A poem about a schizophrenic

From left to right above: Expectation, a painting by Gustav Klimt <Gustav Klimt (Expectation) Framed Art Poster Print - 11" X 17">; The French Lieutenant's Woman, a novel by John Fowles <The French Lieutenant's Woman>; the movie of the same name by Karel Reisz <The French Lieutenant's Woman>; Fullfilment, a painting by Gustav Klimt <Gustav Klimt Fulfillment Canvas Print>. 

R. A.: SCHIZOID

Haunting how many times I’ve thought of her

When our act together was so short like

The balancing act of blind justice. This is

The crux: I loved her normal person,

One with dainty hands and sweet lips

And large awareness and gift of words,

One who loved Gustav Klimt.

The other person scared me, one who

Got lost inside her mind and gifted no one,

Who shuddered like a block of ice and asked,

“Why did you come here?” when I visited her

In hospital in bare rooms with black windows,

Who lived inside Expectation, not Fulfillment. *

She was too honest for her own welfare.

She was The French Lieutenant’s Woman, **

The woman with two personas: the one

Who lived her life and desires,

Who would do anything to be;

And the one who didn’t recognize

Her reality, who shut out all others.

The honest one couldn’t go on

And finally killed the other one

Who hurt the ones she loved.

I can see her frail fingers picking

Up large pills one by one

And religiously swallowing

Each as the body of her redeemer.

Her final gift was this: Remember

One who loved all of you,

Not one who couldn’t;

One who wanted fulfillment,

Not just expectation;

One who cared deeply,

Not a shell.

* paintings by Gustav Klimt
** a novel by John Fowles
and a movie by Karel Reisz
 
 
This poem was first published in Creative Woman, Miami Dade College, 2008.  I wrote it a few years earlier after I learned that the subject had committed suicide.  It is about a writer I knew, who was a terrific writer, a mother, and a schizophrenic.  We dated for a couple weeks before she disappeared, and I subsequently discovered that she was in a hospital and being treated for schizophrenia, so I went to visit her. Months later after she was out of the hospital, she got in touch, but I told her I couldn't continue the relationship.  Her home was decorated with prints of Gustav Klimt paintings, and on our first date we had ironically gone to see the movie The French Lieutenant's Woman.  At the time, she was a better writer than I was.  She had waited until her child was grown before ending her life.