Doctors' Poison

I wandered the halls of Saint Francis Memorial Psychiatric Hospital to see what the drugs were doing to me.  They kept testing different ones on me and I’d been here for three months now.  It’s April 2005.  Some would give me convulsions.  Some would give me lockjaw.  Some gave me ticks.  Some would make me walk with my feet really far apart and some made me walk without moving my arms at all.  Some made me drool.  The doctors didn’t know that I knew.  They just figured I was another Schizo-Affective Disorder walking the halls and I would end up on SSI … another victim - my assets drained by the county.  Another statistic.

They didn’t know I knew.

But I know the drill.  I know it’s Doctor’s Poison and I know that they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.  It’s an inexact science and they don’t know.  Psychiatry and psychology are such bullshit that I had to teach it one time in high school and I remember just dreading it – thinking, I’m so sorry, you guys,  just do the best you can, because this is all bullshit.  And my diagnosis keeps changing.  In 1987 it was schizophrenia; then it was schizoaffective disorder; then manic-depressive disorder, then bi-polar disorder, now it’s back to schizo-affective disorder.  I told my friend I was schizophrenic again and she said, “I’m proud of ya’!” We’re friends largely because of our similar twisted sense of humor.