Mother, may I?

He said he suspects
that my seizures are a
physical manifestation of
my downward spiral into mental
illness. Since they seem to
correspond to stressful situations.

Unlike the most recent
hospital, he was not saying that
I faked my seizures, but my body
has taken control of my mental
state by crippling me, making it
evident that I can no
longer care for myself.

The small girl wanted to run
out of the doctor’s office but
instead sat frozen as my mother
and doctor talked about me as
if I were barely there.

Instead of curling up in
a safe fetal position like
I wanted to, I sat frozen as
tears ran down my face while
they talked of my disability
and inability to function or
receive good care in my new town.

He said I needed someone to check on me.
I needed a team to help me back
to health. I was deconstructing
mentally in between visits.

The small girl felt the weight
of the psychiatrists words as a
punishment for being bad in some way.
She managed to screw up her life
to the point where she had to beg
her mother to attend the psychiatrist’s
visit with her because of her abject terror
of the man she had been ordered to see.

“She needs supervision and help to
provide for her daily needs since
she now has a physical disability in
addition to her mental state of being
overwhelmed and severely depressed.”

Small girl focused her attention on her
wounds laid bare for all to see. Shame
terror, depression and the urge to cut
in order to feel something more than
void pain. Opening the balloon to let out
the ichor that is poisoning her sounds
like a solution, but is never the right
choice. I am a cutter, therefore,
I shall not cut. Craving it is a bad sign
of the state of her broken mind and body.

He gave the go ahead to stop
the last bits of Viibryd,
I have been taking.

Small girl was hearing
their words like being
in a tunnel while the
adults talked in booming
voices I could no longer
discern from thunder
rumbling across the sky
by angry gods.

She suppressed the urge
to run through the large
window to her right.

My mother asked me if I
was okay I said, “uh-huh,”
as she lifted up the brim
of my hat to see if
I was still there.

You see, I’m not here,
really. I’m locked inside
an invisible shell that keeps me
from exploding my emotions on
people like a rotten potato

I feel my own pain and this damn biting cold
that aches all the time (it took two
layers of clothes to get me out of the house)
I walked dragging a foot that
had a mind of its own and climbed
into the passenger seat of my mother’s car.

Run! Small girl whispered,
hide until you feel the sun.
The darkness won’t catch you.
Leave me! Save yourself.
Sleep took hold in darkness

Sweet baby breath on my face.
Girlie was crawling on me and it was time
to go home. “She’s in deep REM sleep,
we may have to carry her, said my Bear.

“Hello,” said the Silent Sentinel. On a
spring, my eyes opened automatically,
triggered by the voice of my second child.
I was in the car, then the straggling gait
of a sleepwalker took me to my nest. “Goodnight,”
said the not so silent child. He followed me to
make sure I didn’t fall. Too much to put on a
young man child right now, but I had no words.
Sleep took me again.

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I wrote this for my own purposes then saw that it relates to the challenge prompt below. Synchronicity https://promptlings.wordpress.com/2016/02/02/the-sandbox-writing-challenge-25-vulnerable/comment-page-1/#comment-9993

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