Another Poem: On Family and People that Don't Understand that Depression is an Illness Like Any Other

This poem was written almost ten years ago, when I asked my family for assistance while I was applying for disability and had no income at all.  I was afraid I was going to end up homeless, living in my car or in a shelter.

Letter to My Sister

You did not visit me in hospital,

did not send get well cards

or vases of flowers.

That’s OK; they wouldn’t

 have let me keep the vases anyway.

You say I have been sick long enough.

You do not say that to our grandfather

as his Alzheimer’s progresses.

As his mind becomes a sieve,

as he no longer recognizes you or your children,

as he becomes incontinent,

you love him.  You are patient,

you cook his favorite foods,

even though he no longer remembers

he loves  them.  Even though

he no longer remembers he loves you.

But you have decided

my illness is not an illness

but an indulgence from which

I should simply abstain.

My mind is not a sieve.

It holds on to everything.

And yet, I am not sure

I can recognize you now.

Do you remember how I walked with you

as you labored on a salty summer night,

brought you herbal tea and a birthing ball,

sat by your hospital bed those long and lonely hours?

Oh, I do.

I went alone to the emergency room.

No one sat by my bed

as they emptied my stomach,

as they fed me thick liquid charcoal

that stained my hands and my lips.

No one walked with me

onto that locked ward.

You tell me I have been depressed long enough.

You sit beside our grandfather

on the porch swing,

hold the cat for him to pet.

You are tender, soft.

You tell me it is enough.

I will wait alone on the food stamp line.

I will put on another sweater,

and turn down the heat.

I will take my turn

cooking pork chops and potatoes for Papa.

I will send your children birthday cards.

It will not be enough.