MUSHROOM m i n d

By Steph Raymond All Rights Reserved ©

Other / Poetry



It was a most interesting and telling process.

How can this be?

How could she have missed this all this time?

She feels crushed under the weight of the invisible dirt holding her underground.


Through all of her efforts in the past five years to be well...

Moving countless times,

changing her eating habits,

doing yoga,

only making decisions that pleased her spirit,

shedding skin,


g r o w i n g ,


Why couldn’t she escape this?

Why was the world so euphoric and irresistible

in brief weeks of

c l a r i t y

only to be washed away by clouds of darkness causing

internal turmoil in her psyche.

Why were these shadows still trying to consume her very self?

Was Caleb right after all?

She started making connections with her past,

and began to uncover answers to questions she’d been carrying around since before she was

fourteen years old.

All of this time,

she lived a secret life

in her head.

Making her real life nothing but a shadow life.

Though she never felt as though she needed anyone,

not even as a girl…

She had always been lonely,

unable to

c o n n e c t

with anyone...

because nobody could really see her.

Nobody could really understand her.

Nobody could really know her.

And only now was she finally getting to know her true self,

because now she knew that it wasn’t her fault.

All this time,

her demons,

her lost youth,

her idiosyncrasies-

it wasn’t her fault.

She continued tracking every detail of her days for months on end...

every new detail only confirming what she now knew in her heart.

On good days,

she was a

j u b i l a n t c r e a t u r e o f l i g h t ,

and the whole world was a

fragrant euphoria.

She felt everything to her core,

more deeply than the people around her.

She was a being formed by a constant stream of

c r e a t i v e t h i n k i n g and p s y c h i c r e v e l a t i o n s

about herself and the Universe.

Her mind mushroomed forward into the realm of

c l a r i t y

so much so that her thoughts seemed to buzz beneath her skin anxiously

if she could not fulfill her immediate creative desires

or tell her stories.

Food tasted better,

music was more tonic,

and her thinking was clearer than a cloudless sky.

Her libido became that of an insatiable concubine,

and she changed her clothes close to ten times a day.

She would paint, write, take photographs and fill her notebooks with endless

i d e a s .

All of these things which she, until this moment,

had never seen as irregular.

She would simply assume inspiration was striking,

and believed what she was told her entire life,

which was that she was too sensitive in her nature.

Everything was

m a g n i f i e d .

Though tracking did help her become more self-aware and able to adjust herself in this state.

But these days of



and bliss

could not last more than one week at a time.

And then she would become very frightened all at once.

She would suddenly feel the magnitude of her loneliness along with

a heavy sense of self-loathing and a wanting for isolation.

Then the fog took over,

and dismantled her memory and reason,

making her feel alone and

d i s c o n n e c t e d .

It was so heavy here...

and since her stroke, dark days made it even more difficult

to want to leave her bed in the morning because her body would shut down

along with her

m i n d ...

making it impossible to perform any type of exorcise, as she fatigued much easier than before.

It seemed impossible even to do the most basic tasks-

To want to eat the food that had suddenly become tasteless,

or to fulfill any lost creative desires that once filled her to the brim.

She had no motivation, and would find herself spiralling to the place where

the darkness in her psyche lives.

It was the place which made her feel very

d e s p e r a t e

and eager to silence her terrible thoughts by making herself bleed,

teasing the darkness with the scent of death.

This was why she needed answers.

She knew that she needed to be well.

For her son,

and for her husband.


The very first person to tell her not to apologize for her feelings.

The first person to tell her that there was not such a thing as too sensitive.

The first to give her the space to be herself and share all of her thoughts and emotions

regardless of that they were.

The first person to try to get to know her,

to understand her,

to find an answer.

And so, she accepted for the first time,

the possibility that she might very well be type two bi-polar.

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