Damn, my body doesn't belong to me. I'm depression's marionette— a tremble of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet. Put me onstage. Give me the lead role in a minor tragedy. Make me play war. Make me a soldier with a knife in his head. It's okay. My body doesn't belong to me. Put me on the sidewalk. Make me spin, stagger, and leap. Make me doff my hat and beg: "Ladies and gentlemen, can you spare a dime for this tremble of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet." Make me a mime. Make me silently scream. Make me rue. Make me rage. Make me regret. Make me anything. My body doesn't belong to me. I'm depression's marionette, clumsy and dumb. Make me collapse. Make me a trembling and tangled mess of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet. Drape me over the altar. Make me pray. Make me weep. Play the church organ. I'll play dead. This isn't me. It's just a body— a tremble and tangle of strings, arms, hands, legs, and feet.
This should be required reading for everyone who works in any type of healthcare. And anyone who ever says "Oh, can't you just.." No, if the person "could just"whatever, they would have already done it. This also reminds me of my grandmother who wanted to explain why a cousin wouldn't be at the reunion. "She has that disease, where you feel so very all alone." We asked "depression, grandma?" That's what she meant! Thanks for sharing this with us, with trusting us.
This is a truly brilliant poem. It totally captures just who is in control of someone in mental illness.