Mental Illness and the Mad Poet

Mad Poetry you ask?

Yes, mad in the sense of going crazy. I have—maybe you have too.

A little bit about me. I live with mental illness. I had a career directing choirs, traveling the world, making recordings, teaching. It was incredibly meaningful. My career ended because of mental illness. Other life events then nearly sent me to the psych ward. During the same time period, I contracted meningitis. All of this was a recipe for crazy-making, to be sure.

In the midst of it all, I had to make a choice: live within the shit of it all or claw, grasp and fight my way out. The only way I knew how was to write. Writing helped me realize my fears were real—I could see them in black and white. By writing words, I could fight back, could repel those other words that had been hurled my way. It was the only way to regain my sanity.

This was (thankfully) over ten years ago but the scars are still there. As a wise man once told me, some scars you can live with while others will demand constant attention. The latter is why I continue to write.

I write mostly sonnets. Not because I'm trying to challenge the sonnet master himself. When I decided to fight back I knew I had to choose a form, otherwise the potential for me to ramble and endlessly rant was there. I had to focus my pain and discipline myself to stay within a form.

Not all of my works are on mental illness: some are to friends, my children and wife; others are to my siblings, and my parents. I think you'll find the gamut of human existence within my poems.

I am sharing these words with you because we are not alone. Suffering in silent desperation (and oh boy, yes I was there) is the quickest way I know to kill any possible discovery of joy in daily living. There is a way through, although there were months, maybe years, where I didn't believe that. (I would toss away the key to the hotel room of my mind and leave everyone who loved me behind.) I believe there is a way through, mostly because the people that really mattered refused to abandon me to the pain.

If these poems speak to you, please pass them along. I'm not a trained councilor, but if any of you out there want an ear to hear, I'm here.