Not beating about the bush- this is a miserable blog post. I wrote it yesterday when I was freaking out about OCD and recovery and TIME. Time before I have to go into adult inpatient services (which I don’t want to do) and time I need to be getting better in. But I don’t seem to know how to do that… Anyway: here’s the poem.
Stop The Clock
Time is sneaking away from me.
Six months been and gone.
Six months of doors with windows.
And six months of pills in pretty white pots.
Stop the clock- I need to take stock.
Time is pulling me along.
The days are carved into six slices where I must eat and drink,
The place I want to run away from.
But that I hope will save me.
Before I sink.
Time is dragging me down.
Soon I’ll be an adult
Support being switched.
So I am a case number in other people’s books.
If I don’t hurry; In the psych wards where I’m told old men give you funny looks.
It’s the adult services which make my twitter friend’s despair.
Timelines telling tales of a care service without care.
Stop the clock- I need a rock.
Six months of trying.
Six months of fighting.
But my best just isn’t enough.
How can it be- when I’m still laden with all this stuff.
I’m pushing the pedals as hard as I can, Trying to make the damn thing go.
Go somewhere sunny.
But the recovery car just won’t go.
They push my compulsions down like a game of whack-a-rat,
Causing sheer black distress to crash and shatter around me .
It’s torture as they squeeze and pinch at it.
But as the tide settles, the problems just pop up somewhere else.
I tell them “I’d take X symptom over Y“.
But they tell me it is a disease with which you cannot compromise.
“We will get it all. That’s our job.” The nurses say
And I’m still waiting for ceasefire day.
The clock won’t stop – and I’m going to pop.
Time is running short.
How can we batter them all?
I’m pushing the pedals so hard.
But I’m scared that maybe it’s the motor that’s broken.
Stop the clock: because I can’t take another knock.