An Ode to Seroquel

By J. Pagaduan

Mental illness. A toxic mother. Destructive relationships. Freedom. These poems seek to understand and heal from a childhood left wanting, that created an adult that didn't know how to say no, and the pain it took to walk away for good. Sprinkled throughout the tragic circumstances are bright specks, however, that signaled all was not lost for good, and provided the hope to make the changes needed to be free.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Pagaduan
• Release date: May 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224021598

J. Pagaduan

J. Pagaduan (he/they) is a Filipino-American writer who weaves dreams and nightmares into stories. His influences range from Edgar Allen Poe to Junji Ito, and his works range in scope from series that span decades to flash fiction that somehow feels just as robust, to the occasional poem or essay. When not writing, he can be found cooking, knitting, caring for his little one, and doing his part to make the world a better place than he found it. 

Book preview

Scars

What scars should I list?

The mental ones maybe,

that no amount of medication or therapy will ever fully repair?

The physical ones,

caused by you sabotaging me over and over?

The broken friendships,

because people believed your lies over the truth?

Or the string of failed relationships

because you marked me for other predators to see?

Which ones would you like to hear about first?

Friendship

And when I grew up,

you befriended my friends,

thinking you could control them

the way you controlled everyone else.

Did you not realize they would see through you?

Did you not realize they loved me, unlike you?

Did you not realize that your poison wouldn’t work forever,

and that eventually I would find people

who knew

I was telling the truth the entire time?

I Need Therapy

I need therapy, I say

You prescribe another drug.

Nothing helps the depression.

I need therapy,

I repeat at our next session.

You try another pill,

That makes my anxiety spiral.

I need therapy

I tell you again,

Trying to not rip my skin to shreds.

You write another slip

For a pill that puts me in the hospital.

I need therapy,

I tell you while I’m plucking hairs out one by one.

You dig through your cabinet for samples.

I sleep until my next appointment.

I tell you I need therapy,

You ask if it’s just my personality,

I stop complaining.

Well done, you say

As I’m leaving the office,

With my paper slip in hand,