|
LAWRENCE H. CLIMO, M.D
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 |
|