Winners: National Poetry Month Contest

I am thrilled to announce the three winners of my National Poetry Month Contest. I got loads of submissions on all sorts of topics: relationships, self-injury, depression, anxiety, medication, self image, violence, racism, and more. But the common theme was hope...and that things get better.

Check out all the submissions here on my blog. And, of course, take a moment to read the three winning poems below.

The grand-prize winner is Anonymous, age 22 with "Fall."

She'll be getting a great prize pack of books including: It Gets Better by Dan Savage, I Don’t Want to Be Crazy and You Are Not Here by Samantha Schutz (signed by me!), It’s Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini, Cut by Patricia McCormick, and Talking in the Dark by Billy Merrell.

Anonymous, age 22
Fall

I try to suppress the grin on my face
As I rush, alone, to my next class.
The campus is graceful in its nature
and colors and I’m alone, not
lonely, thanking the empty sky for
getting me to this place.
I’m in awe of the bag on my
shoulder, heavy with overpriced
books. Proud that my four successive
classes give me some place
acceptable to be.
I take notes and study and wear a genuinely
rehearsed contemplative look. I can’t understand
the groans around me at another assigned chapter
or announcement of an upcoming test.
This is it.
What I’ve been struggling to attain for four
excruciatingly long years.
To sit in a class and learn, to abandon my corner
of safety and pain and thoughts designed to
derail me at every haphazard venturing out.
I spent the better part of my first two adult
years screaming on a locked ward,
but the piercing shrieks have faded,
and I don’t think I have to be so afraid
anymore.

I don’t think they can control me anymore.

* * *

The two runners up are Anu B., age 18 and Stephanie Faith Sizeland, age 19.

They'll both get signed copies of I Don’t Want to Be Crazy and You Are Not Here by Samantha Schutz (me!).

Anu B., age 18
Maybe

Maybe I’m not who you want me to be,
But I’m me. Incorrigibly, irredeemably, painfully
Me.
Maybe I’m not where you want me to be.
Maybe my hair is too long for your liking,
Or too short for your delicate sensibilities.
Maybe my pants hang a little too low,
Or I hold my books a little too close.
Maybe my eyes are too sad for you,
Or my hips too wide,
My arms too long, my smile
Too blithe.
Maybe it’s just that I’m too tall, too short,
Too skinny, too fat, too strong, too smart,
Too loud, too quiet, too immersed in my thoughts.
Maybe.
Maybe I’m not everything you want me to be,
But I’m me. Incorrigibly, irredeemably, painfully
Me.
But, maybe it’s not me.
Maybe you’re too…too.
Maybe you’re heart isn’t big enough,
Maybe your heart only feels its own pain.
My heart will have to be big enough,
I will survive your incorrigible, irredeemable,
Painful Disdain.

Stephanie Faith Sizeland, age 19
Stop the bleeding

As she heads for the book shelf
She apologizes to herself once more
“I’m sorry, I can’t take it anymore.”
She lifts up her book titled “Glass”
“Story of my life” she whispers…
Underneath hides a secret kept from the world
The story of a broken girl.
She picks up the translucent piece
Sharpened edge
Sharper than the rest
In need of one more release.
Glass to skin, she carves
Another scar
One more line to match the rest
Closes her eyes and lets it slide
“This is the last time.” She lies.
As the blood runs, she weeps
Always abides by her one rule
“Never too deep”.
The lines are straight
She holds her arm to the light
Studying the horizontal cuts
Always left to right.
Never does it for attention
Or sympathy from anyone
Does it for herself
Because she feels she has no choice
Not tonight, not ever.

It’s about stopping.
It’s about having the courage to stop.
Having the strength.
Relief is possible without the knife.
Don’t cut your life short.
Make an effort to stop.
Make an effort to get better.
Tell someone you love.
Help someone you know.
Stop the scars.
Stop the bleeding.

Ned Vizzini and It's Kind of a Funny Story

I am so excited to be posting this next submission. It's from friend and fellow young adult author, Ned Vizzini. His most recent novel, It's Kind of a Funny Story, was adapted as a film and hits theaters across the country TOMORROW (10/8/10)!

Read more about the film and its outstanding cast here. And more about Ned and his infinite awesomeness here. Finally, Ned and I will be doing a reading together on 10/26/10 at Barnes & Noble in Park Slope, Brooklyn at 7pm.

Ned Vizzini, age 29. Los Angeles, CA.

"When I went into a psychiatric hospital for a week-long stay for depression and 'suicidal ideation' in November 2004, I found myself with a lot of time on my hands. Although I'm a writer by profession I decided to try and do abstract art. I limited my color palette and tried to just make pleasing shapes with Cray-Pas on paper. The goal was to see the colors blend well and to bring motion to the composition. I ended up really liking these drawings, and I used the art-therapy angle when I made the main character of my subsequent novel It's Kind of a Funny Story draw 'brain maps' during his own hospital stay. In a real way, these are the drawings that inspired the brain maps."

Second batch of poetry contest entries

Here's the second batch of entries to the poetry contest. Check back next Moday for more!

Submit your poem by 4/26. Read the guidelines here.

Charles Pargo, age 20

Frustration

My frustration is causing anticipation

Because of the decision and hard times I’m facing

Running after something but what am I chasing?

My heart is still but my emotion racing

My thoughts are long and my decisions made

My mistakes and lies have already been paid

But my family I still owe

Because when they needed help I couldn’t open the door

My mind is at a level where my thinking process is higher

I go to sleep warm but wake up cold in a sweat

Thinking about a dream that I can’t forget

I feel pain but I’m not hit

The game is over did I lose or did I quit?

Trying to put my life back together but some pieces don’t fit

I think I’m missing my heart, did you steal it?

Craving freedom but anger I am tasting

Getting past my problems but facing frustrations.

Philip Zyg, age 34

WINTER SPORTS 2

Agonizing laboratory rat in the slush

by a sliding glass door -

a party inside, laughter & cocktails,

he outside, few seconds left

and he dies, with the terminal

image of his female miscarrying -

five poor unborn darlings.

Anonymous, age 17

The man across the room is bending a silver spoon
With his mind
The only thing that flexes is sorrow when I use mine
I take a breath through my ears and the ambiance fills my brain
For a moment it is enough
To convince me that I am not insane
I love you, mid-morning rain
You give me the amnesia to forget away
The struggle of loneliness, the uncomforts of a twin-sized bed
Because only one woman falls asleep here in my head
Call it hopeless or call it foreshadowing
I can’t tell now where I am because my eyes are rattling
There are padded rooms for dangerous people
Holy books in sacred steeples
I remember the faces but I forgot the beautiful people
I have friends here
Around their necks they hang bells
They call this place home
I call this prison hell
It is likely that I am in a mental hospital
But the drugs make it difficult to tell

Matt J Davies, age 26

I think you got the best of me
And kept some for yourself
You took three years of energy
Then left me on the shelf

I wouldnt say i blame you
But youve killed a part of me
I gave too much then lost you
And that Loves now history

The way our friendship ended
Broke my spirit and romance
I dropped my faith in people
And i fell into a trance

I spent a year of wishing
That youd not changed as id feared
I sat at home and wrote a poem
And grew myself a beard

It took a lot to leave you be
And not follow your trail
Or crash your phone and inbox
With texts and long emails

I sent a few of course
No more than 1 a week
But you chose to ignore
For reasons i still seek

I still seek sense and closure
I need to know your mind
How could you leave me sat here
Alone and high and dry

True love waits Thom told me
And for a while i really thought
That maybe i still loved you
Cause moving on was fraught

Everyday for months on end
Id think about your face
Obsessing over little things
And remembering your ways

At times i was so bitter
Angry and so mad
It seemed so unnecessary
That youd treated me so bad

I didnt hurt or harm you
During our 4 years
I only showed you Love
And believed true love was ours

Even when you dumped me
I forgave despite the hurt
And then you promised friendship
And i took you to your word

To be just friends was enough for me
I Loved you as a friend
I was prepared to be your friend
Best friends until the end

On the last day i saw you
When i met your little dog
Things didnt seem that awkward
And i left without a fog

But then you stopped replying
To texts and morning calls
Youd made the choice to dump me
Youd changed and turned so cold

So here we are a year has passed
And im still on my own
I dont get out that much
And i barely use the phone

Im paying the price for meeting you
And giving you too much Love
I simply quite adored you
And thought that was enough

Yet now i must move on
And ive tried to all this year
Its got a little easier
But there something still not here

If you find my sparkle
Can you post it back to me
I hope it reconnects and
Im able to achieve

Achieve the sort of happiness
Of when i first met you
I want to meet another girl
And make her happy too

But when i do i now know
With many thanks to you
Not to get too close to her
Or leave friends out the loop

I cant rely on one girl
To see me through my days
Its obvious that true love
Doesnt last or really wait

So as i end this scrambled page
Of self obsessed old tripe
I say to you my bunny
I wish you a beautiful life

Although you half destroyed me
Youve also made me strong
Despite the fact there was no need
And despite that it was wrong

But wrong or right im still here
And you are where you are
Good luck to you my pretty girl
Ill see you in the stars

Jaycee Rose, age 18

Panic.

I don't know who I am anymore.

I have lost all semblance of logic, of reason.

Of sanity.

Of myself.

I feel trapped, a bitter taste on my tongue.

My mind is never where it should be, I am slipping away.

It's so dark all around me and my lungs are filled with dirt and water and everything else that is burying me, so much that I can't call out for help, for a breath.

They see me drowning, but I can't explain just how much.

No one can reach the depths I have reached.

I'm like a recording, my throat scratching and clawing for the truth to come out but when I open my mouth I can only deny.

Deny that I am so scared of myself that I lie awake at night haunted.

That I am afraid to be out with myself because I have lost all semblance of control.

This had made me lose every part of me that I knew.

It's turned me into a monster, an alien to myself.

To the people around me.

I'm so scared of it, and yet it is the only thing that can let me feel in control.

"Help me, Mommy."

Donna, age 49. Connecticut.

My first born child, high school junior,
Handsome, hockey captain
Popular, well-liked
Calls me from the bathroom of his high school,
"Mom, something's wrong...I can't go into class..."

He sits there for hours then escapes to the outdoor bleachers,
Security finds him and escorts him back to his nightmare
"Something is wrong...I can't be here anymore...I need to go home..."
"I need to get out"

Chest pain, sweating, suffocation, heart racing, losing control in front of everyone"

"I can't risk it"
"I feel it in every classroom"
"I can't risk it"
"Help me, Mommy"

My first born child, high school junior,
Handsome, hockey captain
Suffering, in pain,
What do I do?
Forget about scholarships, even college
Just get him to graduate, will he graduate?
Does anybody remember him anymore?

Prozac, clonopin, xanax
Hospital admissions and hospital schools
The "short bus" in our driveway
Beeping so our neighbors could witness the humiliation and
The tears, fighting, expectations denied.

Am I to blame?
What have I done? To my first born son
Who had so much potential
High school senior, now special ed
Lucky if he graduates with a high school degree.
Still handsome, was a hockey captain
Not as popular but well-liked by the few he sees...

I write the college essays...
anything to get him in...
To lead a normal life...
What did I do???
I thought I put the right amount of pressure on him...
but, maybe, it was too much?

I blame myself....for the
Demise of my first born child...
We attended high school graduation but
were outsiders...didn't belong; haven't been there in a while.
Still handsome, disappointing hockey season,
Not popular anymore, few friends,
Prisoner of anxiety.
I love you, Matt.

"I will lose my grip."

AnneMarie R., age 16. New Jersey.

On Call Nights
Make me lose my mind.
Sleep deprived,
And vomit timed.
Martyr mornings,
For patient primes.
Raw empty stomach,
Churns alcohol grinds.
Nauseous headaches,
Pulse reality’s burn,
As paranoia looms,
Exploiting nervous words.
I will lose my grip,
I have made myself sick.
And as the clinical light sings;
I die.

But hey, at least I went down with you.

"I would lie awake most of the night, terrified by what was happening to me."

TJ, age 60. Iowa.

"When I went away to college in 1967, I was going to save the world. I was not even able to save myself.

I had always been a fearful and anxious child. Extremely shy, I often wished to become invisible. The pinnacle of agony and self-consciousness came when I was called on in class, or was required to make a speech. I was having anxiety attacks, but only in certain situations, and never recognized them for what they were.

Away from home and living in a college dorm, I felt lost and alone. The campus was huge, classes were overcrowded, and I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I grew more anxious and homesick every day.

While in a crowded classroom, I had my first full-blown panic attack. With my heart pounding and feeling nauseated, I got up, left, and returned to the dorm. This was repeated over and over, with each episode increasing in intensity. Finally I was no longer able to go down to the dining hall to eat. I would lie awake most of the night, terrified by what was happening to me. Soon I left school, and spent the next three years or so in and out of hospitals, seeing therapists, and otherwise housebound.

As time passed I lost all hope of finding relief and sank deeper into depression. I started cutting myself just to feel alive and in control of something. No one understood. I had several therapists, none of whom ever really explained what was happening to me. One day, I came across an article that mentioned a book by Claire Weeks -- Hope and Help for your Nerves. It was a turning point for me. Not only was I not crazy, I had an identifiable disorder that many other people had, too. This finally gave me hope that I could recover from this and be myself again.

I have had periods of stability, and relapses. But I know now that the panic will pass. Depression, anxiety's evil sister, has been harder to overcome. It is still too easy to slip into darkness after a bad experience or hurtful exchange. With therapy and medication, I am working on that.

But you can find yourself again -- don't stop trying."

"There were times when I would just stare at the mirror and could not believe I was looking at myself."

Emily, age 18. Georgia.

"I blame my doctor for ruining my life. Rationally, I know it's not his fault, but I need someone to blame for my anxiety. I was sixteen. I was a junior in high school and I wanted to die. Everyday I would force myself to go to school, only to sit in the bathroom for long periods of time, waiting for my lungs to breathe, my heart to stop pounding and my body to stop sweating. I would come home only to collapse and sleep for hours. When my mother took me to the doctor, I didn't want to tell him what was happening to me. To me, my anxiety was a sign of weakness, a flaw in my otherwise perfect world. He told me I was depressed, prescribed me some Prozac, and moved on to the next patient. He didn't care that inside I was screaming just as loud as the baby in the next room. No one cared. I was all alone, fighting a war against nothing, and losing.

When my senior year began, I had already been on several different medications including Xanax. For most seniors at my high school, this was the best year of their lives. For me, it was torture. I couldn't force myself to get up and go to school anymore, I was so exhausted all the time. There were times when I would go for the last thirty minutes of the day just so I wouldn't fall too far behind. I begged to be homebound, a program that allows those who are sick or unable to go to school to work from home, but my doctor would not sign the papers. I spent the next few months trying to convince him that I would be better if I could just stay at home. Nothing changed his mind. So I would go to school and sob in the bathroom, call my mom at work and tell her how much I wanted to die. I missed sixty four days of my senior year before he told my mom to take me to the hospital pysch ward.

They admitted me over a weekend in March. I still cannot talk about how much I hated being there, withdrawing from my favorite addiction, my Xanax, feeling actually crazy for the first time. I am so mad that no one would help me, just stick me in a hospital and ask me the stupidest questions in front of pretentious college doctors. After my hospital stay, nothing changed except my doctor finally allowed me to be homebound. I still felt myself being sucked away into nothing. I graduated. I was done. I still had depression and I still hated myself. There were times when I would just stare at the mirror and could not believe I was looking at myself. This wasn't me. I was not the girl who was looking back at me. She was killing me, slowly but surely. I didn't trust myself.

It's been six months since then and I can honestly say I feel the best I've felt in years. I'm finally happy and I don't know why. I'm not in college and I still live at home. My days consist of planning for the future. But I feel good. I introduced myself to my therapist yesterday, even though I've been seeing her since March. The reason? She had never met the real me. This is who I am. Not the girl who let her anxiety and depression control her. So, hello, I'm Emily. I still struggle with my anxiety and depression, but now I have something I didn't have before. Hope."

"I look at his eyes and wonder what he sees. Is it obvious that I'm sick?"

Lyn, age 29. Virginia.

"The words below are, for the most part, an excerpt from my journal. I wrote it more than a year after it happened, but even now I remember like it was yesterday. In May of 2007, I had an anxiety attack that lasted three days. I hadn't slept. By day three, I had reached a state of psychosis. This isn't my first "episode." I have post-traumatic stress disorder. All it takes for me to "lose it" is a great amount of stress and something that triggers a new traumatic memory. What happens next feels like a tornado in my mind. The tornado only lasts three days before I end up in the psych ward, sedated out of consciousness. The following excerpt is after waking from the sedatives to wander the halls of my new temporary home. This is my first time at this particular psych ward.

Mercy Hospital, May 2007:

"Is this your first time here?" he asks.

My groggy eyes feel heavy and dysfunctional as they scan my surroundings. Long, bare hallway. Doors to patients' rooms lining either side. Fishbowl-like window at the end for nurses to keep a watch on us, safe behind the glass. Locked doors that have labels: Linens, Court Room, Meeting Room 1, Meeting Room 2, Activities Room, Isolation. A locked display case on one wall lists the daily schedule:

7:30 - 8 am: Vitals

8 - 8:30 am: Morning Group Meeting

8:30 - 9 am: Breakfast

9 - 9:30 am: Meds

9:30 - 10 am: Group Therapy

12 - 12:30 pm: Lunch

...and so on.

My eyes veer back to the attending nurse. I look at his eyes and wonder what he sees. Is it obvious that I'm sick? Can he tell how sick I am? Do I look like I've been here before?

It must be a trick question.

"You mean here?" I ask as I point to the floor of the psych ward, "or here?" and I point toward the tornado still whirling in my brain."