More about bipolar disorder

I wrote the following poem when I was struggling to differentiate between what was real to me and what others told me was real–the inherent confusion of the psychotic, thinking, believing, even knowing I knew better, knew more, could intuit things the experts couldn’t.

Long Ago

I went to the lilac bush
     because it was
     a safe place
     being nothing
     other than a branch
                a scent
     no light to make seeing happen
They told me I was sick
     but I knew
     that it was better
                we only know
                the real
                by the not real
Having lost
     all sense
     of up and down
the dignity of admitting
     I was wandering
                eyes closed
                following a faint glow
                of incense burning on a shelf
Smell, like touch, always precedes seeing