I’m in it. Right in it. An episode of a [very unfunny] soap opera. I’m the main character and the plot twist is this….. I can go from feeling very good to very bad VERY quickly. I live on the frequency of ‘instability most constant’. Trauma knocks loudly on the door, announcing itself with it’s dramatic DUN DUN DUUUUUH orchestral opening concert. I lie pressed on the floor not moving a muscle, but the sniper of trauma enters so there begins the tussle. Him v me. Him in charge. Me born un-free. My humiliation at being discovered laying flat as the flattest fish across that inhospitable carpeted floor only adds plus one to my angst. I cough and I splutter but there is no water to soothe my gills. My gills are unnecessary-it’s not like I’m actually breathing. I’m not only a fish out of water, but I’m drowning in a pool of it. Confused? So am I. So…….. I spy with my little eye- a soap op. storyline to make the meanest bully cry. Survive or die. Lie down. Too dangerous to laugh at that smiley faced “pass the victim parcel” clown. Game set and match. Scratch, and sniff. Cliff………..hanger- not a good choice of word there summer given the unsafety of how you feel. I am getting far more here than I deal. Back to the start. Add crisis to your mental health symptom card. Episodes in soap operas follow clichés and rules and are structured and planned by teams who sit at mahogany tables chewing the fat and only choosing actresses on the basis they’re wispy thin. Sin…city? I’m wondering if there is a connection, and an explanation why cities are something I spend so much effort and time avoiding. I think I could be on to something here. Intruders wos ere-right on my heart, squashing me and stamping consciousness out so I forget the middle, the end and the start. Ready-steady-go……….trapped in the crisis flow. Much more still to learn than I already know. Crawl slowly on the down low. Startled rabbit meets glassy-eyed-with-fear doe. Doe a deer a female dear………… price to pay, but not in your pounds, your dollars or your pence. The NHS keeps me afloat and alive, all at the tax payer’s expense. I’m a drain- the weak link in the heavy metal chain- feeling less like a diamond and more like putty. Mould me and layer me like a filling in your lunchtime butty. I’m feeling flat. I’d drowning in the dark and deep. Valium will soon be the aid to my un-beautiful black ink sleep. Count sheep and hope that none get away. Hanging on breathing (but only just) for one more struggling day.
This isn’t well written, sorry- this was a therapy write. I’m not doing good today as you can probs tell. :( Having a mental health ep.
?…..I hope so