This poem was inspired by the Anne Sexton masterpiece, "Her Kind". I found it so moving and so appropriate to my own life that I had to write something similar. Of course, she was a much more gifted writer than I, so I feel rather humbled, yet grateful, to this special writer who died too young.
I have used the background gif of Frances Farmer, who had devastating bouts of mental illness during her tragic lifetime as well.

I jumped with quavering hesitancy off the dizzyingly high cliff,
Where below the tooth-like rocks and craggy landscape, were foreboding,yet deliciously dangerous.
Then I tumbled headlong into a wild, cacophany of madness.
I have been there before.

Tearing out my arched eyelashed in frenetic, jerking movements,
I eventually adapt a visage, not dissimilar to Marlon Brando,
As he sat in quiet, desperate contemplation of the twisted jungles of "Apocalypse Now".
I am scurrying abour, dodging bombs of insanity, in my own turbulent mental holocaust.
Dodging blinding firestorms of self-hatred and baying at what still remains of the moon.

Yes, I have been there before.

Thirty or so tablets clasped in my talon-like grip on reality,
I reach for the Nector of Pan, when swallowed with the urgency of the suicidal diva,
Will, combined with my stash---Oh, Jim Jones would be so proud if he hadn't been met by the Reaper---will open the gilded gates of Hell for me; where lies my destiny, I am certain.
For it is what I deserve, and, as my head reels and careens with dark and unconscionable thoughts, formulated in my suicidal frenzy,
I know I wouldn't find any loose threads of hope, even if I were led lovingly to the heavenly realm of peace.
I have been there before.

At the sterile, scrubbed, pink-walled institution,
I sat rocking, devoid of thoughts or contemplation, like some silly toy trinket on a businssman's cluttered desk;
An object eliciting cheap ruminating by the wooden man, but little else---a way for Mr. Greysuit Yuppie to pass idle hours while his fortune swells,
I have been there before.

They shocked my brain cells, charged my thoughts and delusions with an electrical assault>
The results, they are minimal at best; my enemies torture me under the false guise of "treatment,
And since I don't dance their jig, they zap me again....and again, until the cells are fried like poisoned mushrooms.
Afterward I stumble about like a three-footed yak on a slipery precipice of rock,
Drooling unconsciously, eliciting side-long glances and muffled snickering,
Fraught with a curious concoction of pity and disgust.
Yes, I have been there before.

My life is a wild kaleidescope of delusionary visions:
God is speaking to me through that famed talk show host on television.
I am wrapped in the womb-warmness when I hear Him say, "I will protect you, Denise. I will be your loyal guardian against pain".
Funny, I think, I am no religious zealot, but now the afterlife beckons, a lighthouse showing a crippled ocean liner the way to safety,
In a gesture of unconditional love and complete acceptance.
I am there now.

Jane Wanklin
1997

A woman finally unravels the fabric that kept her rooted in the world.