Insanity's Ledge

by Odante

As I approach insanity’s ledge, its poised demeanor listens for me to cry. I, sensing its presence, try to calm myself by thinking good thoughts of insensitivity. Peering out beyond the horizon, I see my Doctor, reaching for me as he explains my condition in terms of sanity’s kin. How odd, I think to myself, how odd that this educated morsel of humanity cannot deduct from me a simple clue, to measure me with a foreign rule, expecting thus a result, how odd I say, how odd indeed.

To my fellow, I call out, “Do not come hither, for it is not a happy way, but a way of senseless destitute.” Some follow still, and some do lead, but difficult it is, to find one as distant or as close to the ledge as I. There is fear in my voice, as it trembles under the snowy birth of hindsight, “What was I thinking, what was I thinking when I thought those thoughts?” I am a coward. My own mind brutalizes me frequently. I am not a victim. I am in Hell.

Today was bright. I was happy. It did not last. I thought those thoughts again; I thought those thoughts of killing. Damn you, damn you for being in my head. Instead, I will think of nothing. My medications buzz me down to null, and somewhere in between I lose myself; eventually I am there again, standing at the ledge. I step closer, careful not to slip, maybe I can climb in slowly, and maybe say bye to friends; maybe I should quit fooling myself.

I try to remember a time before, when I walked a path less cumbersome; I cannot. My mother used to hold me, when I could not understand. The world seemed afraid. At some point I lost my way, and, hypnotized by the beauty of the setting sun, I heard a fellow call out, “Do not come hither, for it is not a happy way, but a way of senseless destitute,” yet I followed, foolishly thinking myself above others, and therefore, able to lend a hand. As I approach the ledge, I see none. A voice calls out behind me, offering a helping hand, a fool no doubt.

Standing now at the ledge, I see my happiness. Happiness full of misconceptions of reality and unhindered corruptions of thought; such freedom I have reached, as I step into the abyss. “What was I thinking?” I say to myself, as I realize there is no return. To my fellow, I call out, “Do not come hither, for it is not a happy way, but a way of senseless destitute.” It is too late, the fool is at the ledge.

Odante is a member of our Bipolar Disorder community, and originally posted this poem on our Forum.