Sometime I’m not sure if my illness displays itself
on the inside of my head or on the outside;
I bare some sort of cautionary sign or a bar code on
my forehead, classifying and labelling me as defective,
for I have become a liability, a fallen hero – talented –
but risky, no longer trusted with the important things
and managed out of ‘concern’ for my own well-being,
into something ‘less stressful’ –
– less relevant,
– less meaningful.
I am a ghost that haunts the passages and offices of
my employment, or lack there-of, with no real function
or purpose to give me body or make me real.
I am the poor relative, kept around out of legal and
ethical obligation, but secretly resented for my
This poem is part of my continuing exploration of issues relating to mental illness and speaks of the frustrations I have had at work after being hospitalized for depression.