She’s back. The bad. I’m going to fight her. I wish someone from the outside could jump into my head and help me fight her.
I’m seeing Monica today. She’ll tell me not to fight the bad. Just acknowledge it, to find a…synthesis (her favourite word. I hate it used in this context. As an organic chemist synthesis means something different to me). I may ask to sit on the floor. I dislike chairs. I have always preferred the floor. I forget this is strange and have certainly caused a few double takes over the years as colleagues would discover me happily working away on the floor.
I’m not making any effort though. I shall throw on clothes and there will be no shower. I hate how she leads me up the stairs. When I arrive at the personality disorder clinic I’ll say hello to the receptionist, she knows us all. Then I’ll sit in the teeny waiting area reading the same posters about being trans or having my say on mental health or taking part in a smoking cessation study. Monica will come through the locked door and I’ll jump up with a bright smile and a hello. I hate that I do this as I am fully aware that in about 5 mins this woman will basically rip my emotional insides out. Still, social formalities must be observed…or…?
Then she leads me to the stairs. I always pause momentarily at the bottom. It’s so fleeting I doubt she notices as she leads me up them. I told her once that the stairs reminded me of something but I couldn’t think what. Then the next week I told her I thought the stairs reminded me of a school that I used to work in. Now that some more memories have come back I know that it is not the school that I remember. It is the rape. These stairs…there’s something about them that is just like those stairs. Anyway it always goes this way: Monica reaches the top and she will wait and then turn. My steps will have slowed, I’ll be dragging my feet and have reached about 3/4 of the way. My palms will be sweaty and my heart will be fluttering. This is where I fell on the rape stairs and he stopped at the top, just as she does, as he turned back and looked at me, just as she does. Every time I wonder what she would do if I lay down on the stairs there. Bizarrely I sometimes wish I was crazy enough to try it and find out. I’m not though. I’ll force my feet forward and wonder which therapy room we’ll go into today. I always like to nosey into the therapists offices as we pass. It’s a good dialectic. Their offices are normal working spaces filled with drawings from their kids, the usual personal desk clutter and normal work chatter. Compare that to where I’m at as I stand there. It’s like two different worlds but in the same place. Is that a synthesis? I don’t know. It’s a good dialectic though.
So the bad in my head? It’s train tracks again. I couldn’t sleep for ages last night as I kept imagining just lying down on the tracks and waiting. This morning it was the first thought. The image evolved. I thought about what I’d wear, how would I make myself comfortable in those final hours? What pills would I take to stop the fear from making me get up? I imagined how my body would be split. I thought about the emergency service personnel who’d have to pick it…me…up. I thought about the fact my coffin would have to be closed and the kids wouldn’t ever get to see me one last time. The sadness. Jesus. I could never do that to them.
So I feel like I’m some sick twisted fuck. How can I have such thoughts? Such fantasies?! It is sick. Then that judgement reinforces the bad. Well, I know I shouldn’t judge the thought, just accept it. It’s hard not to judge the image of my corpse physically destroyed and my children completely shattered. I don’t think I could ever accept that. Surely it’s unacceptable?
Ah but! I still have my little light. It won’t go out. I won’t let it 🌟