Sunday, 27 September 2009


My little yellow car comes home. A man with a round belly in a tight, red polo shirt and a puffing smile lowers her from the back of a large truck, a grumbling but good-natured commentary his soundtrack. As he hands over the keys he asks me if I've broken a window recently. 'No.' I reply, puzzled. He thinks for a moment and then asks me if I use a lot of glitter. What can I answer but 'yes'? Giggling, I tell him he should see my bath, and go on to explain that I'm a performer. He looks pleased that the mystery has been solved, hands me paperwork and climbs back in the truck. I'm still laughing.

Wednesday, 23 September 2009

Moody Cow

The house is so quiet I can hear my heart beat. It's the dead of night. Insomnia and the maelstrom in my head rage on and I stare into the darkness, unseeing, numb. How can I explain the pain, the guilt, the confusion and the despair of this illness? How can someone ever truly understand? How can I be anything but alone with this affliction? I am angry with him for judging me. I am angry with him for refusing to open his mind. I am angry with him for telling me what is and isn't part of this horrible disease and that the rest is an excuse, a self-indulgent failure to take responsibility and choose to be well, choose to behave in a manner he finds acceptable. It feels so unjust and so futile.

The headache reminds me of its presence, sticking knitting needles into my eye sockets. I am cold amidst the tumbling words the jumbled thoughts, the wasted sentences I want to write to him but won't send because he's already told me he won't read them. I need to sleep. But I can't. I need to eat. But I can't. I need to connect. But I can't. The prison walls are up again and locked in the cell of my sickness I can only endure. Alone.