I wrote this very raw poem about Ativan but I never intended to actually let people read, but I was feeling rather good today so here it is.
A Little White Pill
A little white pill, it means the world.
When you fail to take it, it reminds you in the worst way.
I am reminded of this with a constant feeling of hopelessness.
Panic. Fear. Uneasiness.
I can’t breathe or focus.
My mind races—thoughts.
Oh, so many thoughts.
Worst case scenarios playing out in my mind.
Will I survive? What will people think?
I can’t go out, I have to stay.
It’s safe here. Stay, just stay.
There is a whole world out there— no please stay.
My mind is winning.
I can’t do this. How can someone live like this?
The tightness in my chest seems to spin out of control.
—I can’t breathe.
Why is this happening?
I must sit. No, I can’t sit. You must.
A tingling sensation consumes my hands.
First at the tips and before long it is engulfing my hands.
“Stay calm,” they say.
I feel so cold, and yet I am sweating.
What is this?
Numbness takes me over.
I get lost in it, I do everything I can.
Nothing helps—wait, what about that little white pill.
A new dosage. More powerful than before.
I take that white pill.
Time—it moves slowly.
Yes. I can feel it now. It’s over.
It’s finally over.
I should have done my mindfulness breathing.
Who knew a little white pill was the answer.
Was it the cause or the cure?
Like the doctor said, take as prescribed.
Upgrading The Bipolar Writer Blog to Business
I am looking to expand The Bipolar Writer blog to new territories that include having the blog sell books for other artists (if I can make everything work). I am also looking to sell my own book here on my blog. I hate asking for donations but I have to do what I can.