Tag Archives: Depression

The suicidal coward.

I’m feeling suicidal

I can’t deny the concoction of escapism acts help keep me in denial.

Too many people looking out for me

I haven’t  had enough time  or privacy to actively find a sure way to make sure I’m undisturbed  absolute in my effort to be free

My daughter deserves better

I can’t connect with her

I’m not blaming anyone else for my failure to join the dots.

A girl succeeded in jumping off suicide bridge in 2019

I wonder if this morning will have an impact on my odds of survival – washed up in the river. The law doesn’t get I don’t want to be saved.

My calculations are all wrong.

 

I’m not doing this because of an income

9 months later after an ESA inquest assessment

And I’m safe till 2022

thanks for letting me know

Government Orange agent.

 

It doesn’t make me  happy to know that I don’t have to show up & prove I’m ill

Everyone else has a hard time at proving they are  beyond  over the mental /psychical capacity hill

They are sick

Why can’t  I CAN’T KEEP MY MIND STILL?

The odds of taking an overdose tonight getting it right are slim.

 

I need to run a warm bath and make sure I hit an artery

let the blood bad

bad blood leave me

Circulate not from within

I should have this right.

I’m in support of the assisted dying law for those whose  aguish is terminal

a mental psyche destroyed with life’s poison.

 

I still haven’t eaten.

This isn’t poetry

I’m borderline convinced I’ve lost the plot. I  told too many people my plans & now I’m living with the consequences.

Keep my daughter safe from me

She deserves to better. I m certain that better is far away from a mind convoluted by past & insight into the mother I am not.

untitled

Inundated with love & affection

 still chose to perforate all scar tissue encore

Lover left

without money

Again

midnight  summons a portion  of  scruples to perform

to

 a bowl of shredded paper cut of the imminent dawn.

 

Now, I thought

Now,

I thought

I’d tell my husband that I was going to walk out into that  main road

Wait

for a car to run me over.

I’m sure he would have expressed concern and said I should have invested in an organ donor

Card!

That he is with his wry sense of humour.

 

 Now, I thought, we’re  on the train & nothing feels real

Except maybe his hand on my knee reassures all I  need to feel.

 

The sun’s out & sparring with my panic attacks & phobia

I have to leave ya for a better time.

 

We’ll have time to play this theme out over & over.

Just for now I’m feeling fresh

Air

Not like I’m drowning in a cashmere claustrophobic coma.

Write to recover. Write yourself out of a panic attack. BUY a book. Look both ways before crossing the road so you don’t get mistaken for  Avante Garde road kill.

No patron saint

It hasn’t taken away everything

there is still me inside.

Don’t forget I rise, fall stumble, then I suppose cos I’m here, I rise.

See even grey lizards can be

Newborn from cinders.

 

Her number is definitely not over

mother’s nature to beta blocks a seizure on Kronos’s clock.

merely an earthling

In my mortal dregs tried

to take my heartbeat, crush it in my hands

so many times,

yet here I still am.

Instead, I Pulverised the very heart of my soul.

This beaten path

Led to a southern state in need of heart donors

Many lived as secluded slaves

pieces pulled apart.

I may be flawed but you’re no patron saint

for you have a blood hue lusting for the Big Easy.

See there it is!

blemished if only so faint.

self-hatred became queasy & took it out on my star crossed lover.

Call it, resting bitch face syndrome.

True

My love can be seen -it hovers.

Moments of Rapture are fleeting

Take time to bask in your lover’s latest sunshades.

Who’s to say we’ll never meet up with

a black dog?

– a self-made state of oppression.

My mother called me a Narcissist​

(Reading the book-  ‘poems for a world gone to shit’
Here’s one I wrote of to add to poems for a world gone to shit. A post-suicide poem I wrote in 2018. For the record, my mother didn’t call me this. She called me worse. I’m seriously joking now.

My mother called me a narcissist
I delayed in ringing an exorcist.


Eve didn’t want to admit she was too affronted by the orange county housewife
I’ d laugh if it weren’t for the affray
the truth is I’m a direct line of my self sabotagist.

My mother called me a narcissist cos I  tried to kill myself
She didn’t find it funny when I told her to go along with it.


She didn’t get it.


I take up my place as a dyed goat dressed in sheep wool.
I wonder if I can make it.
I forget
language-

so I bleat in Beast instead of weeping my tears of rage & regret. 

Thorn between two roses

In the twilight of that mind,

Turntables blast out despair

 Unable to fathom out her own kind.

Two open-ended books splay their outward innards.

Hesitant to accept the possibility of another perspective.

Suppose there is alien life out there…

That we can conceive of.

An outcome for her resolve to never give in to her woes?

Roses feel pain when cut down by brutal shears.

Where are the moderators in this game of Divine consequences?

Have they too been bribed to ostracise the rest?

Recalled

A product rebranded a Rose.

Children toy with her parts, cut her hair, drown her until her lungs, over-bloated

Spew out flotsam froth.

A final rattle forming a bubble of foam.

Youth is fleeting

as a pirate’s final orgasm freeing his seamen to rest.

This flight became her ghost – it tormented her in a walking state of slumber.

When Rose was of a venerable age she sat upon her own Fate.

Ignorant to all counsel,

She lacked common sense for a daredevil debate.

‘Mere islands’, she would bluster.

An ancient mariner couldn’t deny that she was born to a concubine.

Made from unusual voodoo cut cloth.

She mixed rarely with other groups

Outside of Fear

For impending wrath.

Her weeping congealed by third-degree burns.

Shuffling her feet- rarely led to any sudden about upturn.

What prompted Rose to behave in such a manner?

Emotional intelligence IQ lower than an abyss in Alabama?

Regret staggers not long after

Rose’s final walk down the marching plank.

Swords of sleeted ice pierce into her back.

She ignores all those gallant enough to help her find her to her new abode.

She has the the secret code to,the Outlaw, of the conquered seas.

Why put the world on pause when time is has its own entity?

Reality is indendant of thought.

Passionate.

Highly astute.

She thrashes about with the sense of an insecure perception of identity.

The FATAL FLAW for love on the grandest vessel

She sunk to her final resting place –

the bottom of the plastic strewn, infested seabed.

The day she allowed this rogue to assault her

Though she did plea;

Her screams were ignored-complicit to acquiesce.

Love is partly veiled.

One can’t see through the composition of the waves.

She casts one final look around,

She sees the world in all its chaos- divided into self destruct.

We don’t have love!

How can we summon humanity?

It’s merely a spectacle!

A damning show.

She turns around and winks at the one who took her to his chambers.

She smiles;

wonders if this Outlaw knew that he was taking her soul’s ability to speak.

There is no ending to pain.

Only true bedlam can express her reality.

She is the thorn.

She is the rose.

-the one frozen in hell with her never-ending guilt.

self destructive perfectionist

Bear change to mind

Get the facts -don’t bunker down with myths set in era’s

assonated with mercury outlined by hate.

The insane are violent. They murder our children.

They should be put away in a state of silence.

Media hype sensationalise stories to feed your imagination – they profit from.

Ill people who usually die by their own hands – strangulation or when man makes fire.

The insane are weak and lack willpower to get on with life – they scrounge the benefits system.

Watch reality tv and wed misery -cutting the wedding with a carving knife.

It takes strength and courage to live with our selves and pretend all is alright – People need to be signposted to treatment -to gain insight.

The insane must be institutionalised – criminalised for they cannot get better.

In bygone eras physical impairment and oddities were social pariahs to socialite invitees letters.

Insane people and I have nothing in common.

Please, take your insults away from my blissful ignorance

Our circumstances can change in a heartbeat. Worlds have been turned inside out to all humans including your current Destiny upcoming deliverance

Anxiety

Bipolar disorder

Post traumatic disroder

eating disorder

Borderline personality disorder

Depression

Substance abuse

obsessive compulsive disorder

family

Suicide

attempts to get it right

a perfectionists manual in self destruction.

vervain time

free writing mind mapping style.

“I weighed things up in my mind…” vervain

I look on at it.

Moved by my sentiment of

inaction.

Its  just a broken teacup.

 merely spilt  milk.

A tea towl, cleaning spray will fix this inconvenience

I look on at it. Not quite sure when the  fear of  inability became my  creation .

Became the start of  Depressive retardation setting in

This head ache  could go away

I’ve painted over it in my mind

over and over

hoping…..

Then it would never have existed.

Nobody would know it was a hornets nest

This is not a painting.

This is reality.

I can’t make others pretend not to see

It never  exsisted.

The power of denial

it makes us think life is stagnant

an imitation

we can cover up with a  single brush stroke.

seasons lies life’s mystery

This is the moment where I should embrace the wintery-powder snow to come.

Under-wraps.

We all delight to create snow angels.

So too do the most damaged pimped out hoes

The death of everything I know.

 

Yet,

I

don’t

know

if

I’ve

 ever

 known

Even one thing for certain.

Always,

I  thought

I blew according to the way the wind doth blow.

until I  walked right into the eye of the

C.louds

 I.ntelligance

A.ir

shouted them down-

No, I won’t go slow.

 

Voice  ricochets  seeking  a target

breathe exterminated-

The managers above cloud corporation hear my

costly,

cerise

commotion —

derogatory

delirious

temper tantrum.

 

speech

pressurised protests-

Attacks of panic.

I got what I was owed.

Hitch hiked a lift with a passing tornado.

 

Whirlwind dropped me off in a place with no directions to  the Republic of sense-at-ors of common.

I walked along the  the uneven, cobbled path —  another independent equality  free flowing  feminist ,

juggling with digits and exchanged words with third eye chakra chemists

Paper –

trees-

All alternate in form — it ends for the same means.

Or is that me unravelling myself from being stitched up — picking away at the seams?

I didn’t  mean  to lose my way — countryside hikes are  not my  governing zodiac  sign indicating

I’m in my element.

This body contains still waters wrapped in layers of skin.

No  teasing trickle or   babbling brook

nor a wishing well to reassure my hearts confidence within.

 

Summertime- the livings never easy

not when you’re a weed  on self destruct,

especially when the sun shines on  and makes blossoming

a gift without the morning sickness

That sense of queasy.

 

Rudimentary realisation.

 

Desolate

Deception.

Dark sunglasses can’t make me incognito to —

Looking back-

 

I should  of clapped my hands

, in breathless awe when the sunset—

lowered gently against the abstract  backdrop

Tropical orange salmon, pink sprayed skies.

 

Pay my respects —

Let it rest when it his time to slip down and fall.

 

Reap what you sow.

I deal with every blow.

 

Turbulent Winds commands my flight against   common ground

I find myself high up  and all alone

the comedown — finds me face down in muddy bog marsh — eyes arrested by a facetious fog —

Not even a bird to sing me an ode of encouragement to aid me back home.

we come into this world alone and we die alone.

Money, stuff — the acquisition of property

— it all gets left behind when we lift the veil to step into the next body of energy-

stagnation left in a cadaver —

this is our vessel —

Our only claim to earth’s  throne.

Seasoned Cycles of

life,

death,

regeneration,

rebirth.

 

Change –

it’s contradictory to our nature.

Wearily wallow over wilted, dead plants — tomorrow I’ll throw them away.

 procrastination

Embrace the opaque

the possibility of a welcome winter

undisturbed silence-solace only to be found in untouched fallen snowflakes.

Trigger the cycle to fall — this is autumn.

Death and decay I feel implacably broken.

This idea of pressing flowers, dried

Into bookmarks is a nostalgic notion.

Shouldn’t I let it go and embrace the tremors, the blast of the callous   cousins cold and colder

A gift of this perilous season?

anti climatized.

 

I live on an island full of tall trees in treason for being out of season.

Let these words be enough.

Be my reason.

On my knees begging for hands to let go of me-especially those who touch are rough.

 

Grant me sight to see-

permit  my body and soul to feel the spectrum

exhilarating and painful emotion.

Facing  forward to a future

 smelling the unsullied  scent of rebirth

A possible sight spotting of   Tigger

ready to  uncoil  and bounce into spring

 For the awakening of the blessed bees, Lilly white lambs and a hereuse holiday closer to the ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

The order of the black Dog

*TMA Submition for Open University- Year one MA -Creative writing- fiction genre

My family. Here we all are, sitting around the circular dining room table- flecked with bits of gold. Ma sits under a hanging portrait of this Christmas just gone. Three weeks ago. We are all smiling in it including Poppy. Poppy sits playing with her Annabelle doll, on my husband’s lap. Sat opposite from Ma, closest to the electric fire hearth is Gran. I find myself sitting across from Gran. An iciness breathes mist over us. It separates me from them, cloaks me in a fog. I try to swallow. The air is so thick it chokes me, I’m forced to put my hands to my throat. Nobody notices me.  Nobody notices me the way they used to. I tune in to the conversation-taking place.

‘Of course I’m not suggesting this is your fault.  I should have known. Done more…’ Nan bursts into tears. A cry out for:

 I need attention I’m suffering the most.

My skin bristles. Nan pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, and then throws out a familiar comment about it being draughty.

‘You know I could catch pneumonia with my Asthma.’ She coughs. Ma gets up to put on the electric fire.

‘I didn’t take her seriously. You know what Angie was like?’  Ma’s eyes are red as the rosary beads she is thumbing; she looks over to an unusually quiet Poppy.

‘Did she just do it to spite me?’ How could she just leave her own…?’

 My husband throws a warning look at Ma,

‘Marie, for Poppies sake.  Our Angie suffered more than she let on.’ Ma sits back down. ‘Let’s put on a cartoon, luv?’  Poppy shakes her head.

 She doesn’t look at us.  I look straight at her, willing her to leave this table. Leave this conversation. She lifts her head and looks me dead on in the eyes. I instinctively smile. Eddie and me always stood together when it came to Poppy. Her face is pale, her eyes sunken, her skin is drawn in so tight I can see cheek bones protrude. Beneath her eyes-, veiled shadows betray her youthful face. She clings onto Annabelle, still looking me dead on in the eyes.

‘When’s Mummy coming home?’

 Silence. Her words enmesh with the silence. Her question disarms me. Marks me. The arrow leaves its bow splintering my heart. I open my mouth to scream out as many words as I can. Condensation steams the air distilling me into silence. I reach my hand across the table to grab hers. She doesn’t see me. I glare at my family sitting at the round table. They say nothing. Smothering themselves in sorrow, they witheringly curl inwards. I urge to shake them, uproot them from winters glaze.

-Answer her! Answer my daughter.

Instead, Gran succumbs to a puddle of wrinkled tears, mechanically Ma gets off her chair, attempts to console Gran and naturally it’s  up to Eddie to mediate.  My calm, rational Eddie. His eyes read as vacant –his beard is wild and unkempt.  It’s impossible to read his face. He clears his throat,

‘We’re gonna see Mummy when we give her… say a proper goodbye.’

Gran flounders in her anglers net of remorse.  Great splotchy splashes of grief escape. She wails,

‘She’s with the angels –looking down at you, darling!’

 I roll my eyes. Of course I love her!  Lately, she grates my skin more frequently with her, melodramatics.

– Confess how you truly feel. Relieved!

I’m so fixated on evoking a response from Gran; unnoticed, a light flickers with an intensity to match my own.  Eddie carries Poppy over to the sofa, sits her down to watch a cartoon. He covers her with a blanket then kisses her forehead.

‘We’ll see mummy soon? To say goodbye?’

 Eddie nods his head, his voice cracks.

‘Aye, love.’

‘When will mummy come back from saying goodbye? In spring? My teacher says it’s winter – everything goes to sleep like her?’ Poppy points to ‘Sleeping Beauty’ on the television.

 Eddie focuses on the image. The Prince is just about to kiss Aurora on the lips. He turns his head away from the television before he can see Aurora wake up to her true loves kiss. He grinds down on his teeth. Poppy’s eyes remain transfixed on the television. Eddie gets up, crosses the dining room table; I’m compelled to follow him, I have to stop him. Tell him I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve so much to tell him.

 -There is no God! We were right all along. Religion is for people who can’t think for themselves.  We were right to take the piss.  

Eddie flinches, puts his hands in his jean pockets. I follow him down Ma’s hallway and into the bathroom. He closes the door on me. It doesn’t ever close fully. I slip through the crack of the door that is always ajar.

 Head down. Still. He sits on the toilet seat.  I kneel down before him; go to lay my head on his knee. He flinches again. Hits himself in the head. Bangs his fist on the wall screams out:

‘Why? We could’ve figured it out, you fucking stubborn mare’ I bring out the best and worst in Eddie. Till death do us part. What are the chances?

He still refuses to let me go. Stubborn.

My symptoms intensify in the days leading up to the funeral. Everything‘s heightened especially emotions that seemingly walk precariously on stilts.  I can’t walk through walls or levitate. Nothing like any of the horrors Eddie and me used to watch together, on the sofa. 

Unheard, I bellow continuously,

-Just let me go!

 Every time I hear my name called reflections of nostalgia flash and beam over and around me. Prompted, I gravitate towards the source. Someone needs me.  These past three weeks, I’ve been teleported from one conversation to another. I find myself in a room; familiar or not familiar, with people I know and people I don’t know.

Today I’m summoned to the usual bickering between Ma and Gran. The familiar sound of Gran’s kettle boils in the background.

‘I want that picture of her on her graduation day and flowers- blown up .With azaleas. And roses – she loved roses- pink.’  

‘She hates that picture! And she loves- loved yellow roses…’ Ma’s wobbly voice mirrors her jelly struck legs propping her up in her work shoes. She staggers backwards. Like the black dog with a bone, Gran won’t give in,

‘No, she’s my eldest grand daughter and I know her – it is… was pink!’

 Ma sits down, doesn’t speak. I go over to her to put my arms around her then she dissolves into tears. Gran bulldozes her way over to us. Intimidated, I move out of her way. Gran holds Ma and Ma lets Gran hug her. Ma calms down, mentions something about pink and yellow roses

Vexed, I shriek

 – don’t back down Ma, I love yellow. Yellow roses. The kettle whistles for attention. My voice is lost to an object.

‘I’ll go make that cup of tea’ Nan retreats to her kitchen.

Another opportunity to get close to Ma again.   I need to hug her, give her some of my energy. As if on cue, Mum’s tear-stained face crumples just like my heart. A poking hot iron burns a hole right through it. Gran re-enters the room I scarper.

‘Here you go, love. Lost three of my own …, as you know, mind, they never got to Angie’s age. Yellow’s more of a quirky colour like our Angie… was.’     They smile at each other. I move back, the distance seems to illuminate their smiles.

Tonight, I beg for there to be a heaven. This has to be hell. The familiar, incongruous, gravitational pull lures me out of my cavernous abyss. I blink my eyes several times to focus: orientate myself. Hung up around the wall are vintage Disney posters. My eyes settle on Poppies bed. Eddie bends over Poppy and kisses her goodnight,

‘Mummy loves you just as much as I do.’ He tucks her in.

He switches off the light before walking out. I stand and watch my worn out daughter in her bed. She sings herself to sleep just as she does every night. She sings our song:  twinkle twinkle little star. With each inflection of her sweet singing voice, the words serve as a needle. Each word stipulates smelting hot ink into my flesh. My neck is ablaze.  Before closing her eyes, she whispers,

 ‘I love you mummy.’

When I reply, scorching chains wrap and lasso me around my neck. My skin swells up in blisters. The familiar sound of her breathing evaporates the pain.  I need to be close to her, I need to smell her, kiss her. Carelessly, I run over to her bed to touch her sleeping head. Startled I lunge backward as Poppy instantly wakes up screaming.

– I’m powerless

. Eddie barges into the room, throws on the light and takes Poppy into his arms. I watch her body stiffen; then relax. I watch him settle my daughter back to sleep. My hands ball into tight fists.

-She must know I’m here.

Before I can touch her face, she wakes up screaming like – like she has seen a- ghost.

-I’m that Ghost! I put my hands to my mouth in horror.

 Envy bubbles inside me as I witness Eddie consoling Poppy again. I’m half hoping he won’t succeed.

What kind of a mother am I?

I’ve been telling everyone to let me go.

Where will I go?

I can’t drive, no one can see me. There are no other lost souls wondering about telling me to join the dead community!

I won’t give up on my daughter. She needs me. I have to be here.

 The stroke of our clock announces its time; a primitive realisation slithers down my very core. Nausea spirals up into my throat. I run into our bathroom, heave over the toilet, nothing comes out. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror; I see vicious V-shaped welts where the noose of the rope has cut into my neck. This is what Eddie came home to.

The cloying black dog of depression haunted me. Its delivered dose of pain was exquisite- nothing took it away. Not drinking, overdosing, drugging myself, talking-nothing. Eventually, I told it to sit down.  I told Eddie repeatedly,

– I just want to disappear.

– How can I help you?  His eyes pleaded for an answer.  I would always lash out,

-Unless you help me disappear, you can’t!

 I remained imprisoned in our bed and he would go back to work and look after Poppy and the house. He could walk away from me. I couldn’t. I resent him for that. I can see myself now, googling the various ways people commit suicide. One article struck my eye ‘Men are more successful at committing suicide’.

  -They don’t mess about with poisoning themselves –they resort to more violent means.

That is the moment I reached out to the wrong Alpha.

The black dog and I began sleeping together. It became my obsession. Up-close, I could analyse it, experiment with it. As a couple, it didn’t take much to find that Alpha rage. One phone call from Ma,

-Just snap out of it. If you’re going to do it, get on with it.

-Fine, I will!  I hung up on her before she could hang up on me.

My impulsiveness finds me trapped within this mirror. It’s cold. Everything I read is back to front. Everything I do is back to front.  It doesn’t reflect my true intentions. When I reach out, in fact, the more I reach out the more pain I inflict. I back away from the mirror until I’m pressed up, with my back against the bathroom wall.

 What have I done? 

 What right do I have trying to tell my family how to deal with their loss?

Eddie will never know that I was messing about; I didn’t know if I could actually go through with it. From a great height in a corner of the bathroom my body feels cut loose from itself. I can see it happen in front of my eyes. Like a rerun episode, I can’t pause. The noose around my neck, in the shower. Steam shrouds the mirror, with slippery feet, I accidently knock myself off that chair and in that moment I realise,

– I don’t want to die.

I can’t scream and tell anyone. I made the decision when I decided to sleep with my enemy. I’ve interrupted the natural course of life. A lost soul in life: a lost soul in death. There are no bright lights to come with this epiphany. I exit the bathroom, stumble down the staircase, out the front door, and walk aimlessly down the street. I sense a familiar pair of eyes examining me; I look up and see the black dog in its true form. It waits for me to catch up.  We walk side by side. I don’t look back.  I am the one preventing people from moving on. I have to let go.

Be careful what you wish for

Another deadline has passed. I should get my marks back after the 12 th February. I haven’t had a chance to pause and I’m already drafting my 3rd TMA (due 30th March).

For those interested in the conclusion to my dalliance in the supernatural genre, it starts where it is underlined.

BEHOLD!  This hopefully makes up for any let downs anyone reading this may have after reading the story. Thank you, Scott, @ The Order of the Dog/ Horace, and Winston Churchill, for inspiring the title of this story.

 THE ORDER OF THE BLACK DOG

My family. Here we all are, sitting around the circular dining room table- flecked with bits of gold. Ma sits under a hanging portrait of this Christmas just gone. Three weeks ago. We are all smiling in it including Poppy. Poppy sits playing with her Annabelle doll, on my husband’s lap. Sat opposite from Ma, closest to the electric fire hearth is Gran. I find myself sitting across from Gran. An iciness breathes mist over us. It separates me from them, cloaks me in a fog. I try to swallow. The air is so thick it chokes me, I’m forced to put my hands to my throat. Nobody notices me.  Nobody notices me the way they used to. I tune in to the conversation-taking place.

‘Of course I’m not suggesting this is your fault.  I should have known. Done more…’ Nan bursts into tears. A cry out for:

 I need attention I’m suffering the most.

My skin bristles. Nan pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, and then throws out a familiar comment about it being draughty.

‘You know I could catch pneumonia with my Asthma.’ She coughs. Ma gets up to put on the electric fire.

‘I didn’t take her seriously. You know what Angie was like?’  Ma’s eyes are red as the rosary beads she is thumbing; she looks over to an unusually quiet Poppy.

‘Did she just do it to spite me?’ How could she just leave her own…?’

 My husband throws a warning look at Ma,

‘Marie, for Poppies sake.  Our Angie suffered more than she let on.’ Ma sits back down. ‘Let’s put on a cartoon, luv?’  Poppy shakes her head.

 She doesn’t look at us.  I look straight at her, willing her to leave this table. Leave this conversation. She lifts her head and looks me dead on in the eyes. I instinctively smile. Eddie and me always stood together when it came to Poppy. Her face is pale, her eyes sunken, her skin is drawn in so tight I can see cheek bones protrude. Beneath her eyes-, veiled shadows betray her youthful face. She clings onto Annabelle, still looking me dead on in the eyes.

‘When’s Mummy coming home?’

 Silence. Her words enmesh with the silence. Her question disarms me. Marks me. The arrow leaves its bow splintering my heart. I open my mouth to scream out as many words as I can. Condensation steams the air distilling me into silence. I reach my hand across the table to grab hers. She doesn’t see me. I glare at my family sitting at the round table. They say nothing. Smothering themselves in sorrow, they witheringly curl inwards. I urge to shake them, uproot them from winters glaze.

-Answer her! Answer my daughter.

Instead, Gran succumbs to a puddle of wrinkled tears, mechanically Ma gets off her chair, attempts to console Gran and naturally it’s  up to Eddie to mediate.  My calm, rational Eddie. His eyes read as vacant –his beard is wild and unkempt.  It’s impossible to read his face. He clears his throat,

‘We’re gonna see Mummy when we give her… say a proper goodbye.’

Gran flounders in her anglers net of remorse.  Great splotchy splashes of grief escape. She wails,

‘She’s with the angels –looking down at you, darling!’

 I roll my eyes. Of course I love her!  Lately, she grates my skin more frequently with her, melodramatics.

– Confess how you truly feel. Relieved!

I’m so fixated on evoking a response from Gran; unnoticed, a light flickers with an intensity to match my own.  Eddie carries Poppy over to the sofa, sits her down to watch a cartoon. He covers her with a blanket then kisses her forehead.

‘We’ll see mummy soon? To say goodbye?’

 Eddie nods his head, his voice cracks.

‘Aye, love.’

‘When will mummy come back from saying goodbye? In spring? My teacher says it’s winter – everything goes to sleep like her?’ Poppy points to ‘Sleeping Beauty’ on the television.

 Eddie focuses on the image. The Prince is just about to kiss Aurora on the lips. He turns his head away from the television before he can see Aurora wake up to her true loves kiss. He grinds down on his teeth. Poppy’s eyes remain transfixed on the television. Eddie gets up, crosses the dining room table; I’m compelled to follow him, I have to stop him. Tell him I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve so much to tell him.

 -There is no God! We were right all along. Religion is for people who can’t think for themselves.  We were right to take the piss.  

Eddie flinches, puts his hands in his jean pockets. I follow him down Ma’s hallway and into the bathroom. He closes the door on me. It doesn’t ever close fully. I slip through the crack of the door that is always ajar.

 Head down. Still. He sits on the toilet seat.  I kneel down before him; go to lay my head on his knee. He flinches again. Hits himself in the head. Bangs his fist on the wall screams out:

‘Why? We could’ve figured it out, you fucking stubborn mare’ I bring out the best and worst in Eddie. Till death do us part. What are the chances?

He still refuses to let me go. Stubborn.

My symptoms intensify in the days leading up to the funeral. Everything‘s heightened especially emotions that seemingly walk precariously on stilts.  I can’t walk through walls or levitate. Nothing like any of the horrors Eddie and me used to watch together, on the sofa. 

Unheard, I bellow continuously,

-Just let me go!

 Every time I hear my name called reflections of nostalgia flash and beam over and around me. Prompted, I gravitate towards the source. Someone needs me.  These past three weeks, I’ve been teleported from one conversation to another. I find myself in a room; familiar or not familiar, with people I know and people I don’t know.

Today I’m summoned to the usual bickering between Ma and Gran. The familiar sound of Gran’s kettle boils in the background.

‘I want that picture of her on her graduation day and flowers- blown up .With azaleas. And roses – she loved roses- pink.’  

‘She hates that picture! And she loves- loved yellow roses…’ Ma’s wobbly voice mirrors her jelly struck legs propping her up in her work shoes. She staggers backwards. Like the black dog with a bone, Gran won’t give in,

‘No, she’s my eldest grand daughter and I know her – it is… was pink!’

 Ma sits down, doesn’t speak. I go over to her to put my arms around her then she dissolves into tears. Gran bulldozes her way over to us. Intimidated, I move out of her way. Gran holds Ma and Ma lets Gran hug her. Ma calms down, mentions something about pink and yellow roses

Vexed, I shriek

 – don’t back down Ma, I love yellow. Yellow roses. The kettle whistles for attention. My voice is lost to an object.

‘I’ll go make that cup of tea’ Nan retreats to her kitchen.

Another opportunity to get close to Ma again.   I need to hug her, give her some of my energy. As if on cue, Mum’s tear-stained face crumples just like my heart. A poking hot iron burns a hole right through it. Gran re-enters the room I scarper.

‘Here you go, love. Lost three of my own …, as you know, mind, they never got to Angie’s age. Yellow’s more of a quirky colour like our Angie… was.’     They smile at each other. I move back, the distance seems to illuminate their smiles.

Tonight, I beg for there to be a heaven. This has to be hell. The familiar, incongruous, gravitational pull lures me out of my cavernous abyss. I blink my eyes several times to focus: orientate myself. Hung up around the wall are vintage Disney posters. My eyes settle on Poppies bed. Eddie bends over Poppy and kisses her goodnight,

‘Mummy loves you just as much as I do.’ He tucks her in.

He switches off the light before walking out. I stand and watch my worn out daughter in her bed. She sings herself to sleep just as she does every night. She sings our song:  twinkle twinkle little star. With each inflection of her sweet singing voice, the words serve as a needle. Each word stipulates smelting hot ink into my flesh. My neck is ablaze.  Before closing her eyes, she whispers,

 ‘I love you mummy.’

When I reply, scorching chains wrap and lasso me around my neck. My skin swells up in blisters. The familiar sound of her breathing evaporates the pain.  I need to be close to her, I need to smell her, kiss her. Carelessly, I run over to her bed to touch her sleeping head. Startled I lunge backward as Poppy instantly wakes up screaming.

– I’m powerless

. Eddie barges into the room, throws on the light and takes Poppy into his arms. I watch her body stiffen; then relax. I watch him settle my daughter back to sleep. My hands ball into tight fists.

-She must know I’m here.

Before I can touch her face, she wakes up screaming like – like she has seen a- ghost.

-I’m that Ghost! I put my hands to my mouth in horror.

 Envy bubbles inside me as I witness Eddie consoling Poppy again. I’m half hoping he won’t succeed.

What kind of a mother am I?

I’ve been telling everyone to let me go.

Where will I go?

I can’t drive, no one can see me. There are no other lost souls wondering about telling me to join the dead community!

I won’t give up on my daughter. She needs me. I have to be here.

 The stroke of our clock announces its time; a primitive realisation slithers down my very core. Nausea spirals up into my throat. I run into our bathroom, heave over the toilet, nothing comes out. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror; I see vicious V-shaped welts where the noose of the rope has cut into my neck. This is what Eddie came home to.

The cloying black dog of depression haunted me. Its delivered dose of pain was exquisite- nothing took it away. Not drinking, overdosing, drugging myself, talking-nothing. Eventually, I told it to sit down.  I told Eddie repeatedly,

– I just want to disappear.

– How can I help you?  His eyes pleaded for an answer.  I would always lash out,

-Unless you help me disappear, you can’t!

 I remained imprisoned in our bed and he would go back to work and look after Poppy and the house. He could walk away from me. I couldn’t. I resent him for that. I can see myself now, googling the various ways people commit suicide. One article struck my eye ‘Men are more successful at committing suicide’.

  -They don’t mess about with poisoning themselves –they resort to more violent means.

That is the moment I reached out to the wrong Alpha.

The black dog and I began sleeping together. It became my obsession. Up-close, I could analyse it, experiment with it. As a couple, it didn’t take much to find that Alpha rage. One phone call from Ma,

-Just snap out of it. If you’re going to do it, get on with it.

-Fine, I will!  I hung up on her before she could hang up on me.

My impulsiveness finds me trapped within this mirror. It’s cold. Everything I read is back to front. Everything I do is back to front.  It doesn’t reflect my true intentions. When I reach out, in fact, the more I reach out the more pain I inflict. I back away from the mirror until I’m pressed up, with my back against the bathroom wall.

 What have I done? 

 What right do I have trying to tell my family how to deal with their loss?

Eddie will never know that I was messing about; I didn’t know if I could actually go through with it. From a great height in a corner of the bathroom my body feels cut loose from itself. I can see it happen in front of my eyes. Like a rerun episode, I can’t pause. The noose around my neck, in the shower. Steam shrouds the mirror, with slippery feet, I accidently knock myself off that chair and in that moment I realise,

– I don’t want to die.

I can’t scream and tell anyone. I made the decision when I decided to sleep with my enemy. I’ve interrupted the natural course of life. A lost soul in life: a lost soul in death. There are no bright lights to come with this epiphany. I exit the bathroom, stumble down the staircase, out the front door, and walk aimlessly down the street. I sense a familiar pair of eyes examining me; I look up and see the black dog in its true form. It waits for me to catch up.  We walk side by side. I don’t look back.  I am the one preventing people from moving on. I have to let go.

I won’t go into the commentary in this post. I think my reference and citations pages came up to about 15 pages!  Which is nuts!

My next TMA  is about a highly gifted and beautiful girl who plays the classical piano. She is also being groomed by her manager/lover to be a super model. She is adored by her fans around the world. Her biggest wish is to beable to have sight.

The scene begins with Eve playing a melancholic piece of music and a seemingly lovely old lady offers to exchange her sight for Eve’s essence.  The whole script ends in tragedy. Eve soon finds out why people are attracted to her. She can now see the world with eyes and she loses touch with her other senses. People hate that she can see them. They feel exposed, judged.

What makes Eve so special and endearing to people is her lack of sight. She is unable to see the world the way people with sight do.  It is a horrible world we live in, isn’t it?  Oddly enough, I’m inspired by Shakespeare – the play has a somewhat midsummer nights /fantastical dream-like feel to it – the main theme focuses on human conditions and relationships. Something Shakespeare flaunted well.

Guess who becomes the new darling of the music world?  The rest is still being written in my head. It only has to be 18 minutes and then it’s back to the homeless piece.

 It is a horrible world we live in, isn’t it?

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Oddly enough, I’m inspired by Shakespeare – the play has a somewhat midsummer’s night /fantastical dream-like feel to it – the main theme focuses on the human condition and relationships. Something Shakespeare flaunted well.

I’m catching up on blogs. I am missing you all so much.

DAISY XOXO

I will leave you with the words of the inimitable Charles Bukowski. He wasn’t a misogynist!