Random Poetry

Medicated

I thought I would hate it.
That last resort, that last chance.
I really thought I would fear it,
Loathe it,
Run and hide from it.

The mere thought of being medicated for it,
Shame, why shame?
Why does shame attach itself
To this treatment?

Just three days.
Three doses.
Already, hope...
A month will see proper circulation but already...
Hope.

"One a day for as long as you need. It could be six months, it could be the rest of your life."
Spoke my doctor,
As blunt yet as human as could be.

I think she, with her trained eye and her keen knowledge,
I think she saw my dread.
The dread of being shamed for
Something no being should feel shame for.

People.
People sure are cruel.

The brain is an organ.
And oh boy, can it get sick.
So why is it then that treating it,
Becomes such a shameful action?

I feel... happy.
I can smile; I can laugh.
An anxious thought no longer races away,
Arresting rational thought.

Freedom.

---

Author's Notes:
You're probably wondering what this is about. Well, I just think it's a damn shame that there's still so much stigma surrounding mental health. The brain can get sick too! Remember, it runs the whole show, so no wonder it gets tuckered out from time to time.