU CANNOT BE FAT. YOU CANNOT BE FAT. HER FAT IS IN HER *******, IN HER HIPS, IN HER THIGHS… BUT YOUR FAT? YOUR FAT? YOU’RE JUST FAT!”

so i looked in the mirror, ****** it in, twisted, manipulated, tried on this bra and these underwear
and yes, my waist looked slim and yes, my hips had breadth and yes, my ******* were massive and yes, I looked like her.

but then, my mother screamed.

“you are going to die! this is so unhealthy! we have to do something!”
because my high school sent a letter home telling my mother that i was abominable based on three letters and three digits:
BMI- 37.1
WEI
GHT
203
i took off my control top *******.
i undid the latch on my push up, padded bra.
i deflated my stomach.
i deflated my pride.
i looked in the mirror in shock and horror like viewing an old time slasher flick in the back of a drive in in the middle of the night in the days where maybe there’d be a hook on the handle when he came to open my door.
i did not look like her.

i let out the air in slow and painful pinches.
and sometimes it swam, doing pirouettes in the bowl like a little dancer
a teaser of the kind of thin lean woman i am not unless these dinners keep spinning
clockwise down the toilet before i feel them weigh in my stomach
and i am wise to the clock – wait just 30 minutes and you take up half the calories.
do it now, now, now, you have to, you have to – and you’ll take up half the space.
Ana told me to and she is only looking out for me.
the numbers decline to 199 and i think 189 could be mine if i put in the time
and i’m wise to the clock so i start the countdown from 199 to 189 to 177 and i quit

because i let the air out, and for once in my life, when i left my house in two months’ time for the first time,
for once in my life, i wanted to let it in.

some days it leaks out of me.
one more laxative won’t hurt and i don’t care if the weight is fat, water, or ****, it still counts
155, 159, 163…161, 159, 155
and sometimes i still think
Ana is my friend.

but when i’m weak and jealous and out of my head
and angry at the explorer i’ve met who tells me he has so enjoyed his visit
that he’s decided to move in forever, enchanted with the landscape and the history and culture in the area, in the country i’ve built through disorder and plants and bread and loss and skin bunching and ribs you can feel and an *** you can grab so hard sometimes it hurts
sometimes i still think Ana is my friend.

but when i am deflated and counting and wearing out my plastic, and I think one way or another, I’m going to die
I’ll **** myself, with razor blades or Ativan or cancer from these ******* laxatives or these appetite suppressant menthol 100 cigarettes or maybe I’ll just jump like I wanted to
But any day, if I keep going, I’m going to pop—
I realize something about my friend Ana.
when i’m sickly and tired and ******* my brains out
and wishing i hadn’t hurt and built walls to keep out the man that filled the vacancy in my hotel heart who i promised to marry to keep in my country, the one built from feminist strength, brick and bone and stars and skin and roses and muscle and fat and beauty,

baby, take your visa back and let’s knock down these walls and we can tie me off.
Ana is not my friend.
She’s holding the pin.
Ford Prefect Oct 2017
I want to be a fucken poet.
I want to spend my whole life writing meaningful things that touch no one and indiscipherable codes that every claims to get and so now they do.
God, I want to die sometimes.
What would a life of poetry be?
Boring. ******* depressing. Lonely and anxiety-ridden FO SHO.
I'm downing now. Heavy head like a dead giraffe and slow hidden eyes.
I could do it.
I'd just go mad.
Is that why God made me this way? Never a fucken second of peace and quiet that isn't accompanied by loud and tiring.
I want to write the books that change the world, but all those books have already been written.  
Bukowski wrote a whole fucken genre.
Drugs are old. Depression is mainstream and covered by insurance (except for all the times it really should be).
Pop a pill, go to rehab, all done.
Right, Nurse Jackie?  Oh? Oh, yeah, **** the pharmababes, too.  If you're gonna do it, do it good. Do it right.
Why won't he let me tell my stories? Will they hurt him, hurt them, hurt me?  I'm sure the answer is me. I hope the answer is me. I guess that's why I want to write.
**** me.
I can't do it on my own.
sofolo Jul 2023
Towards the end, there was The Good Place inside of The Dying Place.

The raven watches silently.

You were drifting on waves of Ativan while I vaped in the courtyard before I flipped the mouse card. Lotioning your feet—now yellowing.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said to the nurse. “But here, take this” as I handed her the phone I yanked from the wall.

No more distractions, please.

An advance copy on a projector screen. Downton Abbey in The Dying Place. You couldn’t believe it. But you also couldn’t stay awake.

Nowadays when I say “calzone”
I’m actually saying “can I have another year on loan?”

When I think about bourbon in the rainbow-speckled glass, it’s a sip-by-sip plea to get those years back.

Alas…

I hold your hand.
The dolphin returns.
I kiss your head.
The mouse rests.
One last breath.
And the raven's wing lifts.
LAG Jun 2015
My mom sees me asleep and at rest i stay for about half of my days.
They try to hide the bottles but i find a way, i threaten for the location. what have i become?
ive become numb to my feelings now all i crave is for the pain to stay away.
I dose myself with triple the take so its impossible to stay awake.
I wake up the next day with an epiphany today ill light a fire and maybe theyll see that lately im not me and that my secrets have been eating away at me and destroyed everything ill ever be. She'll call the police but before they come i take three ativan to relieve the anxiety. I black out im told i became sporatic and every breathe sounds like im asthmatic. I fight the police who try to subdue the unruly me.At the hospital I rip out my i.v so they put a full body restraint on me. A couple hours later im admitted into crisis and for the next 6 months this is where my home will be.
I was seventeen when my trauma became too much.
Mel Little Sep 2022
Blocked. My phone doesn’t ring when you call.
Blocked. You’re not stalking my social media anymore.
Blocked. I am not playing these games anymore.

There is some new drama and issue you have created in your head, and you demand I speak to you.

As if that will work.

I am not just your daughter.

I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a sister. I am a human.

And I cannot be any of those things under your shadow.

Do you not understand, the shadow is poisoned? The sickness radiates out of you and spews toxic waste. Everything you touch dies slowly, but dies the same.

You will not get better. You refuse to. The pills you take will eat you alive, you’re allowing yourself to be eaten alive, and I will not stand by for the fall out anymore.

I’ve thrown out my masks. I no longer need them. I can breathe.

Blocked. There is no call at 3am, there is no finding you suicidal in a parking lot downing Ativan and Xanax, there is no radiation here.

Your addiction is eating you alive. You’re allowing yourself to be eaten alive.

But it is quiet here now. And I can rest.
Dakota Nov 2017
waiting for my dealer on the bridge
i open my second hand copy of American ******
for the first time in two years.
i forgot it opens with the gates of hell.
nihilism is seeping from the pages
just fueling my own drug addled reality
that doesn’t quite seem to mimic ‘real life.’
itake my meds twice a day but only
in the mornings do i get klonopin,
the best drug i’ve been on since
my Ativan privileges got revoked.
i used to do Xanax but that’s another poem.
Bateman does a lot of *******
but i’ve only done that once,
and it was just parental leftovers
so i don’t know about good
bathrooms to do coke in,
but i know about popping pills in front
of the mirrors, professors in the stalls,
before class, just to keep me going.
my suicidal intent has turned into hedonism
and i am living for pleasure and i find comfort
in knowing i will die, likely by my own hand
but even then, Bateman makes one thing clear:
This Is Not An Exit.
wordvango May 2017
i wished for a
four octave voice
riches fame
abilities to make my
guitar cry and sing
the words to touch
the whole world
money and a beautiful wife

traded it for my happiness
so where the **** did I end up
on the end of a rubber noose
two ativan
in a
locked hotel bathroom
you never know

what you are trading your
soul for when you deal

with the devil

better check those
wishes

very

very

carefully

— The End —