We need to be respectful
of tender psyches, mental illness,
all the agonies of existence.
We need to be respectful
of our own tenderness
and pained existence.
When being gentle of their tender troubles,
makes aches worse for ourselves,
who needs to respect whom?
Draw battle lines,
or at least find a bastion
against cries
calling you to your destruction,
dragging you to drown in the moat of their fragility.
Be respectful of your own precious sanity.
The demons are hiding around corners
lurking in the shadows
watching you.
I know you feel the weight
of their gaze
hear the clink of their weapons
every day.
On the sunny days,
you outrun them
find smiles to return to those
around you
in their circles of care.
Other days,
smiles are barred growls,
the glow of sinister eyes pacing
around you,
squeezing life and hope
as their circle crushes in,
suffocating you.
Your demons on their unwitting backs
Your demons in their unwitting smiles
Your demons on their unwitting feet
Your demons in their expectations
Your incessant demons
invisible to others,
writhing,
circling,
just
there.
So often
what I think is a conversation about me
you think is a conversation about you.
My feelings
aren’t just feelings, they’re an attack.
But they’re not.
They belong to me
and they’re allowed to be
what they are.
I long for you to acknowledge
how I feel
what I wonder
what I want
isolated from your sense
of inadequacy.
I’m tired
tired
tired of your issue
always overshadowing
any of my concerns.
Mental illness
is annoyingly
narcissistic.
Please consider other points of view.
It isn’t always about you.
Really.
Sometimes it’s about me.
Your anxiety
ripples the air
pushes and pulls me,
threatens my calm.
I’d breathe you my peace
but you inhale all I have
then you rustle and quiver,
vibrating me
into your distress.
The airlines say,
put on your own oxygen mask first.
I need my air.
The dog pulls you down the street.
Your eyes are hazy,
Your hair is wild.
Your beard’s unkempt.
Your steps thud awkwardly like you’ve forgotten how to walk.
If the outside reflects the inside,
you definitely need some time
to regain your health again.
I do not know what to do
about your screams.
It seems you plunge
to unplumbable depths
and I do not know
how to swim.
The mists of melancholy
shroud the waters,
coat you in agony,
fog reason, and
I fear I am not lighthouse
enough to guide you home.
No sneaking
No whispers
No clandestine act
Engine patters
Garage door rumbles
Back door slams
Yet a happy greeting yields hours of anxieties.
Something is not working here.
Last night,
I wept over your broken body,
watching bloody pools expanding
beneath your feet.
Today,
you needed seven anti-anxiety pills
and still paced and cried,
your heart throbbing.
Were we dreaming side by side?
Did you see my vision?
Were you scared by day
from mother dreams
of death?
.
.
.
(The dog again. Sigh. Put him in the Gentle Leader halter after dinner and he calmed down. Might try that during the day tomorrow.)
You rest content
curled and snoozing
until bedtime.
Then the dragons come.
They wake you
harass you
scare you,
so you pace and tell us about it.
Dear dragons,
Go away.
We all need sleep!
Here’s a little pill,
a magic tablet,
to send you on your way.
.
.
OJ the dog is about to try some anti-anxiety meds to see if that will help him with his grief and anxiety for a few weeks, until he’s used to being the lone dog. I can’t believe my dog is officially suffering from mental illness. Old dog.
whimper
pant
pace
whine
pant
woof?
pant
woof
pace
pant
woof!
pant
WOOF!
pant
cry
WOOF wooooof!
pant
sigh
.
.
My 15 year old standard poodle is still unable to manage alone after we had to put down our 16.5 year old miniature poodle last month. We now allow him to sleep in our bedroom. Last night, after he’d been pacing and whimpering from 1:30 to 2 a.m. (post snack and pee-break) I actually got out of bed to lie beside him on the floor for 20 minutes until he settled. I’m not sure if that’s enabling, but we were all able to sleep afterwards. A visit to the vet this week, and a trip to his favourite kennel master next week, and I have hopes that perhaps he’ll be able to cope soon. The mourning process is a challenge for us all.
