Posted in Poems about my Health

Despite the Medicine

So, this is another poem about struggling with OCPD. For those who don’t know me, I am a girl currently suffering from one of the more invisible mental illness, Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. Again, this is not to be confused with OCD, which is an Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. The primary focus of this poem is mainly on the stigma that comes with a mental illness, particularly, the intake of medications. It is one of the few things that really irritate me and basically, I just want people to understand why I need this.

Despite the Medicine
By: Anita Marie

People call me crazy
Sometimes even lazy
They say I blame the devastations of my life on illnesses I fake
But they don’t know the frustrations I have over the decisions I make

Acting out. Depressed.
Heart Broken. Or stressed.
I could go on and on about how people perceive mental illness.
I get it, it’s invisible to the eye and almost impossible to detect.
And the stigma distresses me.

For the information of some, this is biology.
Its quite similar to how Animal Farm works.
Some neurotransmitters are more equal than others.
Until one or two of them starts to take over.

For the information of many, the symptoms are similar.
It’s just like how clear water resemble alcohol.
Both bubble up when you shake them yet steadies immediately after you do.
But the difference is one can cause miracles and one can kill you.

I’ve read many medical textbooks and I refused seeing a doctor.
You’d think 10 months of denial would help put my life in order?
No. It was out of my control. And I was too scared to admit it.
I thought of a thousand possibilities of what might have changed.
Is it the stress? Am I crazy? Am I just this anxious? What is wrong with me?
How ironic, right?
That a therapist would need a therapist of her own?
Who’s supposed to teach her what she already knows?

Every time I see my doctor, she always says,
“I’m gonna give you a prescription of these meds.
But always be reminded that this is only 50% of the recovery, so don’t be too sure
That you will get better until you perform the remaining 50% for your future.”

I believed this was the little push I needed to get better in school.
But others thought otherwise and thought I was a fool.
Cause medicine for the brain is still taboo
In a society that fusses over anything new

“You know what, that girl who went through suicide? She was on pills.”
“I think that man who was crazy overdosed until he got himself killed.”
“Are you sure about this? Be careful, honey, the side effects are hard.”
“WTF! Once you start, you might be dependent on them like Clark.”

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Reality Testing. They do help but without medicine its not the same
Because no amount of that can ever fix the imbalances in my brain.

And maybe that’s why I wrote about it.
To be honest, a mental illness cannot kill you.
But a society that stigmatizes it actually can.
Despite the medicine.

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Posted in Poems about my Health

Beatings

If you’ve ever wondered what an Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is, its a perfectionist’s illness, very different from the popular Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Actually, I believe it deserves a better definition than that. It’s layers and layers thick but I can’t go on about it. I’m not very good at explaining medical conditions nor am I good at conveying how it feels like to have OCPD. However, this is my attempt of having others understand what is it that people with OCPD suffer with. I’m sure it differs from person to person but their stories, you can hear from them. I’m Anita Marie and this is my story.

Beatings
By: Anita Marie

No one knows what I face every morning
No one knows I take bruises from a beating
A beating every morning that’s invisible to the eye
A beating every morning that prevents me from rising up from my bed left my soul battered and red

If you were to choose, a public attack or a no-show?
If you were to choose, perfection or a zero?
These simple questions occur inside my mind
It’s not that terrifying until it crosses the line between what you can make and what you can take

Again and again and again and again
A cycle? A routine? A repetition?
How long will this last?
Will I make it with my heart beating this fast?

All my life, I’ve always thought people liked being perfect
I’ve always thought people hated things with defects
No mistakes, all in one take
Delicately put together like icing on a cake

It’s not that I don’t appreciate areas for improvement
Because according to my beliefs, we all have some of them
But was I wrong to assume that everyone was perfect but me?
Was I wrong thinking that if I did what I itched to do, I would be free?

No. I prolonged my agony
And I may never escape this enemy
This enemy who conquered reality
Who I later found out was just me

I was the one doing the thinking
I was the one who was doing the overthinking
Also I gave in to what I call procrastinating
Thinking distracting myself was stress relieving

But the truth is, my heart pounds
So loud that you could hear its sound
Lub dub lub dub, it travels to my ears
And then it begins, I start thinking about my fears

I let out a small scream excusing it as excitement
But this front I put up is just one big curtain
To cover my trembling hands that just want to reach out
And to hide the identity of a voice desperately crying so loud

I’m not a mistake, I tell myself
I’m not a failure, I assure myself again
It’s okay, girl, it’s okay
Take a deep breath

I try to talk sense into thoughts that have dominated the show
As a therapist, it’s now between what I feel versus what I know
These voices are my voices and I can’t control them
Me and me, how wrong is this tandem?

When I asked for help, I knew what it meant
Some medications, a stigma, and an amusement
Despite that, I can say I’ve grown a bit
And maybe, soon, my life’s gonna be lit

But now, at this very moment, I still wonder
How long will I keep hearing the rain’s thunder?
What can I do rather than closing my eyes so I can’t see the lightning?
Will I ever transcend through this and alter my thinking?

No one knows

No one knows what I face every morning
No one knows about my bruises from these beatings
But I know what it feels like
I know what it looks like
I know how it sounds and I know what it’s like
Only I know cause it’s me
And yet, only I can set myself free