Here I am. Almost 33, mother of two children without custody, art maker with one hell of an unorganized, tumultuous, self destructive tendency. Being a thirty something. Settle down time? Find myself? Just keep on trucking? WTF. I’ve not been to school since the ninth grade.
I used to harp on myself for being a barnacle on society. I’m the statistic. I’m the one the GOP complains about. I’m Daniel Desario; James Franco’s character on Freaks and Geeks. A loser.
But what if I’m not? 21 years ago I was diagnosed with bipolar and spent my entire teenage career on probation. I was a walking time bomb. In my twenties I was on autopilot in a Kamikaze. After having my second child I did some serious trial and error until my doctor I found the perfect psych prescription cocktail and I’ve taken it with the dedication of a toothpick sculptor ever since.
That’s the thing. What I don’t think anyone really understands. My life right now, is at risk every thirty days. I take pills that have literal killer withdrawals. When my pharmacy has a glitch I’m teetering on an emotional wire. Today, for example… Oh, this is just something that happens without explaination or known reason other than the magic words: side effects. My tongue, and my shoulders to chest, and fingertips.. just roll a numbing sensation through me.
I do take pills to help with the side effects of my psych meds, that also have side effects. I do this. I do it because I came to a point in life where everyone that truly knows and loves me gave me the ultimatum, get help for my illness or lose their support.
I’m an artist. I rarely make money, lately I’ve used my art to barter goods. I’m poor. I don’t have the ability to hold down a job. I need support in one way or another, always emotional.
So many hours I spend wondering if I could hack weening off my meds, what would I be like? As temperamental as before? Out of order? Would I slink into the night, find a needle and pass out in a gutter somewhere? I’ve been there. In the gutter. I’ve been the hitchhiker in the rain at night without a clue as to what direction was home. Chronic bronchitis. Chuck Taylor’s molded to my feet after weeks of never taking them off. Sleeping under a bridge. Endless cups of coffee bought up with nickels and dimes just to be inside some place warm.
People who don’t know all the chapters in my story can’t fathom my illness. I clean up well. I know how to smile. People who think they understand my illness encourage me to kick the psych meds and whole heartedly believe I can navigate my illness intuitively. People think I was born yesterday, for who could be so naive as to go through the shit storm of hassle it is to take a multitude of medication to Just to control an unruly temperament… Just stop being moody.
Ah, shit… My friends. If only you’d been there.
I may not be growing a community garden. I may not be organizing food not bombs picnics or discovering cures to disease. But god dammed if I can’t say with confidence that I contribute to society everyday. Morning and night. With each pill I swallow, trust me, I contribute.
~Sarah Davenport 2015
I need a drink array, not just one or two, but a display.
I want coffee, water, gin and juice. My momma calls it beverage abuse
I like to sin like they do in bars. They say Howard Hughes stored urine in jars. I’ve peed in beer bottles in the backseats of cars. My closet’s full of coffee stained scars.
I’ve got san pellegrino, I’ve got a mojitto, I keep sake at 70 degrees.
Hot cocoa; I like white. Rum and iced tea. I have a bottle of whiskey that gives a good bite. I sip, spill, drip and refill, it’s not all for thrill, hooch can put up a fight.
Momma thinks I’m losing it. Doc thinks I’m abusing it. But you can tell old Jim Beam we’re alright.
Went to the dentist, made me rinse with tap water, nothing to chase it, like a poor farmer’s daughter. Went to the grocer had to drink from a fountain, no lemon or lime, like some hinterland mountain. Went to the river, had nothing to drink, like a deserted, rusted up, garbage dump sink.
See I can’t be blamed, my thirst can’t be tamed, my needs won’t go unnamed. So tell Jim Bean we’re alright.
~Sarah Davenport 2014
The constellations in my mind
Cannot be defined by the letters in a book
A billion stars shine together
By gravitational attraction no need of interaction
All I need to do is look
Oh galaxy pants
Come and do your dance
Come on and
Shake my universe
Like an asteroid romance
Oh galaxy Tights
Come on and shine your lights
Dip me low on
Earth bound nights
Show me your meteor delights
Oh galaxy pants
Oh galaxy pants
OH GALAXY PANTS
How can you walk on by
And leave me in the sky
Your like a comet flying by
You left some stardust in my eye
Oh galaxy pants
By Sarah Davenport 2014
*jumps out of airplane*
*pulls parachute chord*
*gust of wind shoots me into space*
*Neil deGrasse Tyson appears in front of pearly gates*
“YOU PASSED THE TEST” *holy shit* “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID” We start to laugh as bubbles from Jimi Hendrix’s bong pop through the sound of my brain expanding at the speed of light until shattered into stardust falling back down to earth… and I realize we’re all just fragments of each other, and the only thing separating us is our personal truths. Our brains, our ego separates us from the reality of who, what, where, we really are, and why.
Look at what humans have done, our brains have driven us from living with the land – to living off the land.
Two forks for one meal. I can barely see the stars at night because; Roxanne keeps putting on the red light. Paralyzed without wi-fi, bored without tv, media, mannequins, make-up, Madonna, mood rings (((money)))
Or was the world always fake?
*jumps out of airplane* *REPEAT until earth no longer exists*