Daughter 1 bounces on the trampoline outside. Daughter 2 has her head buried in her latest fairy book upstairs. A man prepares a family meal in the kitchen, and a woman sits alone at her laptop, door closed, wondering what will possibly happen when she taps into her mind and starts to write.
That woman is me.
Today has been beyond awful. Yesterday was fairly similar but today has been worse. My head throbs. The mockingbird in my head sings, just like Maya Angelou’s caged bird, or is it her caged bird who flies rather than sings? I’m too tired and absent minded to remember.
Trigger central. Un-sunset un-shiny boulevard. Balloons blow astray in the breeze of a gale and promptly get rained on. Drip drop…..drop.
LOWER. Much lower goes the pressure.
Still her veins pump dark red mixture around her system. She is living, whilst dead.
Faster, then s l o w e r.
Never up. Usually down.
Plummeting towards ‘something’, hovering a few inches off the ground of ‘nothing’.
Nothing is a thing. But so is plenty.
I’ve certainly had plenty of dissociated emptiness. It’s a symptom. Two psychiatric red flags blur together in unison. BPD emptiness meets dissociated separated disconnected nothingness.
Hovering is better than dropping.
Floating is better than dying.
What is better? Confronting… or protecting?
Abstract notions jotted down that make sense only to me.
I don’t want all of you to know everything every single day.
Sometimes important topics are best left skirted around.
I DO want my mental health team to have answered my cries for help. They didn’t.
Do they think I can deal with this past shit unaided and alone these days?
Because I write articles and do media interviews and volunteer for charity?
They’re wrong. I can’t.
I think they believe ‘if I say I can’t, it means I could, but I [wilfully] won’t.’
What is the use in taking positive steps to empower yourself when people don’t answer your messages and genuine requests for support?
Maybe I should forget the professionals and access my ‘informal means of support’ which is psychologist speak for “mates”.
Answer? I have, all day. I have written and messaged and posted and emoted and expressed and then repressed and supressed and then cried ALL DAY.
Who is that woman who cries real tears and
claims she’s is breaking down?
Oh shit, that woman is me.
I wish it were someone else.
Just like I wished it was someone else those times when I was a vulnerable school girl who was raped like a floppy, pliable but frozen-in-fear defenceless ragdoll.
I wish that girl was not me.
Just like today I wish I was NOT that woman, who is me.
I don’t want to be ‘her’ anymore and get caught up in her characteristic ‘her-ness’. It’s enough to give you a hern(ia) or double bypass.
I don’t want to associated with people who remind me of the woman named ‘her’.
Every direction I turn, a door closes shut, sometimes squishing and trapping my bony fingers.
I feel as weak as a bird today ; a bird who is malnourished, diseased, exhausted and flea bitten. My wings are matted. There must be oil clogging them up? My throat is tight. My spindly legs will surely collapse under my wasted away weight. My eyes are tired from darting around from threatening object to threatening object. My heart is beating in it’s unsteady rhythm. That is enough to make anyone panic.
If am not the woman who is me, I am perhaps the strangest bird of all.
I croak. I don’t make a sweet song. I don’t fly. I wobble. I don’t wake people up in the morning with my cock-a-doodle-do. I don’t adorn the cardboard on your cereal box. I am not that bird. I am the strange bird.
I find the world too big for me. I find human people too oversized and scary. Keep them away from me and let me survey their movements at all times. It’s safer that way.
Safer when you’re the strange bird.
She rang. She finally rang. The kindly nurse who I don’t see anymore but was on duty. She heard the strange bird sing and she responded.
She told me it’s ok for my wings to not flap and my feathers to be a bit matted for now.
She says I have risen from far worse from this. “Think about how you were two years ago”, she reminded me with conviction.
True. I am not down there. I am also not where I was 6 weeks ago though.
It is hard for me to not feel like a failure.
I’m the worlds best at apologising for things which I don’t really need to apologise for as much.
‘I live therefore I apologise’ goes the mantra of every downtrodden woman or man who was once abused.
“Once abused by another, forever an abuser of ourselves”.
….That’s how the pattern seems to go for childhood trauma badasses like me and you.
Thanks nurse for your comfort. On Wednesday I get comfort face-to-face, dans le therapy maison.
The strange bird can cry.
The grown woman can grieve, crying out the strange baby bird’s tears.
I’ll look after her well. I have to, because….
that woman is me.