rule of 3

what they do not tell you about being in the hospital is the waiting

waiting in your room

waiting at the tables

waiting in group for people to finish describing the colors of the monsters that are devouring their soul

and you know you should probably care, seeing as you are supposedly a good person

but everything is so loud in your head right now

and, to be perfectly, utterly honest

you really do not give a shit


the meds, which you don't even get to know the names of, make it relatively difficult to think about anything other than food and sleep

and everyone is crying all the goddamn time

tears and tears and tears and sedatives and then more tears and sobbing and maybe some screaming and flailing if they're one of the low-functioning types

and maybe your sister was right, maybe you are a sociopath because it's all so a n n o y i n g

all you want to do is hide in your room and sleep

but guess what kiddo

it's Time for the Doctors' Opinions™


the nutritionist lady says you're not eating enough

the nurse won't let you use the gym with the punching bag because you need to get your anger out in more constructive ways

the one dude they have their refuses to give you your clothes back, and you're 90% sure it's because he can see your boobs through your shirt

and your regular psychiatrist (y'know, the one you actually trust) has a booked schedule

so six (6) different people are going to hear your entire life story told in a mixture of drugged mumbling, anxious stuttering, and ugly crying

and what they tell you really throws you for a loop

because apparently you're not trying enough


you slam your fist into a wall

they fix your meds

you pass out in the middle of group from drowsiness

they fix your meds, and please, honey, try to participate a little more? it'll only help you

gentle hands, now, quiet hands, we can try again


they fix your meds


it takes a few days before all the anger drains out like fluid from an infected wound

leaving you dry and cracked and tired

and you realize this is gonna be harder than you thought

but the first time you spare a glance towards that worksheet they gave you, some things start to kinda make sense

and the scariest part of this whole experience starts to dawn on you

no one has a roadmap for what you're going through

it's relatively new territory

you're on your own


and that's the thing about recovery: it takes time

it takes effort and trying and crying a lot of angry tears

when there's an ache that has wedged itself inside your chest, you have to claw until your fingernails are broken and bloody to get it out

none of this is fun

none of this is easy

but the hope (it springs eternal, they say) that things could be better

that you could live a life full of promise and winning and joy

or that you could live a life period

that is what keeps you going


they survival is a rule of threes

you can go three minutes without air

three days without water

three weeks without food

and three months without love

by the time i finally tried to commit suicide, i had gone five years

but i am making up for lost time


This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741