You will have to share your life story,
Over and over during the intake process,
And each staff member will say, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
While turning a page on their clipboard.
Excerpt from Fieldguide For the Mental Hospital
I didn’t realize I was writing a book.
In psych wards, I scribbled poems across the back of medical paperwork. Wild-eyed portraits drawn in crayon or charcoal. I held no interest in my life or future. I made things because they begged to be made and because dissociating through the back and forth of my hand on paper offered brief moments of comfort.
Between 2014 and 2023, I created hundreds of poems and drawings. A practice that helped me process a harrowing period of sexual assault, medical malpractice, psych wards, unemployment, and grief but also resourcefulness, compassion, resilience, forgiveness, and courage. Lion’s Rite is an abridged collection of that work. It was not written with the intention of being shared which means the vulnerability expressed is often visceral. It portrays isolating experiences in a way that people connect with.
One of the greatest sources of healing was courageous folks who shared their stories. I felt freed through their courage. My goal with this manuscript is to pass that experience on- embolden others to be seen, to know they are not alone, and to value their voice.
Rite : “Rite of passage” :
A ceremony, passage, or ritual which occurs when an individual leaves one group to enter another-requiring great endurance and character. A way of marking transitions in the important stages of life. A test of what you’re made of. A coming of age.
I sat in my assigned armchair;
one of sixteen.
somehow, the hospital wasn’t required to give us rooms.
so, we sat; in two rows of eight.
the overhead lights and tv blared through the night.
each person curled under their allocated blanket;
desperate for sleep.
patients stay in this room for up to three days
before transferring to the official ward.
have you ever used a bathroom
with half the door cut out?
merely half a door between you and
a roomfull of bodies; each exhale
heard.
again, I resumed my seat,
my immortal armchair, my rose
by any other name.
I drew my blanket over my face,
pretended it was earth. Shivering in my paper gown.
I breathed to the rhythm of my throbbing arm.
the nurses had decided the second visit stitches would require was
too costly for the assistance program.
so, one nurse held my forearm together and the other opened a packet of medical glue.
public hospitals are frequented by
the poor, the homeless, those uninsured or on aid:
the vulnerable.
this is the quality of care we receive.
Healing
Is not like a ladder. It is more akin
To hair
Mapped on the walls of a shower, coated
in shampoo; collecting, matted,
In the drain. It crisscrosses,
Doubles back,
It takes surprising
side trips.
It wanders.
It’s messy- even feral- in it’s commitment to taking
Up space. Take
Comfort in this: you are not on the wrong path,
In a permanent cycle, or irrevocably
Broken.
Wherever, however,
You’re healing.
Forward,
back, and to the side
You’re healing.
No matter how unclear the path, you’re healing; And that,
If nothing else,
Is something to be proud of.
