GAD

Generalized anxiety disorder

is like studying liberal arts at college:

You dabble in stuff

some useful

some not so much.

Generally-speaking,

it’s expensive

benign enough

though rarely easy

poetic

 

GAD is one letter off from God

which somehow feels

that much closer to Him.

GAD sounds like God

pronounced with a Boston accent.

Oh my GAD.

 

Ironically, the liberal arts analogy

appeared mid-homily

at Sunday morning Mass

Were thoughts spilling out of my ears?

They banged so loudly inside my head.

Thanks for listening, God.

 

We take these things

and mix them up

like the alphabet soup

of diagnostic codes.

We read them in the news

MDD.  OCD.  PTSD.

Post– meaning “after”

But what about the here and now?

 

Instead of alphabet soup

what if we used the chicken noodle

with those tiny stars again?

Constellations in pools

of constant motion

hard to decipher

That’s why God created

liberal arts degrees.

 

 

 

No Rules Poetry

 

 

The Group

Allow me to introduce myself

and, perhaps,

if I ever come back again

to re-introduce myself

like the Jay-Z

of lost souls

hoping to be saved.

 
I don’t really know why I’m here.

It feels like the right place to go.

I’ve visited others before

but this time, years later,

I visit myself.

 
I don’t know these people

I’m not sure I want to be

one of them

but they welcome me

anyway.

The bold voice of a Veteran

commanding

“Let her speak.”

 
The tattoo sticks out

beneath the shirt sleeve

a simple phrase

of angst?

of rebellion?

of standing for something

bigger than oneself.

 

I’d share the words here

but I don’t want to

blow his cover

just in case someone else

recognizes the tattoo

or the story behind it.

Maybe it’s their story, too?

 
Sometimes you have to

seek it out yourself.

Let them speak.

Listen.

Nod.

Laugh.

Cry.

A combination

of all of the above.

 

Wave goodbye in the parking lot.

See you when I see you.

Until we meet again.

This group.

Maybe one more

maybe one less

next time,

if there even is

a next time.

 

Nevertheless

we’ll still be

THE Group.

 

 

No Rules Poetry

 

Rx straddles the ledge

Rx straddles the ledge

of the countertop

His hand shakes as he reaches

Rx drops

He screams

as the glass splinters

all over the floor

and into his foot

the droplets of life

now mingled in with the dirt

from inside and out

holes punched in the wall

of the kitchen

where he can no longer feed

without those tiny droplets.

What good is the dirt?

 

 
For a life that is so fragile

soft and precarious

so dependent on these molecules

and conversations

and circumstances,

it sure as heck

feels weathered

and hard.

 

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No Rules Poetry

What would have been?

Wonder

What would have been?

if the right provider

had asked the right questions

and I’d replied honestly

all those years ago.

 
“Why is your blood sugar chaotic?”

“Because life is chaotic…”

Firm, and to the point

the question and the answer.

And the response?

 
Or if the nurse /

who connected me to the doctor /

who helps me to stay afloat now /

had been my nurse then /

and she’d been my doctor.

 

What would have been

What is

What will be

Still swimming

 

 

No Rules Poetry