Category: Me

Poke poke.

Does that hurt?

No.

I think it’s meant to hurt.

Poke poke.

Nothing.

There’s meant to be something there. I’m meant to feel something I’m sure.

A yawning chasm opens in my soul and swallows my emotions. I’m not anxious anymore, but I’m not happy or sad or angry either.

I don’t like this. I’m meant to feel something when I poke there.

The numbness spreads like anaesthetic and I ignore it, repeating to myself it’s for the greater good like a mantra. A fortnight later I stop the drugs and shockingly; amazingly, my emotions flood back in and things look sharper, brighter.

Poke poke.

Does that hurt?

Oh yes. Oh god yes that hurts.

I’m back and I can write again.

I fell apart, broken and sobbing while the clock ticked down, stopped and then nothing.

I looked around.

Is that it? Is this all?

And it was. The year of firsts finished, not with a bang or a crash, but with a fizzle. A slight smell of burning fills the air.

++

This time last year I was … I stop.

Fill in the gaps.

I was shocked, exhausted and broken. I was stressed and fucked up.

I was changed.

++

Some women buy shoes, some buy clothes, some buy chocolate and others buy nothing.

I buy books. I buy other worlds to lose myself in, fantasies and other people’s pain. I buy lives and seep into them as I leave myself behind.

It’s a coping mechanism, but there are worse ones to have.

++

They adjust my painkillers and prescribe me something to help me sleep. I spend three days stoned before deciding to halve my dosage tomorrow and see how I feel. I can put up with a little pain in order to have this fog lift, to make my hands remember how to type. I’m swimming through treacle and somewhere out there, the colours are brighter and the world is sharp. But not here. Here there is fog and headspins and drugs.

Tomorrow will be better. Being stoned is a nice way to leave the pain behind and swim through unthinking, but it’s not conducive to thinking or writing or parenting. I want my clear head back – I want myself back.

I tell myself that there is always a learning curve involved in new meds and new doses, but I still feel ashamed of how I feel.

I didn’t mean to do this to myself.

That’s what they all say.

Keep repeating it. Tomorrow will be better.

++

My bookshelves fill up and I wonder how many more books I can buy before we’ve got no room for them.

Lots I hope.

This June,

I would like to come out the other side intact.

I would like to manage to stave off my broken-ness.

I would like to come through whole and okay.

Because,

last June

I didn’t.

And I can’t fathom doing that again.

Last June,

I ended up broken

and tired

and sad.

Last June,

was like being hit by a train

repeatedly.

And some things haven’t healed,

and some people haven’t been forgiven.

And they won’t.

Because

wow

that was low.

and I’m broken,

because I can’t scream the words at you I want to

and because I can’t talk about it any more.

So this June,

I want to come through whole.

I don’t want to feel kicked when I am down,

or strung tightly like a bow string,

choking on what I want to say,

but am too polite to.

This June,

I want to be okay.

And I want to tell you,

to go fuck yourself.

You’re not a nice human being.

And it’s your fault I can’t cry and it’s your fault I can’t talk anymore.

Because I want to tell you.

And I can’t,

because you don’t need to hear it.

Because being kicked when you’re down isn’t fun.

And aren’t you glad I’m not like you.