I don't really want to know

I feel fine. I'm not bothering anyone. But they've begun showing up at my door
lately. "Are you O.K.?" they ask.

I sleep at night and bathe daily. I'm not homicidal or suicidal. But they keep
coming over, every day now. "Are you sure you're O.K.?" they ask.

I take my meds. I don't use street drugs. I know my name and the name of the
President. Still they check on me.

"I'm OK!" I now shout through my door. "Go away!"

I should ask them what it is I'm doing that causes them to worry so about me. I
should ask them what they have heard or seen to make them think I'm sick again.

I should ask but I don't.

I don't really want to know.

I have treated the chronically mentally ill for more than 35 years and, for much of
that time, have sought to find a voice for the mute and even words for the
inexplicable and uncanny. At very least, some of the time, I think I was able to be
there. Maybe some patients didn't feel so awfully alone and desperate. Maybe,
sometimes, my words brought comfort, even consolation. I like to think so.

Above are some of these efforts, put forward as meditations. How else might one
phrase such thoughts? Sharing helps.

2005 Underground Voices