Now that I’ve stopped all my meds
I wonder who I am.
Am I the person I was last week?
The one I am now?
Not even sure if there is a difference.
I know I liked me better when I was medicated.
And so did everyone else.
When the “cure” is killing you
And your personality without it is polluting the air around you –
Which do you choose?
Die happy but soon?
Live a long life, but hate yourself?
How do I make that decision?
I know that people need me,
And I need them.
But who I am now is not really
Acceptable.
Susceptible
is more like it.
I carry a sign
(For those who can see it)
STAY AWAY. TOXIC.
Those who ignore it
Either see past my pain
Or through it.
I know it will get better.
It has to.
The question is–
Can I survive that long?
And will anyone still be around
When I get there?
I remember when I could call myself
A punk.
A rebel.
Now–I am a has been.
Picking up the pieces of a life I broke.
Smashed on purpose,
With no real thought behind it
Except destruction.
And look what that has gotten me.
Broken shards of a life.
-sll
1/11/2015
4:08pm
Siouxsie's Space 
Thanks for the ‘like’ for my comment on Dennis Cardiff’s poem. It appealed to me. Your name attracted my attention. I’m an old fan of Ms Sioux and The Banshees. Your poem is intriguing. Although my own medical ailments are not of the mind, I’ve had personal experience of the torment of despondency. No-one is a ‘has been’ who is still alive.
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