Depression

Image by Zelko Nedic

You watch me
through those damn dewy eyes
that torment my soul
and steal
the very heart of me.

The warning growl
through snarling teeth;
the putrid breath
feeding despair
and souring hope.


You are my black dog,
forever vigilant.
there is no escape.

Damn your dewy eyes.

Anna :o]

Tess’s excellent prompt at The Mag brought to mind the above I had posted earlier last year and it really didn’t get much of an airing.

I was tentatively dipping my toes in the poetry world then only having entered Magpie Tales twice prior to posting Depression on its little lonesome, linked to nothing but my desire to write.

Depression appeared a natural response to the prompt and I have therefore posted again.

*********************************************************************
Hello again!  I have added this bit today (30.07.12) in case some folk are unaware that ‘The Black Dog’ is a metaphor for depression.   I think most of us attribute the term to Winston Churchill although it is possible it was conceived prior to this.

I should make you aware that I do not suffer from depression, in fact I am rather happy-go-lucky in my approach to life – but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about anything for I surely do.

I work in mental health and I listen to the people I care for - and learn, for to (pretend) to care without understanding is not caring at all.

Here is a link to a Black Dog article at PsychCentral – just here!

The Old Asylum




Corridor. Hellingly Asylum, Sussex by James C Farmer

 



Figure Eight, 1952, by Franz Kline



Seed, parachuted,

drifts aimlessly on passing breeze,

upon a lull descends

amidst the grass and tangled weeds

that strew the paths,

choke the very heart

of the Old Asylum grounds.

Time stands still,

the clock unwound upon its tower

hides amongst the chestnut trees,

and some way below,

the door, chained,

keeps its secrets locked inside,

defiant, repels (for now)

Ivy’s attempt to stranglehold, invade,

as she tries to squeeze her tendrils

through decaying slats and shatter glass.             

Elsewhere

corridors echo eerily the slightest sound,

paint peeling curls upon the walls,

leaves its angry scars

as it flutters wearily to the ground

to join dust and dirt and debris

dropped from gaping ceiling.

Life stirs,

bristles in the old abandoned ward,

spiders spin fine thread from spinneret,

a window chink lets in solar rays,

lights up swirling silver dust heaven bound

and bedsteads rust upon the ground

as fly struggles in spiders sticky web

and in the roof space

wasps nest nestled in the eaves emits a buzzing sound

as pigeons coo and play

perched high upon the rotting rafters.

Seed, parachuted,

drifts aimlessly on passing breeze,

bees dip thirsty tongues in flower hearts

sing gratitude with pleasant hum,

wood pigeon cooo-coo-cu in chestnut trees

as nature breathes its love of life,

takes refuge in
the Old Asylum.

Anna :o]

Tess’s prompt at The Mag was that of the Figure Eight and spiders eight legs immediately popped into my mind.  Prior to the prompt I had been taking a trip down memory lane, viewing abandoned asylums on Flickr and had come across the hospital where I did my training and the resulting poem was a combination of the two.

The poem is also entered at Open Link Night, hosted by Joseph Hesch at dVerse~Poets Pub.  Thanks Joe!

ATTENTION!  ATTENTION!

Totally remote from the above please view this YouTube video “Som Sabadell flashmob.”  Wonderful!  (As no-one has mentioned this I have highlighted it!   Please, please, please view it - it moves me to tears every time I do.)

Image; courtesy of James C Farmer at flickr photostream.  (I did not do my training here!)

Letting Go



Bedruthan sunset by Ennor



Like a fish

out of water,

you lie there,

delicately gasping,

mouth shaping

to catch
elusive breaths,

and once caught,

as if some knowing

afterthought,

you let them go.

Sing me your death song.

Little lady                

you have left me now.

Mortal coil surrendered,

demons vanquished,

soul ascended,

serene and silent,

life complete.

Anna :o]

Although a ‘little lady’ is mentioned I wrote this several months ago when I thought of Joe.    Joe was a resident in a home where I worked in the nineties. 

Joe was in his eightieth year and had been transferred to the home when mental health services became ‘Care in the Community’ resulting in the closure of the psychiatric hospital where he had spent over fifty years of his life.

Joe had schizophrenia and his was an ‘expected’ death as he too suffered from a terminal physical illness.   Joe was aware he was dying; his voices (auditory hallucinations) knew too and continued to taunt him mercilessly during the last hours of his life. 

If there is a God out there he cruelly played with Joe to the bitter end…

I have never forgotten Joe.

Linked to the good folk at dVerse~Poets Pub (thanks tashtoo) and The Poetry Pantry (thanks Mary) at Poets United.

Image: Courtesy of Ennor at Flickr.  Thanks Ennor

Sleep of Death



Ophelia by Odilon Redon



Oh my lord was thy affection

nought but a cruel ruse,

a cruel play upon this maiden,

was my love but to amuse? 

Oh my heart is heavy laden,

yearning for the want of you.

Oh willow will cast off my wanting,

still the melodies of my breath,

lay me in the muddy water,

send me to the sleep of death,

there I shall dream forever,

forever dream my dreams of you.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.

Earth Man: Genesis



Still Life, 1670, detail by
Jean Francoisde La Motte



Willow weeps her tears of sadness,

they bitter with the pain of parting

burn hot and deep driving her to lonely madness,

course, rage through her very vessels,

sear and burn her broken heart.

In yonder forest he earth emerges,

flesh made of mud,

cold heart rough hewn from stones,

precipitation is his lifeblood,

twigs and branches make up his bones.

Willow cannot cope with his rejection

and deeply wrought in her dejection

rips out his letter affixed to door by nail and band

and reads the words of her amour.

His heart is made of stone,

yet devoid of all emotion

he does not wish to be alone,

will seek out the lonely in their shadows,

needs to make their beating heart his own.

She reads his words in lonely anguish,

tears splash down and blur, stain his missive,

she yearns for his love, his smile, his kiss, if

only he would return again…

Trembled the stars

that devilish night the earth man sought her,

(he would steal her heart as he slyly court her);

fashioning his face to that of her amour,

he gently taps upon her door.

She sees him, heart dances to her head,

his lips brush hers (she tastes the strangeness)

as he lifts her up, takes her to her bed. 

(Uncertain of his new persona

she mentions not the change less

he again should leave her…)

Noticing her reserve he does deceive her,

bluffs his way into her heart,

says that his leaving let him grieving

and he knows they now should never part.

Her flesh did crawl as she let him love her

as in her heart she knew he was another –

but ‘twas too late as he now did own her…

Stepping into the night

lit bright by moon and its corona,

stars trembled as she walked cold beside him,

knowing that her heart did beat inside him,

fate sealed in that first earthy kiss,

evolving earth man genesis…

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration and also brenda w at The Sunday Whirl (wordle 60) for her inspiration too!

Old Age Cometh

Old Man, Cockroach
Catcher

It has come.

It has played with me,

led me to believe,

nay be certain

(that maybe through

some past good deed)

I had escaped its wrath.

It has come. 

Mapped me out,

history etched

in every line and furrow. 

It plays with me

still,

slows me down,

mocks me

with its laughter lines.

It has come. 

I will bear its tired skin,

its aching limbs,

its tired bones. 

I will relent,

give in graciously,

but beg it earnestly,

please, please, please,

please

leave my mind alone.

Anna :o]

(I wrote this after discovering the beginnings of crows feet on Saturday night...)

Entered at Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub – thanks dVerse!
Entered at The Poetry Pantry at Poets United - thanks Poets United

Image used with the kind permission of the Cockroach Catcher at flickr.  (The Cockroach Catcher Blog can be found here.)

Positive, Negative

He deep inhales

(passion rising),

runs hands through

lank greasy hair,

says

I want shower-sex with you.

Malodorous,

rank

with rancid sweat

and piss-dried jeans

he sits amongst

the squalor

of discarded takeaways

and beer cans;

fag ends flicked

from fingers

stained

with nicotine;

receives messages

from aliens

on dead mobile phones;

hears voices

in his head

torment

in condemning tones,

tell him

he is he is a f***ing

waste of space,

a f***ing pile of shit,

tell him to kill himself,

that he’d be better dead.

She doesn’t want to,

but wants to

for the good in her

knows that if any

poor damaged soul

needs love and shower-sex

its him,

but remembering her role

says Sorry No, 

reinforces

the (professional) need for

d i s t a n c e

before she goes.

Stripped down

to his boxer shorts,

hurt,

he watches her from the door,

the voices begin to ridicule,

tell him he’s a f***ing t**t

a f***ing fool to believe

that f***ing whore

would want sex with him –

a f***ing heap of shit.

He returns to his room,

lights up a spliff and sits -

just sits…

*************
 

The above words are an odd kind of tribute to someone, ‘Dave’ say, who I had the privilege to meet in my nursing student days.  (Believe me the bad language accurately depicts his experience and is perhaps even quite tame.)

My student days were those of enlightenment, actually talking to and also hugging patients was actively encouraged; patients had become ‘clients’ and their individual rights were paramount (oddly this only appeared to apply in acute settings) and wisely, we students upon meeting a patient for the first time, were advised only to familiarise ourselves with the presenting problem and not that of the full history, lest our judgement be coloured and our treatment of the patient thus become sullied.  (We should read the history later after developing a rapport.)

As a tactile sort of soul, hugging was fine by me and indeed patients welcomed this strange new closeness, this friendliness, the chatting and this new strange thing where students appeared actually interested in them as people and not as an illness.

I was on an acute ward placement when I met Dave, he, sectioned in his best interests, suffered with refractory schizophrenia, the onset of his schizophrenia presenting in his early-teens causing gross personality damage as the illness progressed, savagely took hold.  Despite this, he was happy with himself as he had no insight into how his illness had affected him and indeed how his illness and damaged personality impacted on others.  To himself he was a likeable fellow.

Dave became one of ‘my’ three patients whose care I had to focus on to meet the requirements and learning goals of my placement there.  I found him likeable – despite initial nervousness of his social and sexual disinhibitions.

He was treated abominably by qualified staff and indeed (in my humble opinion) by the docs as he was judged and thus treated on his presenting personality –the fact this damage was caused by his illness did not seem to enter into things.

Despite all his problems his one and only Care Plan was that of addressing his body odour and it was my task to tackle this sensitive issue with the intended goal that Dave will attend to his personal hygiene.  (Why is BO such a difficult thing for us to address – why can we talk with relative ease of so much more complex issues and not this?)  (More importantly – why was this his only care plan?)

Possibly because I was the only person – whether it be staff or fellow patients – that gave time to Dave, he fell in love with me.  This was my first encounter with transference/counter transference and I like to think I handled it well, professionally if you like and our rapport continued without this unwanted (to me) obstacle.  (It did strike me at the time that of all the patients in the hospital that desperately needed to be needed, needed a hug – it was Dave, but I could not do this as I knew he would misread it.)

After qualifying I met Dave again as he was an occasional visitor to one of our female residents (with whom he had fallen in love and who did not want his attentions) in the hostel where I worked.  It is a pity that we eventually had to bar him.

It was while working at this hostel I became involved as a ‘friend’ of the  Hearing Voices Network and through this I began to understand more about living with schizophrenia.  I learnt of the horrors of auditory hallucinations.

A colleague and I began to hold our own Hearing Voices Experience Workshops for our colleagues throughout the hostels/organisation country wide.  At this time I also mentored SW and nursing students who were placed in our hostel and they too attended these workshops and learnt from it.

Our approach was quite simple in that my colleague and I sat at each side of our victim and began to insult a running conversation into their ears – the remarks for the most part being abusive, negative, foul and derogatory – for this is often the everyday experience for some/many of those with schizophrenia.

I can recall one male social work student being reduced to tears for some of the comments we made had per chance hit home in that they echoed his own self-doubts.  However he was grateful for the experience as he felt it left him more equipped to work with those he would come across when qualified, as he now knew, understood.

For any docs and nurses out there who might read this – I recommend, even urge you have a Hearing Voices Experience amongst yourselves and then you too will know will understand your patient more. 

Later I met Dave again – I had commenced working at a drop-in centre which I then discovered he attended.  My new manager had remarked “Oh you’re Anna; Dave talked about you when he came out of hospital as you were kind to him.”  I must admit that this made me feel good as making a difference was the given remit for RMNs when I did my training.

Unfortunately Dave misread my reasons for working there in that he thought I was there as I realised that indeed I did love him after all.  This delusion was quite fixed and after a few months I left – for to me moving to another job was less damaging than the possibility that Dave might be barred (for his unwanted attention) from a place in which he found solace and so much needed.

A few years later I learned that Dave had become much more damaged, was sectioned often as his illness aggressively progressed to the point where even he couldn’t cope with it.  He had commited suicide.

Dave is not the only patient I remember from my student days.  I might write about why I remember them someday.  I never did work in a hospital after qualifying as some aspects of ‘patient care’ left me feeling dirty…

Anna :o] 

Entered at Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub – thanks dVerse!

Blue

It is months since I thought

of decorating the hall

and I guess the stairs

and the landing too,

but when I attempt

to picture the finished wall

I always picture you instead

lain nestled in that empty bed.

The bed an empty tribute

(of a kind) to you,

the room a shrine,

your Rhapsody in Blue,

I never liked that you know,

you knew. 

Glissando  or portamento –

I never really gave a fig –

that I ate today (well four)

with Weetabix, milk

and fromage frais,

But it’s important!,

you would say

as if it mattered

in the great big scale of things.   

I got weighed today

and knew I

would not want to know,

why is it that

my mind gets smaller

while my body grows? 

Middle aged spread

she kindly said

as I slipped back on

my cool alligator shoes

(that I wore when we danced

and you sang the blues).

I have the wallpaper

that will cover the cracks –

God I love you so

and I  want you back   

Tomorrow

 I will paste it, lay it

and paint it blue

(the colour I feel

when I think of you).

Anna :o]

Written for dVerse, the challenge being to write a Stream-of-Consciousness poem thus:

• Choose a topic. You might think of a person, and activity or even a dream. Take a walk, go someplace public, and let your thoughts take flight.
• Write with pen or pencil on paper. Draw pictures. You may even choose to use your writing journal to jot down your own little (schizophrenic) episodes.
• When you write in your journal, be different. Write with your non-dominant hand, write all over the page, not just in lines, write from bottom to top. Write in spirals or shapes. Forget grammar and syntax.
• Review your writing for any connection you can discover between words and phrases and see where your poem will take you.
• Put your work aside for a while before returning to it.

Cheers dVerse!

Fool



The Circus With the Yellow Clown,
1967, Marc Chagall



See you;

heart goes into overdrive,

somersaults,

thump, thump, thumps,

wants to get out.

I gave it to you,

it beats for you,

gave you all of me,

I exist for you.

You took it,

took all of me,

messed me up,

made a fool of me.

Carnivalesque;

grotesque fool

now wise,
hell now heaven,
now it's me, me, me,

want your heart,

will cut it out.

Who knows what lies behind the clowns’ happy/sad face?  We all wear our masks and do not need to apply face paint to become a fool or indeed anything else…

With thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the inspiration.

Anna :o]

What if we treated EVERY illness the way we treat mental illness?

Reblogged from the excellent Halfway Between The Gutter And The Stars.  Please visit this blog.

Male Elderly Long Stay

Use it or lose it

has no place here. 

What better than

to restrain (by indifference)

in chairs upholstered

in the ghosts of those long dead. 

There is no stimulation here;

they sit in regimental rows,

row on row on row,

like some old soldiers

waiting for their final orders,

or some waiting room,

waiting for a doctor

who never shows.

This reinforced apathy

brings atrophy, weakens limbs. 

A fleeting insight

brings panic,

he rises, knees buckle;

he free falls, hits terra firma

with an almighty thud.

This morning

there is only two of us,

short staffing brings many risks. 

Who knows how many

signs and symptoms missed

as we hurriedly stuff thirty men

into waiting clothes,

stack them in the waiting rows,

stuff them full of
cereals and toast. 

(Well as many as we can,

for at 8.30 – finished or not

the breakfast trolley goes.)

They need time,

there is no place for it here. 

There are the wanderers of course

who will not conform;

who wander on their eternal journey

to God knows where.

There is a new admission;

he still has fight in him.

It will not last. 

Soon he will become like them,

his remaining memories

will leach into the chairs.

They need compassion,
there is no place for it here.

As a student nurse, my first ward placement was on female elderly long stay.  I must admit I was naïve – I had this silly notion that my days would be spent sharing tea and sticky buns with confused little old ladies, enjoying their muddled conversations and listening as they reminisced about the good old days.  How wrong I was.

My first shift was that of a morning, there were two qualified staff, a care assistant and two students (including me and we supposedly supernumery) and we had forty patients to assist to rise – that is eight patients each.  We students had no idea who could weightbear, who was mobile, who was aggressive and so on, but this seemed to only bother us and we had to get on with it.

It took me well over an hour to wash and dress and seat my little ladies in their chairs – in fact they did not have their chairs – anyone was good enough.   I was totally exhausted and perspiration was dripping off my forehead.  I remember thinking ‘What the hell am I doing here?  Is this really what I want to do?’ as I realised my silly notion was indeed that – silly.

The majority of the ladies had dementia and were either admitted from the great outside or were ‘long stay’ patients who had spent much of their life in the hospital and had succumbed to dementia as they aged.  A couple were long stay patients who had not demented but reached the ripe old age of sixty and had been transferred as that is how things worked.  They were floor pacers – like caged lions bored out of their minds – both with ‘acquired’ OCD – their rituals their only means of escape from the eternal ennui of ward life.

All the ladies – bar the two floor pacers - were sat row on row on row, there was no stimulation whatsoever – no radio, no record player, no television, not a thing.  Any new admission that rose from her seat was told to sit down and soon learnt that that was her lot and after a few days did just that – sat (and died inside).

My fellow student and me attempted to converse with our patients – but lack of stimulation had had devastating effects – rarely were words spilt from their mouths – they existed in body only.

Male elderly long stay was my fifth placement and it was very much the same bar a few wanderers - not pacers, most of whom were demented and had held onto remnants of their personality.

I saw an awful thing there – it was not direct abuse but that of sheer and utter thoughtlessness, a manifestation of the warder-inmate mentality that still very much prevailed there, and it reinforced my vow to myself that once qualified I would never work in a psychiatric hospital – this vow I had made on female elderly and it is a vow I kept.

Anna :o]

Entered at Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub – thanks dVerse!