How long has it been?
I don’t know, I really don’t. Care workers and psychiatrists asking me to pin down when it was I first started to really break apart, and even now I feel that – I think I feel that – I’m coming back together – I don’t know. Like static in my ears, like barbed wire in my head, all sound and fury.
Depression fucks things up. Always, always now there’s this overhang of danger to my life, my breathing and my beating heart. But there always, always has been damage to my life; skipped chances, dropped plans. Missed kisses.
Hiding from contact, alone, longing for touch.
So now I feel I’m coming back together – but we’ve been here before, so I watch my step and my back. Currently signed off, forcing myself not to think too much, seeing care workers every day – a bit like hospital, suspended above life, apart from it’s cares and it’s worn worries. Limbo can be comforting – Christ knows how I’ll feel when I’m dropped back to earth, have to pick up my life again, brush it off, and start walking. Again.
A bit like hospital. But mercifully not too much. I can try to re-engage with life, my life, right here and now. And looking at the piles of pizza boxes and empty ice cream tubs, looking in the mirror and sinking, thinking Christ I need to get to the gym. How long has it been? I don’t know.