Hillary Thompson, a poet diagnosed with bipolar II disorder, delivers three original spoken-word pieces exploring childhood, maternal trauma, inner turmoil, and the daily re-discovery of a will to live. She shares candidly that she arrived unprepared to perform and reads from her phone, grounding the segment in raw, unfiltered vulnerability.
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Transcript
[01:52:46] That was powerful, eh?
[01:52:48] I liked that.
[01:52:49] That was a powerful story.
[01:52:51] So, y’all still having fun?
[01:52:53] Y’all still with us?
[01:52:54] Yeah.
[01:52:55] Y’all enjoying this event?
[01:52:56] Yeah.
[01:52:57] Yeah.
[01:52:58] Don’t forget about we have food in the back and also the room to the side.
[01:53:02] There’s vendors over there with artwork that you can check out.
[01:53:05] Absolutely.
[01:53:06] Absolutely.
[01:53:07] And if you guys are, you know, balling, I mean, you can donate.
[01:53:10] If you’re not balling, that’s okay, too.
[01:53:12] You can still donate.
[01:53:14] We’ll take whatever you can.
[01:53:16] Again, this is a thing that we don’t really get funding for.
[01:53:22] NAMI might help us with a little down payment, but this is all me and Tyler.
[01:53:33] And then, of course, everyone here who comes and supports us, so this is why we need donations.
[01:53:39] And I don’t mean to be that donation guy, but please, if you can, donate.
[01:53:45] All right.
[01:53:47] And if they want to donate, where can they donate?
[01:53:52] At the front.
[01:53:54] At the front.
[01:53:55] With this lovely lady.
[01:53:56] She’s waving at the back.
[01:53:57] Everybody look.
[01:53:58] All right.
[01:53:59] She’s waving at the doorway to y’all.
[01:54:00] Yeah.
[01:54:01] I had my own people that didn’t turn around and look.
[01:54:04] I know where you stand.
[01:54:06] All of yous.
[01:54:08] Okay.
[01:54:09] So, where are we?
[01:54:12] All right.
[01:54:14] Coming to the stage, Hillary Thompson.
[01:54:22] She’s coming, guys, believe me.
[01:54:33] Give it up for Hillary one more time, y’all.
[01:54:43] Hi.
[01:54:44] I didn’t know I was going to read tonight until I got here.
[01:54:48] So, I’ll be reading off my phone.
[01:54:50] Thank you.
[01:54:51] Thank you.
[01:54:52] Thank you.
[01:54:53] I’ve got my share of issues, but like some of you in the audience, I was diagnosed bipolar
[01:55:02] too and haven’t met a medication that I can live with.
[01:55:07] In fact, the last one I took tried to kill me.
[01:55:11] So, I write and I do what I can.
[01:55:15] And I have a wonderful husband back there and he supports me.
[01:55:22] Not financially, just emotionally.
[01:55:26] All right.
[01:55:28] Poetry.
[01:55:30] Stitched neatly from nothing, my cells divided form substance from space.
[01:55:37] A nifty bit of magic to fill the infinite emptiness of your longing to be loved.
[01:55:44] In the darkness of your body, helixes lace and ladder, etching your stark desire into
[01:55:51] my bones, a secret language only we know.
[01:55:55] And yet my cells divide, form smooth chambers that pump with my own fierce means.
[01:56:04] And then I’m born, breaking into startling brightness, into a world where you can suffocate
[01:56:10] on vastness, sucking breath, weak pride.
[01:56:17] I grow into a shy, wiry, sun-kissed girl.
[01:56:20] Trailing a mane tangled red like light, skinned knees and dirty nails.
[01:56:27] I sheltered in a broken mother’s heart.
[01:56:31] And now, five decades later, still wound cramped and slight, I struggle to stand upright,
[01:56:39] to run on my own two feet, to unleash my bound fury in the night.
[01:56:50] This next one is called Scorn, and I wrote it off a couple years ago.
[01:56:59] And then I was going back to look through some stuff, and I found it, and I had no memory
[01:57:04] of writing it.
[01:57:05] And I thought, fuck.
[01:57:08] This is Scorn.
[01:57:10] Screaming through the forest, I rip flesh from my face.
[01:57:14] Streams of blood flow from me.
[01:57:17] I pant and howl.
[01:57:19] Who is in here that needs to come out?
[01:57:22] Who is in here?
[01:57:24] Who?
[01:57:25] I come to your door, naked, smeared with blood, caked with mud.
[01:57:31] Thighs wet, I flood for you.
[01:57:34] You do not answer.
[01:57:36] I collapse, convulsing with greed and hunger.
[01:57:40] Who hears my cries?
[01:57:43] Reaches for me in the dark.
[01:57:45] Sees the scars that only the scarred can see.
[01:57:48] Breathes in my tempo.
[01:57:50] Fingers extended, gripping the empty space of a bed I never laid in.
[01:57:55] While inside me, the bees buzz.
[01:57:59] I cannot hear anything but the buzzing.
[01:58:03] They swarm the inner curve of my ribs.
[01:58:06] Crawl across the underside of my collar bones.
[01:58:10] Receive down my shoulder blades.
[01:58:13] They buzz of sin and shadow.
[01:58:16] Shame and horror.
[01:58:17] They etch it into my bones.
[01:58:21] Sing inside my blood.
[01:58:23] My heart, pulpy with abandonment.
[01:58:34] And I’ll leave you on a light note.
[01:58:38] Each morning, I wake.
[01:58:41] A naked slate slanting against the day.
[01:58:45] I have to remember how to love you all over again.
[01:58:51] But soon, the sibilant scrape of the spoon against the belly of the sugar bowl.
[01:58:56] The smell of coffee and toast.
[01:58:59] The sun-raised spotlight on dancing dust motes.
[01:59:03] And the gentle warble of Joanie’s soprano.
[01:59:07] All work in concert with the smooth assurance of the wooden floorboards.
[01:59:12] To remind me how to love you.
[01:59:14] Life.
[01:59:16] Thank you.