The Straight Jacket

He chased around the house, from one room to the next, telling her she was nuts, just like others in her family.

Just like them.

Drunk he was, and he’d driven home that way, very much out of character.

She was already in her pyjamas, as it was late, although it’s entirely possible that she’d not changed at all, that she’d not gone to work. Depressed again.

They were having a terrible row, and he wouldn’t let up.  Doors were flung open, only to be slammed shut.

Screaming, crying, hiding.

In a moment of “clarity,” she went for it.

Even braless, in an oversized sweatshirt, & pyjama bottoms, she calculated where her purse was, made a run for it, threw her trainers on, and made a bee-line for the front door.  

She had no idea where she would go, family and friends were not only scarce, but sparse too.

Tears streamed down her face as she sprinted to nowhere.  Finally, getting herself together, she hailed a cab, thinking of the only place where she could go for help.

“Emergency, “ please take me to the nearest hospital. I need to go to emergency,” she asked, still crying. 

For hours she waited to be seen, watching others sitting in the emergency ward, bleeding, in pain, this or that. Her pain wasn’t visible, but it was the size of the whole world, and all in her head.

She wondered what they thought of her. Even now, she ponders aloud  their memory of that night…

“Remember that kid who came into emergency begging for a diagnosis of bipolar disorder?”

A part of her was ready for the straightjacket. To sit in a room, all alone, staring at the wall, allowing it to be her only company…Or perhaps she’d have bashed her head against it, like she sometimes used to at the place she called home, where everything was picture perfect.

At that particular time, the psych ward offered salvation. She’d be safe, people would take care of her. Her rotting mind…(?)

When she was finally called in, in the wee hours of the morning, she practically demanded they tell her she had bipolar disorder. They would know the answer, emergency always knows, they would confirm what he was saying. 

She was asked ridiculous questions like, “what is your name? What day is it? What year are we in…?”

Within a matter of moments she was released. No Bipolar. A pat on the head, and ‘on your way, dear,’ sort of thing.

No comfort, but the decision she’d tried to pawn off on someone else, anyone else for much too long, she finally made.

And she left.

The Artist's Way

In the midst of writing just now, I went to my room to pick up a book that I’d wanted to reference.

Instead of picking it up, I picked up my old “Artist’s Way,” [(Morning Pages Journal, from almost 13 years ago (2001)], which seemed to be screaming for me to pick it up again. 

I opened the front cover and saw 16:34, May 06, and wasn’t sure if the writing was from May 2006 or this passing 06 May, 2014. I read on, “we’re just about in Sienna…” Aha, this is new, from this past year.  

I’d written down some stuff, which I’d not since read, and it was worth interrupting my current writing- so much so, that I’m compelled to share it with you:

“11:53am, 06 May, 2014 (written on first page, opposite cover page).

At this very moment, I’m sitting behind “Jane,” & “Katie” (who’s still in utero J ), with their dear “Rob,” who’s taken a break from driving.

We set off from Bratislava at 6am, and are already in Italy, en route to Tuscany.

As we go, I read the pages of my  old life. A life I so desperately wanted to end.

I was so sure, despite all the grief, destruction, and self loathing, that I would get to where I am right now.

Where am I?

Here.

Not in the past, not in the future.

Knowing and not knowing.

With hopes and dreams like shiny beautiful bubbles, which I create, which pop, which I recreate, which pop. The more I create them, and they pop, the more “poppings,” land in my reality, and become It.

As I read the pages of my life, my very own words, so deeply touch my Heart. And in return, It sends even more love to every single cell in my body.

“We made it,” my Heart says. “Thanks for trusting Me.”

To the angel sitting in front of me, my sister, my dear love, I’m forever and ever grateful. Thank you God, Universe.”

Thanks for reading, & keep creating new stories of your life too, not forgetting where you came from. <3

The Girl and her Shell

Time and time again, she’d not only experimented with her shell, but she’d also lent it to others, to use, for their benefit only.

She convinced herself that this was ok, but the problem was that when she’d step back into her shell, everything that was released into it, pain, angst, fear, lust-even pleasure, permeated into her. Straight to her heart, and to her soul-tarnishing it, sometimes only a little, sometimes more than she could handle, which could days, even weeks, to recover from. 

Though she had long forgotten about it, she’d once again become aware of this separation.  The separation of her shell from essence.

Some time during her first 10^th,  it was at a party, some family gathering, that the separation had been so acute during her waking hours.

“It” was like a robot, put it’s boots and coat on, exited the house, and walked into the crisp air…Her essence still hadn’t returned.

She didn’t speak at all, rather felt like a zombie.

Once home, she went straight to bed, without a word. Nothing was said, and never did she speak of it, ever, to anyone.

It was undetermined henceforth, when reconnection occurred, however she not given it a single thought until almost her fourth 10^th, when I’d been commissioned to write for her.  She hadn’t the need, you see, or perhaps her essence locked it away into the pocket of her mind till now. Now, when she’s ready to understand this separation.

But hang on…No, that wasn’t the first time. Often time, (around her first 10^th), whilst walking home from school, she felt lower, closer to the ground and actually, that she wasn’t walking at all, rather- floating.

She’d once even tried to simulate that feeling of floating, got down on her knees, and walked along for a few steps, but it wasn’t quite it-not quite the feeling of floating.

She knew they thought she was weird, and ugly, at that. She just went along with it, knowing otherwise, that she was “different.”

Today she’d tell you that it was though her shell was her own puppet. She was always close by, in control, watching. At least whilst she was alive, during her waking hours. It was a totally different story when she bid farewell to the day, and died to the night.

The very last time she disconnected from her shell, left her so weak. He was like a vulture, homing in on his prey, and she knew it.  The moment she detached, he devoured it, and when she stepped back into her shell that time, nothing but pain permeated through to her essence. Nothing.

Free- the soul. It is.

'Twas on a four, when the little birdie spoke of grand news. It could've come from anywhere or anyone, being the opposite to grand, but it hadn't- a notion that it was indeed, Perfect.

This bearer- closer to her heart than she ever did know- delivered her gift in the most delicate of ways.

Twice before, she'd been given 'news,' without question, and unpermissed.

First, a devastating blow, from across the oceans, from a bird with feathers similar to her own.
The second bird, who, with its careless news, 'merely,' stole a beat from her heart, her heart which she'd only just mended.

But this time, on the four, it sang to her. No matter how softly or carefully the bird sang, this time she was ready, and together she sang with it. A tune she was ready for, a tune she already knew.

A gift of enormous proportions, infinite and never ending.
Never ending because that which is real, doesn't end, doesn't change, and if it does, it isn't real.

The soul, it sings.

Free-the soul. It is.