us crazies need to stick together

i really like anne sexton.

in general, i feel a sense of camaraderie with anyone who has struggled with "madness," be it due to genetics or chemical imbalance or situational.

THIS book is a really good read on the topic of women and madness.

anyone who has spent any amount of time in a hospital room, being kept away from dangerous objects and spent countless hours doing lame crafts understands that there is a thin line between feeling ashamed about it and exhibiting pride for surviving.

i choose feeling proud. i didn't take advantage of the situation perhaps the way i should have -- i went in there for three days and after day one i was so terrified that i put on my superkari mask and got out two days later. i was the model patient. i quit smoking. i decorated the christmas tree, i ate balanced meals. i didn't flinch when they came in at 4 a.m. to draw blood. i kept my room clean. i took all the tests they asked me to, i began my love affair with prozac.

in short, i was a fraud. i went in there feeling like i had no where to go, and i can't believe that i fooled them that way. looking back i should have just been myself. i should have just said everything i was thinking the moment i was thinking it -- something we all wish we could do, but fear the consequences. i think back to the thoughts i had, the thoughts i still have, 12 years later, and i wonder why i always wore/still wear that happy little mask. after all, if you can't be yourself in a place like that, where can you?

and when i have bad days now, they are still horrible and miserable and seem to have no end. man, imagine those bad days if i weren't on medication. that's scary.

but i digress. so back to anne sexton.

my fondness of anne sexton comes from both an appreciation of what she created and being able to relate to what she wrote. it's like reading my thoughts on paper, but with better organization and wording that i can never quite capture.

and for any of you who have an "other" like i do, this one's for you:

The other.

Under my bowels, yellow with smoke,
it waits.
Under my eyes, those milk bunnies,
it waits.
It is waiting.
It is waiting.
Mr. Doppelganger. My brother. My spouse.
Mr. Doppelganger. My enemy. My lover.
When truth comes spilling out like peas
it hangs up the phone.
When the child is soothed and resting on the breast
it is my other who swallows Lysol.
When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet
it is my other who sits in a ball and cries.
My other beats a tin drum in my heart.
My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep.
My other cries and cries and cries
when I put on a cocktail dress.
It cries when I prick a potato.
It cries when I kiss someone hello.
It cries and cries and cries
until I put on a painted mask
and leer at Jesus in His passion.
Then it giggles.
It is a thumbscrew.
Its hatred makes it clairvoyant.
I can only sign over everything,
the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels,
the soul, the family tree, the mailbox.

Then I can sleep.

Maybe.