Il lavoro dei pazzi
- Amanda Riddell
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- Oct 29, 2024
- 1 min read
Waking up each morning, With a fuzzy brain. Feeling the pain of those Quetiapine pills. They help me sleep, But I feel dead inside.
Duller than I was before.
Checking oneself. A mood thermometer, cataloguing my symptoms. Manic; depressed; euthymic mixed. Working out which feelings I'm supposed to be coping with today. Feeling pathologised.
Reading my old posts, making sure that I agree (and I mostly do). Boredom kills. Depression chills.
Mania spills gossip.
Being told that I'm mental, Being treated like an invalid, Writing these poems because People find my rants confronting.
People being morally superior, Even though most of them also have mental illnesses. I've never been arrested. I've never been held under a CTO. Yet I feel like a criminal. It's the stigma that wins, and the ancient preconceptions. Diagnoses aren't no substitute for reality. Amanda Riddell
October 2024
This isn't the type of thing I'd normally write.
This is for the newcomers to the world of having psychotic experiences.