what is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?

so wrote roethke in his metaphysical sequence. it was a profound statement when i first read it in my early 20s as i was in the midst of my own recovery of a severe illness. it is a beautiful line, and it is complete b.s. not that i think roethke is a bad poet. i don't. it is just my own experience with mental illness is not noble or profound or enlightening. it was a terror and i believe it stole years of development both as a human being and a poet. even in the depths of my illness i managed to write. it was all shit what i was writing. i had succumbed to the myth of the mad, reckless poet. it took everything i had to keep myself from curling into the fetal position. every minute was a struggle. i managed to write is not a miracle of will but a system of habits. even in its grip i still had an ego and the desire to develop as a poet.

not that that saved me. circumstance is fluid and changes moment to moment and is different for each individual. madness when it hits is a permanent present. it embodies the concept of eternity. the suffering, and i don't think i'm exaggerating nor do i think i'm unique in my own brand of mental illness, is everywhere and becomes everything. my quarrel with roethke and other poets who are quick to the myth of the mad/bad poet driven nuts by the world we all live is that the myth is destructive and absolute nonsense. madness isn't mad and being crazy is only when we are given the proscription of what the life of writing must be.