Trapped

The first poem I wrote after being a self-admitted mental health inpatient for the first time

https://www.pexels.com/photo/abstract-human-face-in-geometric-maze-pattern-28510453/

On my back, legs swaying, a Waterbug — No, a glorified cockroach.

That’s what they call me.

Us.

Why did I wander into this room under this particular door?

I know: delicious wood is everywhere here — — it must be safe.

My legs flail. Skinny, stiff, reaching toward nothing. Closing my eyes, I know

Trapped. Self-admitted. Locked in.

A woman in one of the 12 chairs notices me.

Gasps,

“A bug!”

12 people and 1 group leader stare down, prying eyes, worse than a spider’s.

26 eyes.

Why did I do this? What am I doing here? Up in this chair?

They shoo me away, or try, with mindfulness sheets, morning and evening reviews.

Reviews of their cockroaches.

There’s poison here, where the 2-leggeds roam.

Thrashing harder, furious with fear, Gaining strength

Again, my legs protrude and flail. And flail. And flail. And flail.

My exoskeleton is stuck as the 2-legged know-it-all but only about his specialty psych iatrist comes leering toward me.

Imagination is a powerful thing.

I rise on my 6s.

I HISS and SPIT.

Fury. Furious. Fury. Furious.

Making myself invisible so no one can stomp me until my last breath

I SCREAM.

See me. I am here. This is me. Accept me as I am.

Exhausted.

Tired of the fight.

Fists raised permamently in oppositional defense because so few people believe me

This isn’t the Waterbug Hotel and Lounge, like those dolts I met in the drainage ditch told me.

Some 2-leggeds gasp. I glare at the psych iatrist.

Others scream.

The group leader raises his foot to do something.

To get rid of the filth they call me.

My body feels the fear. The fury. The fear.

FURY

HISS. HISS. SCREAM.

Let me out of here.

No. No. No.

They say they understand my disability.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Flipped to my right side, somehow, I scuttle, scuttle, scuttle

HISS and SPIT

and for 3 hours they won’t let me make a phone call outside the unit.

Not even to my beloved spouse.

1 hour 2 hours 3 hours

My hissing is quiet now, because to leave I must make myself invisible.

I find the crack under the door, the crack from where I came.

And I get the hell out.

Feeling grass, brown, green, dirt patches, anything — outside in the shade with accommodations

Finally feeling FEAR and FURY at their FULL volume

This was dangerous.

I felt the danger.

My body hurts worse and my brain is not much better

because they didn’t treat the whole of me.

I run and run and run.

To the compost pile to the garden to eat leaves and wood chips

And be left alone

to process my fear and fury

FEAR and FURY

to sustain me to get to the other side

that is Contentment? Peace?

We’ll see…