On New Year’s Day, 2018


As the new year dawns, so the wheel of life turns. Some of us are waking up to a feast, others are scrabbling around in the dirt, searching for their next meal, their abdomens distended through prolonged hunger. Some are snuggling down amidst luxurious duvets, in warmth and comfort, others sheltering from the relentless cold, their sodden sleeping bags providing little protection from the ravages of the winter weather.

It is not a crime to have comfort, not should we feel guilty, but please spare a thought for those less fortunate, not just for today, but for always.

Spare a tenner, mister,
Mister spare a tenner,
I ain’t got no home, mister
No food in me tum, mister,
Freezing cold n glum mister,
Mister spare a tenner.

Spare some coppers, Mrs;
Mrs, spare some coppers.
Me kids are starving hungry, Mrs,
Shabby all in rags, Mrs,
Living out of bags, Mrs,
Mrs spare some coppers.

Spare some change, sir
Sir, spare some change.
I just got off the drugs, sir,
Am sleeping on the streets, sir
No money for treats, sir
Sir spare some change.

Spare a kind thought, lady,
Lady spare a thought.
I have to sell my body, lady
Just for my next meal, lady
It’s really no big deal, lady
Lady spare a thought.

Spare us all compassion, people
People spare compassion
Count your tiny blessings, people,
Help those who are broken, people,
Let your hearts be open, people,
People spare compassion.

© Sarah Drury

One of those days…


I’m having one of those days, today. Where my motivation is there, but my body and mind just won’t cooperate! A million and one things to accomplish, yet the smallest hurdle seems like an insurmountable impossibility.

So I am staying huddled in the warmth, my fleecy P.J.’s caressing my weary flesh and bones, until this hazy cocoon of bewilderment releases me from its clutches and my mind has resembled a modicum of clarity and function.

I find myself like this more frequently, of late. Usually after I’ve experienced a mild, fleeting hypermania. Like I am a spent battery with every drop of charge sucked out by my power-hungry mania.


Here I sit,
An empty vessel,
Like sodden dregs of coffee,
Moulded into
Human form.
Narcoleptic eyes,
In vacuous, dead expression,
Yet in monochrome,
A flat, insipid
Tableau of abjection.
Waiting for
A catalyst,
Sweet impetus,
To animate
This stagnant soul,
To live, again.

© Sarah Drury 2017




Would you push the button?


Have you seen the two-part documentary ‘The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive’ by Stephen Fry? If you live with bipolar disorder, or have a friend or family who does, it is highly recommended viewing.

At the end of the final episode, Stephen Fry had asked the people he’d interviewed whether if they had the option of being free from bipolar disorder by pressing a red button, would they press it? Surprisingly, most said they would not. They felt it would take away a fundamental part of themselves that they had come to love and value.

I thought very hard about this.  There are most definitely times where I would most definitely love to be free of the illness…

I have been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, and have suffered immense crippling, suicidal depressions, where I truly have no longer wanted to take another breath. I have fought with the demons inside my tortured mind, prayed for mercy and begged for my fragmented thoughts to cease, as I launched my fragile skull at yet another solid wall and burned away the pain of such torment with a flame,  the sharpness snapping at my consciousness like a welcome intruder. The days and months of indescribable exhaustion, festering in a bottomless pit of dark, forboding thoughts, desperate to escape from a place where every tick of the clock was an eternity in hades.

There are times when I am avoiding the mountain of debtors letters, brought on by yet another manic spree of irresponsible and unfettered spending. And then the years where I am sinking in a sea of debt, struggling to appease my creditors, after the manic season is over.

There was the time I almost lost custody of my son. Its not easy being an unpredictably unstable mother with the label of a serious mental illness hanging over her head. Every battle I have fought to save my son, has fortified my soul a thousand-fold, and my one determined resolution is that I have a duty to stay well for my son’s sake, and the sake of his daddy in Heaven.

But for all the terrifying and disturbing aspects of this illness, there are parts of it which I have grown to love.

I swear I owe my creativity and drive to the manic aspects of my illness. Those flashes of inspiration at 3 in the morning, the pure creative energy surging through my mind, the limitless energy and enthusiasm. The sensation of every atom and cell of your being alive and stimulated and … so hard to describe but just an incredible feeling!

Even the psychoses have been an incredible experience, well the positive ones anyhow. Sitting in the garden, at the dead of night, the stars gleaming in the sky above, being in telepathic communication with other beings from far galaxies in the universe, is an exciting experience. Being the reincarnation of the blessed Virgin Mary is also quite remarkable. The buzz of hearing music that you just know was written for you personally is quite flattering. I know, its not real, but it was fun.

So if you asked me whether I would push the button to free myself of my disorder, I think the answer would have to be no, as I have grown to accept my condition and without it, I would just not be the same Sarah.

What about you? What would you do?


Drug Trolley


IMAGE: ‘colorful-pills-on-white-background’ http://www.aol.co.uk

When I think of all the time I have spent gazing desperately at the dirty, putrid walls of psychiatric hospitals, it must run into years! I have festered within their aging, flaking, plastered surfaces, my depressed brain rotting like a decomposing apple, rancid to the core. Within these walls I have journeyed to the realms of the heavenly host, and transformed into the blessed mother Mary herself, relishing in the delightful delusions and the grandeur they afford to one normally so mediocre. I have flirted and flitted like a demented, damaged butterfly, clad in nothing but a faux-fur jacket, crimson-stained lips betraying my incorrigible and licentious, ever-escalating mania.

One of the set-in-stone givens was the ritual of the drug trolley. It was there at the exact same time every night. A lighthouse of medicinal salvation, a beacon of neurological anaesthesia. It was a bringer-together of every flavour in the recipe of psychiatric diagnostics.  A psychological, psychiatrical chicken soup for the soul.

This poem was written during a lengthy stay which spanned most of a year. It is still one of my favourites…



Hail! Oh righteous vessel,
Bearer of great gifts to
Those with faith in
This Messiah of psychiatry.

Wondrous drugs
Of plenteous magnitude,
Neurological, psychological,
Sumptuous licorice allsorts.

Plastering, sanding, glossing
Over crumbling foundations,
Psychological invalidity,
Circuitry overload.

Come now,
Swallow those meds,
They’ll send away the voices,
Ease away the pain.

You know you have to cooperate,
For we have needles
Longer than your arm,
Must have complete submission.

Glazed and dazed,
The damaged and cracked,
Assert the tablet hierarchy,
‘Only two tonight dear?’
‘I take fifty a day, you know?’

The climax,
Blessed consumption of the
sacred pills and holy water,
Modern Deistic ceremony,
After the manner of Sigmund Freud.

After the hoards disperse to
Separate dimensions of time and space,
Time and delusion,
Broken, shattered fragments
of a once-whole mirror,

They praise their holy trinity,
In the name of the
Trolley, Drug and Holy Nurse.

©Sarah Drury