Poetry by Emilie Lygren

     Torsten Behrens 




“So you’ve gone pharmaceutical”

    is what a friend said when I told him I’d started taking antidepressants. And my brain went into free fall. My jaw lagged open in a half-spoken reply. Like a punch to the chin. My mouth never fully got around the word “yes.” More of a half grunt half hum assent. Mumbled something about it being the lowest possible dose. Said “it’s nice to see you” and walked away. So I’ll say it now:
    Yes, I’ve gone pharmaceutical. Yes. I started taking antidepressants after my doctor said gently, “I think you shouldn’t have to work quite this hard to be OK.” After he said “I have lots of friends and patients who were so glad they tried.” Who said “If it doesn’t help, you can stop.”
    Yes, I’ve gone pharmaceutical, like so many of the women on my mother’s side. Which I know by hearsay. Know that worry is our inheritance. Sometimes I still feel the echo of my body gripped with adrenaline. Sometimes I still feel worry starting like an engine pounding through my chest. 
    And don’t think it’s easy to tell you all this. That I’ve gone pharmaceutical. Don’t think I feel some days like I should have been able to fix it all if I only tried harder. I feel like I need to tell you about the decades of trying. Of healing. Of working on myself. More than almost anyone I knew. How I did get better and better but never better enough.
    And don’t think It’s easy to be at the hippie neighbors’ house and talk about any of this. Where they smile smugly and say, “I healed my depression with crystals.” Ask, “Have you tried meditating?” Say “Maybe you should stop eating wheat.” Talk about how Ayahuasca showed them they actually are different, better than “normal people” which somehow made them less anxious. My throat gets clogged with unspent replies. I don’t say that I tried almost everything else first. I walk away. 
    And all I know is that I used to spend every day lit up in fear. Anxiety a torrent through every muscle. And all I know is I healed so much of it. Before the pills. Dug and filled holes with what I didn’t get. All I know is, it’s better now. And still it’s hard. Still, I have to work at it. Being happy, I mean. Not being so afraid. But I am happy. I’ve gone pharmaceutical, yes. To give myself a fighting chance.  

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Death found me like a knave 
after “Because I did not stop for death” by Emily Dickinson

Death found me like a knave
upon the rattle of a train
a clouded door flew open
while dirt inhaled the rain.

I joined the roots and battles
under sullen earth where worms
wove slyly up my arms
mycelium a wedding gown

my hair wrapped up in pearly cloth
my flesh turned right to air
under tooth of beetle, body
gone in sweet and soft decay. 

I’m dead like dirt, dead like rain,
dead like a finished song–
which is to say in essence
I’m not dead,
not at all.




Emilie Lygren is a nonbinary poet and outdoor educator whose work emerges from intersections between scientific observation and poetic wonder. Her first book of poetry, What We Were Born For, was chosen by the Young People’s Poet Laureate as the Poetry Foundation’s February 2022 Book Pick. Emilie lives in California, where she wonders about oaks and teaches poetry in local classrooms. Find Emilie on Instagram (@emlygren) or at her website (emilielygren.com). 
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