I stand in the waiting room
assess the risk of treatment – – –
a bonnet of ECT connectors,
their impact on my brain.Three times weekly
I undergo this procedure,
nervously expecting that hazy cloud
of too much grief cobbled together.

I awake from my last treatment
not knowing if I live in Maine
nor Minnesota. Where do I live:
house or apartment?

Caretaker-friend in the waiting room
finds my delayed presence concerning.
She queries the med tech . . . what happened?
The door parts, I return in turmoil

forgetting our relationship, my name . . .
her own, even street address. Fuzzy mind,
maybe too much electro-shock therapy, all
for the sake of a more normal life.

Too many meds clutter my mind,
suddenly stop working, so on to
the next one. Hospitalization
for depression, multiple times.

And still the search for happiness
in spite of medication failures,
but hope gets twisted by
each new, wrong prescription.

I wind up struggling with not enough
sweetness and too much – muted rage.