The Words of the Mind: Exploring Mental Illness Through Poetry Kamri Danielle Jordan
Dedication To my Mother, Without you, this would not have been possible. Thank you.
Foreword Dear Reader, I began my journey to learning about mental health and mental in June 2016. After receiving my diagnosis, I sat in my counselor’s office, thinking. However, I did not think about myself. My mind was consumed by the thoughts of the millions of people affected by mental illness. I, you, and no one else will ever know how many people face this struggle. We will never know how their illness affects each of their daily lives. We will never know the impact it has on the desire to live their life. Assumptions can be made. Studies can be conducted. Yet, we will never be sure. My poems, surprisingly, were not inspired by this uncertainty. Instead, I was driven by the treatment and abuse that those with mental illnesses receive. Violent, dangerous, and crazy are just a few of the words tagged onto people with mental illnesses. Some of the most horrific crimes of the decade have also been blamed on people who were suspected to be mentally ill. These labels and myths are damaging. They have led the to dehumanization of people with mental illness. With mental illness now being an important topic in political discourse, this treatment can no longer be tolerated. I will not speak for everyone with a mental illness, but I cannot remain silent. My poems reflect the thoughts that have plagued my mind since my diagnosis. Having a mental illness is one battle; dealing with the stigma surrounding it is another. Many of these poems were written with shaking hands and tearful eyes. They are filled with anger, confusion, and sadness. So as you read, you might cry. There will be moments of discomfort. The will be time for anger. Do not fight these emotions. Just as I let them guide me, allow them to do the same for you. Sincerely, Kamri Jordan
What Makes the Mind? Mental Health 1. Condition of the mind; My mind rises before I wake, pacing back and forth, clawing at my skull, scratch, trying to leave me, scratch, make me a statue. Yesterday it danced like the trees in the wind; taking me to the land of milk and honey. What happen overnight, I do not know, it does not know. But what it once was, no longer lives. 2. Emotional welfare. Wearing the mask of my ancestors, grinning till my face cracks- She’s doing good. Unkempt hair, eyes like fire, tears for makeup- She’s off in the head. Mental Illness 1. Conditions that affect your thinking and actions. Quick glances. Tugging holes in clothes. Avoidance of those all seeing eyes. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Cursing the universe for what it has done to, then whispering prayers, asking it to forgive. Ground shaking sobs. All because of the mind. 2. A scapegoat. No death. No racism. Guns for all. But no. The “crazies” will not let it happen. Tearing apart the perfect seams that hold society together. This blemish free society, ruined.
The Clock of Misery Clocks love to measure your misery. They take pleasure in mocking you, With each tick. They are arrogant beings. Halting time, Forcing you to stare at them, Waiting, Pleading. “Please let my suffering end.� These clocks are envious. Once you are free From their breath taking grasp. They hasten the world, Dragging you back to them. Dragging you back to anguish. Although you may not see it, There is always misery, When you have a clock.
They Called Her Mad Flipping through the pages Of my book, A grey haggard hand Extends out, pulling Me onto a callous, Frigid, agonizing bed. “The sun has not began His journey,” she tells me, “The eyes of the institution Are still at slumber.” I look around the room. The history books tell Us that she once lived In rooms with hues Richer than those of Mother Nature. But All I see know is Are pale walls that Rival her sickly skin. “They said I was Forgetful, anger owned My soul. Three sons dead. Witnessed the death of my Husband. Time to recover, Rest, time to myself, was All I desired.” Her aged face hardens With each word.
Tears dancing in her eyes, She is waiting. Waiting for the Day That she goes mad.
The Minds, The Bruises We are the bruises on your faultless skin. The reason all eyes seem to glare and stare. You cover us hide us, and ask God when? “When will you get rid of the vile nightmares?� The crazy, insane, and at times, called mad. The blemishes hiding behind your mask. Is this the worst thing you have ever had? You fear for the day we come out to bask. But the time is here, and we cannot hide. Your remedies and treatments do not work. No more dead bodies protecting your pride. We continue to show, even if it makes you shirk. Bold and ugly, failing to fade away. Crazy and mad, forever here to stay.
The Labels Look down at your sheet of labels, Look back at the crowd, Do have enough? Are they accurate? Once pure and innocent to the ugliness Of the world, You defiled them. With the rough strokes Of your pen, you Called them crazy, Paranoid, Psycho. You wore labels out more than your favorite pair of shoes. But you were given The right labels. “Mental Illness Will do.” Beaming, faces Filled with hope People told you, “Use these, these are the new ones. We prefer these labels.” You scowled. Flung the labels To the sky, and
Made your own You snatched People by the neck And said “I made These labels, now Use them!� But they fell off. So you picked them backed Up. Stapled, sewed, Stitch; whatever you Had to do, to make Them stick. But now, the labels are coming off again. Blood and tears, Grunts and screams. And as they cascade To the ground. You look back at the sheet of labels, Time to make a new sheet.
Do It! I have to do something. Agony, Despair, Distress. They cannot keep living with me. I came with the humility of Moses, Asking them to please leave. They refused me with laughs That shook the heavens. Glaring, with grins that said more Than their words ever could, They told me: “It won’t be that easy.” I have to do it. Agony caresses my head Every morning when I wake. Despair waits until I lay in bed To tell me all the days troubles. Distress follows me, ensuring That I never know what its like To live without him. I cannot believe I am about to do this. I do not want to die, But these thoughts, these Debilitating, abusive, controlling thoughts are killing me. And I would rather, Take this gun put it to my head, and shoot. I did it.
Dear Senator Hillary Clinton, I am one of the 40 million, Or the 1 out of 5, whichever sounds better to you. “Hillary Clinton’s New Platform Is A Blow to Mental Health Stigma” Eyebrows furrowed, nose crinkled, and mouth dropped. I refused to believe that you, were talking about it. This is a performance, That Shakespeare Would praise. The masses will cry for it, But I, one of the 40 million, know the truth. Smiling like a Cheshire Cat You say you will end The stigma. But you say “they” are violent. Who are the “they” Senator Clinton? They, the people Who cannot find a mask To hide them. Their voices are The music of the streets, Ticks and twitches making Their beats. Are they the ones? Or the ones with Silent sobs?
As their minds scream, Fight, and curse, Their lips remain shut. Are they the ones? Senator Clinton, I want to believe that you care. We appreciate any help, All 40 million of us, But you cannot, separate us. If you desire to help us, then it must be all of us. Sincerely, The 1 out of 5.
Who Will Save Me? Written in collaboration with Khandi Wilson “But Hillary Clinton said We have to keep guns Out of the hands of Violent Criminals and The severely mentally ill”. But I am not violent! I am sick, yes but pose No harm not even to a fly. I only request that I am Not seen as a threat for I am quite shy. Everywhere I go they stare, Steal whispered murmurs And make a point to put Me as the center Of their conversation. Who would want to Save a kid like me? When will they save me? Donald Trump — He has mocked one of our own Mimicked his disability for A sarcastic laugh. Not taken his aspirations Or insecurities into account. There has never been a voice That advocated for me. No one has stood up for What I want. What I need. When will somebody save me?
Look at the history books Do your research and see For yourself how they treat us. They condemn us as Crazy Insane Mentally-unstable. How do you know? You must be some kind Of undercover physician With all of that medical knowledge. But most of us pose No threat to your well-being, I promise you. We are the ones that you pass everyday People who lurk in the shadow Of your everyday activities. Stereotypes are damaging. As I’m holding onto the Comfort of my mother’s hand, You already have a preconceived Idea about who I am And what I am capable Of becoming. I am only a child. Do you realize that I Want to have good days too? To cherish my faults And conquer my fears. How can I though If you automatically suspect That I am not conscious Of what I am doing and Make fun of me?
Why won’t you save me?
Ars Poetica I sit across from the poet, staring, Sitting and staring with a silence That leads to madness. Can she see that my eyes are begging her To tell me, help me understand, “What is a poem?” “HA!” Her booming laugh Shatters the silence. “Do not ask me, Let your mind do the work.” My mind, the thing that Causes thoughts that cripple My soul. Images that freeze me In fear. Actions that isolate me. I am suppose to trust it, My mind, with poems? I look at the poet. Fear of what my mind Might say, shakes my body. I look at her and tell In my mind, poems are: Waves, the tricksters Of the sea, who Come with their arms Stretched out as if offering Peace. But instead Grab you and with Al of their might Drag you to the Unknown depths.
In my mind, poems are: The fire who confuses. They destroy everything That you love, but Comfort you as You are engulfed. In my mind, poem are: The last goodbye, The final chance To let the world Know you. I look at the poet, I no longer need her. I know what a poem is.
The Last Day The mother glided Onto the beach. Her determined face Looked behind for Her sunburned, Teenaged daughter. It was their last day on the beach. Last day of sleeping in. Last day of fresh air. Last day of being free. No swimsuits, they Did not plan to stay At the beach long. Just long enough To say goodbye. As the tears began Hug their eyelids, The mother Turned to her daughter “I’m doing it.” The daughter scrunched Her face like the Trash she just threw away. What was her mother thinking? She watched her mother March into the ocean. Her head and hands Were facing God She turned, found Her daughter’s eyes “Do it.” Together Holding hands,
Waves baptizing them. They turned to each Other, smiled, “We did it.�