Lithium Mum

I have bipolar disorder and anxiety, which pretty much rule my life. I am a widow and have a tweenage son, who has Autism. I know it is hard for him, living with a mum like me. I know I do the best I can. I like to think we are souls and he chose this life and it is part of his life path. It feels easier that way. But it is no excuse for a poor childhood, so i just try my best to keep things as normal as I can.

I am sorry for you, son
Sorry that
Each and every day
You have to live
Your fucked up life
With me
Your screwed up
Lithium mum

Necking bottles of
The good stuff praying
It is magic, mending
Melodies I’m playing
On a broken record
I’m just sayin’
There are
Nicer tunes

Mood swings
Psychotic blackbird sings
Are we up or down?
Is it smile or frown?
Are we Happy Valley
Or are we paddling in
The sea in sodding
Suicide town
Or is it a
One way trip
To the
Psych ward?

Every day I say
Today will be a
Better day
and I mean it
‘Til the moods
Fuck up the way
I’m feeling
Brilliant rainbows
Slaughtered of their
Blackened tempers
Cursing, crying
Just my way
Of dealing

I will try, son
I will try

©2020 Sarah Drury


I suffer with Bipolar disorder and often wonder how the mentally ill were treated in Biblical times. There was a lot of talk of miracles and visions and I often wonder how much of this could be attributed to mental illness. Anyway, here’s a quick poem.


Sweet Jesus
I often wonder that
With whores you
Would sit
But would you sit
With the crazy?
Would you have
A special seat
Beside you
For me?

Could we
While away
Our days
Discussing the
Of Sigmund Freud
Or hypothesising on
Disadvantages of
Mental asylums?

Maybe you would
Go that extra mile
And drop a lithium
And see if it
Fucks with
Your mind
In a not displeasing

Or perhaps
You could
Turn a loaf of bread
Into a cure
And exorcise
The demons

People in the
Were always
Seeing visions
Experiencing miracles
And No-one ever
Dialled up
The psychiatrist

How is it that
Even though
The so called
Experience the same
Crazy shit
We don’t
Write bibles

It’s all quite fascinating
And disturbing

Be a good boy
Swallow your pills
And we’ll medicate
The Miracles

©2020 Sarah Drury


I suffer from bipolar disorder. I was diagnosed aged twenty eight after my first episode of severe mania. Previously i had suffered severe depression. I was in hospital 9 months that time! Nowadays I manage to live a semblance of a normal life. I take my lithium and other meds and care for my Autistic son. I write and perform spoken word poetry. Writing is my therapy and my connection to the real world! Here’s a poem I wrote about my mania during that prolonged hospital stay.


Cool, crisp, cotton
Starched beyond comfort
Almost alliteration
But I don’t want to conform
Don’t want to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.

Cold, hard floor
Nothing as fancy as parquet
Just industrial tiles of generic vinyl
Not even a hint of Brahms or The Beatles.
My mind drones along to the speed of an old 33
Dreaming of one day spinning with the fast boys
But for now, a B list artist
Singing for pence
In the bargain basement.

Heart a cuboid slab of ice
Frozen and waiting for fancy knives
To carve and curve and slice and splice
And muster a masterpiece
And create something with the semblance
Of life
Something with the semblance
Of not being dead a fucking gain.
Of not being .

Leave me in my place
With the lunatics wailing within walls
Singing their songs of the places and spaces
In minds held together with threads of madness
Snippets of borderline blue and manic maroon
Maybe a skein of schizoid stained in scarlet
To match the colour of my Maybelline lips
Deluded into thinking that
I may be beautiful.
Beautiful and broken.

Leave me in my place
With the demons plaguing my sacred inclinations
With Hell burning beneath my illusions of Heaven
With the angels weeping for a lost sister
With me weeping for the lost
With me weeping for me.

Long is the hour
When the darkness lives within
And the light resides without.
Long is the hour
When the fire within that has burned
Since I took my first breath
Becomes an ember
Becomes ash.

But it will pass.
It will pass.

© Sarah Drury 2019