I Can't Write About It
I can't write about it.
I can't write about the nightmares that came to life.
How I walked through my life like a zombie.
I can't write about the pills that I hid in drawers
because I was too proudly self-conscious to take them.
How I set aside money so I could finally make a run for it;
to some life that was supposed to be better.
I can't write about how I believed someone else should take
my place in the world, because I felt I was wasting it.
How someone else should use my opportunities.
I did not want them; didn't deserve.
I can't write about the first day, second semester.
Not about how I left in the the middle of the philosophy professor's
lecture because I couldn't keep my heart rate
quieter than a jack hammer; my breathing like a locomotive.
I can't write about how I sat catatonic in my dad's arms
while he sat and cried with me. When he finally asked me,
"Do you want to live?!" I can't write the response I gave,
unless I can speak in code. Like the NATO phonetic alphabet, November Oscar.
I can't write about the drive to the emergency room.
Hearing my dad say over and over that I was going to get
the help needed. How I had to tell the doctor that I .... I ....
I thought about all the funeral arrangements I'd made.
Debating whether planning would make it easier for everyone,
or whether I was even remotely
worth the price of that casket with free shipping.
I can't write about the ride to the ward.
A shuttle across town to that place where
only the crazies are suppose to go.
How when I was finally given a room for the night,
it was a dimly lit, beige room with a barred window and thick, metal door.
The "bed" was a cold, plaster growth from the floor
and written on the wall was the name of a previous tenant,
in his own crimson code.
I can't write about how I was monitored all night but
still scared as sleepless schizophrenics wandered the halls.
I can't write words to describe the horror of uncertainty;
not knowing how long I would have to stay, or how serious my condition.
For all I knew, I was beyond repair and should be treated like the dog I was. Just put me to sleep and bury me in the back yard.
Better yet, just dump me in the ocean so no one will have to remember how I wasted space. money. time.
I can't write about it unless its through broken metaphors.
It is too hard to even think, much less write or talk about it.
But I suppose being around to write about it is the most important thing.