Awakenings Review's most recent edition is out, and I am honored to be included among so many wonderful writers. My poem, "Sounds Like I'm Crazy" was accepted by the editors of the Awakenings Review quite some time ago, so I'm very excited to finally have the issue in my hot little hands! A copy of the poem appears at the end of this blog. It's far from my best poetry ever, but nevertheless I'm proud of writing it and sharing it with others.
Awakenings Review publishes stories, essays and poetry written by people suffering from mental illness/disorders. My poem is about my struggle with 4S (Selective Sound Sensitivity Disorder) or more commonly known as Misophonia. Some think the two are one and the same and others argue that they are slightly different.
I've recently learned that migraines may also be intimately involved in the disorder, perhaps even the root cause. All I know for sure is if we don't talk about it, keep it in the dark for fear of repercussions and being negatively stigmatized by the ignorant few who don't understand mental illness, we'll never progress toward a cure or at least some semblance of social acceptance. If you're interested in gaining some insight from those with mental illness or just an extremely entertaining read, here's a link to their website: http://www.awakeningsproject.org/AR/archive.shtml
SOUNDS LIKE I’M CRAZY
by Carrie Ryman
Rattle. Crunch. Squeak.
Click.
Shout. Slurp. Beep. Tick.
I squeeze my ears tight.
I try to cope. I am polite.
This horror of sounds
that assaults my brain,
that litters my life
with torturous pain,
cannot be avoided,
cannot be blocked.
The noise haunts my
being like toxic shock.
Rattle. Crunch. Squeak. Click.
Shout. Slurp. Beep. Tick.
No one forgives. No one forgets.
No one restrains. No one accepts.
Lost in a nightmare of
piercing air.
that destroys my peace
and strips me bare.
The noise-makers think their
wounded pride
is far superior to my
panic inside.
Rage. Cry. Squeal. Panic.
Shudder. Slip. Beseech. Manic.
No pills to cure
me. No words to ease.
And worst is my own
desire to please.
No control. No answers. No way out.
No weapons. No freedom. No normal route.
One moment there is
tranquility, calm.
And then the onslaught,
the nightmarish sounds.
Rattle. Crunch. Squeak.
Click.
Shout. Slurp. Beep. Tick.
It sounds like I’m
crazy, but more is the truth:
Sanity is subjective and
possessed
by the chosen few.
