Today I feel blessed to live independently, which I was told would never happen. I feel greatly blessed to have family and friend whose relationships nourish my soul.
My life is a work in progress, and is not a flat line picture of perfection. Like everyone else, I have my struggles, my ups and downs. However I seek to embrace my experiences of all that life is, moving through both what may be called the light and the dark.
I believe in owning where I have been and who I am. I refute the labels of pathology and descriptions of limitations some well meaning mental health professionals attempt to place on me. Just as I believe in others, I believe for myself that I have the power, with the grace of my God, to fully live the life I choose in all its complexity.
Through the support of family and friends and with my peers in groups like the Prosumers I work toward my recovery. It is to acknowledge that hope always exists and positive change can happen, no matter the difficulty of what our lives may have been or are as psychiatric survivors, that I give this poem. It was written about how I felt at that time.
It was through writing about these experiences (those referred to here) to my friend Dennis, that I learned to write the way I do. It was through these experiences that I learned how to truly feel compassion and empathy. Because my family came to see me and never lost touch with me, although I was often told by my therapists at that time they were the reason I was the way I was (disconnected from my self and when I did feel, it was pain I felt) that I learned how much they loved me. With the help of two friends who remained in my life during this time I learned how important it is to support others emotionally and accept them as they are. These are the lessons and gifts that came out of my journey.
To Dennis (1996)
five year of Soul-bearing letters words moving thru pain and sadness
in and out of locked-up mad houses
days spent sitting in circles among women
women with scars in their Hearts
some showing scars on their arms
placed in Turtle Creek Manor
dallas, texas
where 32 housemates live each seeking release
from alcohol, heroin, speed, crack
and Jim and me?
fighting the deadness of depression
i sit outside starbucks down the street in the light and warmth of that afternoon
Dennis, it’s not that
-i’m crazy and yr not-
it’s that i’m no longer sure
what Life is
outside hospitals, crisis centers, halfway houses
Listen to me
how do I w(rite) myself
out of this dangerous journey?
Dennis,
I want to be Free
Submitted by P. Lydia Martinez (by Paz)