The Whistling Wind Chapter 4 Continues: In Need if Help

I tried to tell the doctor how I broke my left leg in 1993, then I offered the other cheek and received a broken jaw when I was in prison in 1996. They didn’t understand what I was saying.

Reading the expression on the doctor’s face, I thought I was talking sense, but the doctor and his medical team looked puzzled. Their faces suggested they were questioning themselves.

Why have I come to the hospital to talk about my stress at work, society’s philosophy of survival of the fittest, and my thoughts on creationism?

The doctor proclaimed, ‘You’re fine; you can go home.’

What was I to do?

Half the things I was expressing to the doctors are thoughts I’ve never had the time or inclination to think about. Only when I’m mentally ill, so it seems.

This is the second time in my life that I’ve had a mental health problem. The first was back in 1993.

Tom drove me home, and the last thing I said before leaving the car was, ‘Thanks, Tom, for the ride and your concern. See you when I see you again.’

Then, I went home and wrote the following edited version for my blog on 16^th April 2009.

Helpless hands

I’m out of work, nothing planned, just leisure at my pleasure, no fun, a cost my budget could not stand.

So, I stay home instead and write a line before bed, hoping we don’t see the dead, the sacrifices made just to get fed.

Yet I stay awake at 6 a.m. to take in the news at 8, stressed because I can do nothing.

Starving hands, flies in their pans, no one’s love is at hand, what can I do?

My head is in my hands.

John T. Hope