My case manager told me yesterday that she had let the doctor know I was "unhappy" with him. He said he had "observed" me being "a little manic". Hence, no lobbying to get my higher dosage of Prozac back has worked. You can't blame a girl for trying.
Anyway, so now that I'm back down to the regular, rather dull, old me, here is a poem that comes to mind. It is a poem I have loved for like 15 years. It often has come to mind, because the line "everything is easy but wrong", makes so much innate sense to me for reasons I can't really articulate to you. Perhaps you can understand. Incidentally, Randall Jarrell, who is mentioned here, was a remarkable poet who committed suicide due to mental illness.
By Robert Hass
The shadows of late afternoon and the odors
of honeysuckle are a congruent sadness.
Everything is easy but wrong. I am walking
across thick lawns under maples in borrowed tennis whites.
It is like the photographs of Randall Jarrell
I stared at on the backs of books in college.
He looked so sad and relaxed in the pictures.
He was translating Chekhov and wore tennis whites.
It puzzled me that in his art, like Chekhov's,
everyone was lost, that the main chance was never seized
because it is only there as a thing to be dreamed of
or because someone somewhere had set the old words
to the new tune: we live by habit and it doesn't hurt.
Now the thwack . . . thwack of tennis balls being hit
reaches me and it is the first sound of an ax
in the cherry orchard or the sound of machine guns
where the young terrorists are exploding
among poor people on the streets of Los Angeles.
I begin making resolutions: to take risks, not to stay
in the south, to somehow do honor to Randall Jarrell,
never to kill myself. Through the oaks I see the courts,
the nets, the painted boundaries, and the people in tennis
whites who look so graceful from this distance.