TIME TO SIT.

A WOMAN AND HER MENTAL ILLNESS

 

A time to sit, the doctor said.

The room silent,

 

the walls a dull grey,

painted God knows when.

 

The chair uncomfortable,

hard on the arse.

 

You look around,

c**k your ears,

 

sniff the air.

Tell me, the doc said,

 

do you hear voices?

The carpeted floor

 

beneath the feet.

The shoes touch it.

 

You push hard down on it.

Not springy.

 

A small window high up

lets in light. The air is stale. 

 

Body smell, sweat.

As if many have sat here

 

just like you on this chair.

The mind is a complex thing,

 

the doc said, layer upon layer

of memories and sensations

 

 are buried there.

As if you didn’t know. 

 

He spoke with an Irish lilt.

Just like you. Softer though.

 

Photographs were on his desk in his room.

You gazed at them as he spoke.

 

The wife of his some posh bit,

clothes aplenty, eyes just staring.

 

And two kids staring at you

from another photo: well fed,

 

nothing much wrong with them.

No screw loose, all right in the head.

 

The sitting in the room does you no good.

The voices are back,

 

never been away.

Good day, good day, they say.