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Poem Details
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| Title: | My House is my Hospital |
| Author: | mimi |
| Date Submitted: | 5/31/2005 |
| Email: | amynicole77@hotmail.com |
| Poem: |
My room is a hospital. I reside there under the blankets to quiet my mind, but I know I'm laying there only to give my body a rest. I lay there and the thoughts race. The healthcare of this country is cruel. I feel sorry for myself having to ask my mother to spot me 100 bucks and though I am 27, I need the money to talk to someone, I need the money for help, fuck I need the money not for booze or drugs, but for help, from a professional who is supposed to know how to help me piece me together. My bathroom is the nurse's station, where I put on my theraputic grade essential oils my boyfriend's mother bought me for Christmas. Hoping for even a placebo effect, I douse myself with gasoline-like urgency, put out the fire inside me, put out the fire that consumes my energy, my productivity. To and from the empty fridge I pace and take up unstructured time with worry, panic, fear, low self-esteem. I can't afford acupuncture, I can't afford medical care, I can't afford a shrink, but I really can't afford to go on without help. The hardest part is wanting it, genuinely wanting to do the inside-of- my-soul work and having no means of doing it. I am not suicidal, but I sometimes feel like I will have to do some Winona Ryder - Girl Interrupted stunt to get the counselling I need. This country's healthcare system is cruel, and the rich housewives are laughing their way to the vicodin they don't even fucking need.... |