Three PANS/PANDAS Poems by Quinlin Caid
Hi there! My name’s Quinlin Caid, but everyone just calls me Quin. I’m a poet, writer, musician, artist… I have too many interests for my own good. I was diagnosed with PANDAS as a kid, then diagnosed with PANS as an adult, and I’ve been slowly adapting to all the evolving issues that my condition brings.
My favourite way of coping with the stress and emotional turmoil that comes with PANS/PANDAS is through creative writing; it allows me to express my emotions without fear of judgment, and learn about myself as words pour out of me. I wanted to share this tool with others, so over the past four months, I’ve been developing IBA’s Healing Stories Creative Writing Program, which includes four workshops designed specifically for those affected by PANS/PANDAS.
In the spirit of sharing PANS/PANDAS stories, below I’ve included three poems I wrote about my experience with PANS/PANDAS; the first is a little dreary, the second provides hope, and the third is a funny one because I think we could all use a bit more humour in our lives.
“PANS/PANDAS”
a desperate battle led by desperate mother
every other solider sheds the knives and bullets from their skin
I shed feathers from invisible wings grounding me to the open field
my mother runs the armoury
my hands sprout allergies to the guns and swords and bows
I collect arrows in my abdomen
this battle is one I was supposed to grow into victory ages ago
but I go into my second wounded decade
abandoned
vigilant hope for help fades
desperation is now a plea for either side to win and end the battle
Encephalitis and the Cloud
Knife between the eyes.
Muscles pulling towards the spine,
tying knots around the vertebrae,
destroying shoulder blades.
Lithium orotate creates a cloud to encase
destructive thoughts,
the I’m dying thoughts,
willfully containing them within brain fog.
I should hate you, I tell the heavy cloud
as I hold it in my hands, but
its dreams of death kept me alive.
I cannot trap the cloud in a cold and lonely cell,
separate from my happy self, but I am proud
I now have a strange willpower to ignore
the screams guarded by mere particles.
I will treat these thoughts
with comfort, keep them in the soft cloud;
I am my own protection now.
Thank you, cloud. I’ve got it from here.
Ode to OCD
OCD, OCD, what silly things you did to me
You didn’t like my socks
You tore out half my hair
Ripped off mosquito bites
Feared chlorine in the air
Convinced me food was poisoned
Believed in Murphy’s Law
Demonized social media
Hoarded spit in lower jaw
Thought bleach was in my water
You amplified my tics
Turned all phones on airplane mode
Just couldn’t let me live
But… you never cared to organize
You never hated grime
Making perfect rhymes
And yet you are a tyrant
Calling shots on ships you steer
You don’t fit the stereotype
So you don’t seem severe
Compulsions and obsessions
Have left me scarred and scathed
Can’t dig out roots you planted
So
To spite you
I’ll learn to love the me you made.
Quinlin Caid is a Canadian poet, musician, and author who typically uses writing to discuss themes related to gender identity, neurodivergence, and disability. His work can be found in B222, The Familiars, The Publisher’s Desk, and on any music streaming platform under the stage name Q. Caid.