POETRY | WOULD I CHANGE IT? BY ALEX WODZIANSKI

I am 39, head­ing towards 40, its time,
For some can­did poetry
Like many oth­ers before me
I have suffered men­tally,
With the dia­gnos­is of bipolar,
There have been many highs and lows,
And strange and dif­fer­ent exper­i­ences too,
But I’m one of the lucky few,
For I am still here,
On this earth,
And appre­ci­ate Life’s worth.
Do not get me wrong,
It has not always been so,
For which my con­di­tion,
There have been huge lows,
And then utterly depressed,
I self harmed badly,
Put­ting my arm through a win­dow,
As a res­ult a par­tially severed nerve,
The fant­ast­ic NHS,
Patched me up,
Using plastic sur­gery,
Leav­ing a scar,
Which provides a con­stant memory.
My fel­low suf­fer­ers,
I think would agree,
Men­tal health can cause,
Oth­er marks,
Which are invis­ible to the naked eye,
That at times can make one cry,
For there can be a lot of pain,
Emo­tion­al dis­tress coupled with strain.
How­ever I do not wish to be mor­ose,
For also in my life,
There have been amaz­ing highs,
Of the nat­ur­al kind,
Provided by cer­tain accom­plish­ments,
And achieve­ments,
But also other’s caused,
By my men­tal con­di­tion,
Delu­sions of grandeur,
Para­noid think­ing,
The list could go on,
Vivid dream­ing.
I have been asked,
On more than one occa­sion,
If I could,
Would I change the fact,
I have a dia­gnos­is,
My answer still,
Des­pite times of suf­fer­ing,
Would be an emphat­ic no,
For the label is not defin­ing,
Plus if I did,
I would not be the same per­son,
Or char­ac­ter that has come,
With mat­ur­a­tion,
And wheth­er con­nec­ted or not,
Writ­ing seems to have,
Been a bless­ing,
That comes from some­where,
Organ­ic­ally,
Helps me express my per­son­al­ity,
Or at least,
Offers glimpses into my his­tory,
The verses I cre­ate,
Show how I feel in a snap­shot of time,
As well as being a cop­ing strategy.
I would say I have exper­i­enced,
Life’s spec­trum,
Of mood states, exper­i­ences and emo­tions,
Plus met some real true people,
For when hos­pit­al­ised,
There is no escap­ing,
Who one is,
The mul­ti­fa­ceted lay­ers exposed,
Reveal­ing one’s nat­ur­al soul,
For one can­not wear a mask,
That take each day as it comes,
With the people that sur­round one.
Though in soci­ety it can be hard,
For des­pite atti­tudes hav­ing changed,
There still seems to be a sense of shame.
What can I say?
Except we live each day,
Try to hold on to pos­it­iv­ity,
No mat­ter how hard that may be,
Some­times sur­viv­ing is the key,
And when one can,
Live this life enthu­si­ast­ic­ally,
So we nev­er when our light,
Will be dimmed on this plane at least,
Etern­ally.

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