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Linda Brown

DSM IV

The grocery was the worst:
shelves closed in; boxes of cereal
became surreal, and floors
rushed up to meet me.

Eyes played tricks.
Hands tingled. Eventually
I ate less to avoid shopping.
Finally I lived out of my bed.

Days came. Went.
Mornings. Nights. I
grew fat on emptiness.
Obsessive thoughts
played tag between my tears
and disappointments.

Through the window
I watched other people live,
while I rehearsed my life
as if holding out for infinity.

Demons held me hostage.
I was halfway through my third life
before my cat shied away.
Body betrayed, my soul
was extinct. Adrenaline
formed starbursts in my chest.

I pressed cold fingers
to my wrist, felt for a pulse,
called an ambulance. So often
were the fingers of my right hand
upon my left wrist, they
could have grown there
and never known the difference.

Panic from my heart
met my brain
like a head-on collision
around 16th Avenue
and 35 years of age.

I wondered who had called in
demolition crews to wreck my life.
I wished I could un-breathe me,
as if I were a figment of someone
else’s imagination.

Later, a psychiatrist asked
if I had ever tried to kill myself.
I told him , “Death would have been
a kinder way to die.”