What I love about writing poetry is the way words lock away memories and release them when read back. I wrote this in the run up to receiving my diagnosis knowing that in less than a week I would have an answer. I began the process of getting diagnosed in August 2020 and I received the news (which of course I already knew)
in October.
WAITING
Waiting. For what? A label? An excuse? Will what they say be any use? Excavated bones of youth, Unscrewed the mask and spoke the truth Which stings the mouth like paper cuts. Chewing staples, spitting blood. Picking at the scabs and sutures Raw and pink I think the future Could go either way I fear. I don’t know what I want to hear.
Each box ticked just opens crates Of chaos, questions, more self-hate
For being weak, not fitting in,
Not having friends or wanting them. For burning money in my search To explain why my head won’t work And why I struggle every day With faces, places, lights and change.
Waiting. Hoping that they find An answer to my mixed up mind. The A word? Surely that can’t be? An adult man. I’m forty three. Though if it’s not I don’t know what Could explain all the stuff I’ve got. A journey up a sheer cliff face With eyes which scald and teeth which scrape.
Years of crawling through the gloom. Round labyrinths and catacombs. A quest for rest. A need for order But this is Diagnosis Mordor. If I get through, I’m changing things. Torn by the tears and bored of the stings. My Judgement Day not far away They’re compiling my dossier. Verdict reached; decision made. I’m waiting. Flaking. So afraid.
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