Why did I eat That? 😀🤔

Why did I eat that ? 

Any cat will know I’m gonna scream bloody hell I’m so fat.

If only I meant it like I’m cool dealing with  a belly

extended like a starved, fledgling Biafran

Doesn’t mean I’m happy when the scales groan  

-too much mass. 

 

Why did I eat that? 

inhaled beans, and camembert cheese , tuna and pees

Hard core, non divergent, box ticking  Anorexic.

 I can’t throw up. I can’t use laxatives.

I sit with my new found rolls.

Puppy dog

not cute .

Eating disorder   you smutty little tease.

Why did I eat that?

Mushrooms to grow?

 Or shrink my stomach to  give off a sexy new  glow ?

Only so much fungi  I  can  mitigate when I’ve had an oral mastication blow.

This is not a pleasurable job.

Hands cover my eyes. No mirrors must  ever let me know.

 

Why did  I eat that ?

A memoir to torment my self – 30 tablets a day – neck it down

Sit on the psychiatrist  couch.

How about we  lose the meds, you give me the cure

I can show off a palatable pageant, non dentistry crown.

Why did I eat that?

I need energy, Cant go places without any juice

This ole devil gives me every sodamastic excuse.

The answer?

I’m feeling not quite right in the head.

I’m determined to  live out the next 30 years living free of   Bio-Pyscho-Social, self punishment  misuse.

 

 

 

 

Talking head challenged a stroke

*Things/thoughts society urge people not to talk about or write about*

If you believe everything you read then I should have gone into the media business.

 Meg!

 thanks for this.  Meg is highly artistic and creative lady who only sees a hint of her talents.

She is a friend and the reason I’m writing this post.

song inserted to listen/lyrics at end of post  (optional) – It all ties up at the end……

 

DISSIDENT DAISY THOUGHTS

How to know if you are not a weakling sap?

You do everything wrong.

starve yourself, stay in bed, pretend everything is okay, hoover crap up your nose, watch and wait for your grandma struggle with death for 3 days.

Forget about what makes you well and happy.

Fallout with everyone you would die for

Think you have ignored your daughter’s needs  and are dismal parent

then, still say

N0.

I’m sorting out my priorities.

H20 AND O2  🙂

moment by moment

I tumbled a fair way -off the waggon wheel.

This is not just about drugs – in fact, drugs are probably the only dysfunctional part of me that looks so horrific and doomed because it is so visceral.

People can’t see my other issues.

Okay, maybe a bit of weight loss- not so shocking that people turn around and gawp. I cover it up well.

I slipped off the waggon – mentally and physically many months before I decided to reach out for coke.

Point is, I did a three-week drug binge – hated every moment of it.

It took the announcement of my Gran being given the short straw of life to stop fucking about.

She may or may not be in heaven. I hope she is.

This may or may not be a piece of fiction.  I hope it is.

Research for my EMA?   ( one of my characters is addicted to drugs and is homeless)

well, he was when I last looked at the script back in November…..

I told the supplier not to supply me. He respectively hasn’t and I respectively haven’t had the desire to ask.

I  don’t like the way drugs or alcohol make me feel or act. I don’t like how denying myself food I like and love makes me feel.

I don’t like what the symptoms of my issues does to my personality, how I behave when caught up in it.

People slip everyday.

How many accident claim adverts have you seen lately?

Slip up, is what meant. 😉

Most people don’t talk about it.

What have I got to lose?

I have everything to gain.

My integrity.

War is peace

Truth is Freedom……….

Ignorance is strength ? 

ha! got you 

George Orwell is a pseudonym  😀 

My family…….

bloggers who know the real me – bloggers like Meg.

People in my real life may read this and go………………

I’m not telepathic and I never ever want to be.

I DON’T GIVE A FUCK, WHAT YOU THINK. EXCEPT TO THE ONES, I SPEAK TO BUT I ONLY SPEAK TO PEOPLE WHO GET ME.  ( maybe that would sound better in a ghetto lingo)

I’m on the mend. I still have issues – just cos I’m not hoovering shit up my nose doesn’t mean I’m  100% healed.

What about your business Daisy?

Business is growing.

How did you support your habit?

I rented out my body …

(FACT OR FICTION )

does it matter?

I have a personal account and a company business that is separate and I have another issue where what I would spend on food gives me overflow money to spend on prostitutes, porn, dunking doughnuts, Cider, cars, gambling, clothes, shoes,  drugs – illegal and legal self-medicating.

Yes, love a bit of Erotica   – Anais Nin 😉

 

The point is the waggon is not electric and it is in sight. I’m running alongside it.

What about your Master’s degree, Daisy?

Doing it. On track.  One more scipt to write and year one down.

I can tell you -100% truth that having mental health issues and reverting to my default coping mechanism has done NADA for my creativity.

Me being me and writing from my heart and keeping my head just about screwed on is why I have managed to come out of this with flowers blooming out my ass.

I digress.

Bit of a rant…

Thank you,

Meg

for the tag.

I TAG (optional)

BROOKE @ THE UTOPIA UNIVERSE

CHARLIE@ CHARLIE ZERO THE POET

I LOVE A CHALLENGE.

I LOVE MUSIC.

Combine the two together and I have put myself up for a HEALTHY CHALLENGE.

It’s going to be a busy couple of weeks sorting out the funeral with my Ma.

I need to help others to dig myself out of my own shit storm.

I’m committing myself to this challenge because I can.

A song I currently love is this

It gives me hope that the youth of today are thinking like this young lady.

Enjoy…..

 

[Verse 1]
My quiet observations on the bus city people lost trust
Maudley’s out patients are shouting with the pavements
They looking rough can’t get to grips so they end up looking worse than shit
Maybe if I can see who there talking too I might talk to them to so they can prove
The spirit never lies but before I get to try the clouds open up and let god cry
Why is this white lady nervous cause 3 black youths come on so she checking were her purse is
Make me feel nervous like they ain’t my country like they don’t really want me
But mummy always love me I never had a daddy it was me and my mummy
Mummy was my daddy I can either cry or see it as funny
How you can have a child and then just leave
Now I’m walking around with my heart on my sleeve cause I’m effected anytime anybody leave
You can see my scars and hear my silent screams
I been reading books to analyse my dreams and to me it seems
The only chance we get to make sense of it is when we put our heads down a little bit
That’s why I’m spitting it cause each one teach one and you can take it how you want don

[Hook]
Right now I got a lot of work to do
I gotta smooth out my edges
Eat more veges
Listen to my elders
Vibe with my peers
Confront my fears and
Finish this album
Right now I got a lot of work to do
I gotta represent the youth
Speak more truth
Eat more fruit
Get wise with my years
Confront my fears and
Finish this album

[Verse 2]
But it seems I get side tracked it’s like a mind trap I get a call real late bout were the foods at
Cause certain man a certain place got certain food to taste so my Nikes are laced
And I was never really one to stay awake through a working day for them little bit pay yo
This nine to five is just killing me slowly but quitting is for quitters so I wait until they fire me
But now no one will hire me cause I got more lies in my CV than a pro’s had STD’s
When will they see I was born to reign entrapment is my pain I need to feel alive again
I need a man that compliments my style overstand I’m this way until I die
Has ambitions of his own so ovastand i don’t wanna be alone I just need a little time in my zone
This one goes out to my shotters in the alleys were all brothers and sisters were all family
All my sisters trying to raise there babies all the youth man with court cases crazy
It’s like the smarter you are the bigger your worries stupid people are lucky trust me
This one goes out to my people with ambition I’m still learning I’m still trying but for now

[Hook]

[Verse 3]
Honesty is courage and since I got the heart of a lion then there’s no sense in lying
I portray my life over violins no matter what it brings least I’m being real
When I look at my future I fear failure I fear the fact that you might not like me
I know I’m skilled but just maybe slightly what if my light don’t shine so brightly
I’m scared of that I’m telling you the truth I’m scared of that
What if the doctor said you couldn’t have children
What if the system they tried to topple what I’m billing better living for all my ghetto children
And I don’t mean were you live I mean your state of mind
Cause ghettos not just a place ghetto is a vibe
And I don’t need no boastie words or complicated flows
If I know what I gotta do then I flow
But sometimes I get tired sometimes I lose faith I guess that’s the reason that we got to church
Cause when you at the bottom of the barrel it hurts need something to believe in and God works You think spiritual is just hocus pocus what you really saying is you have not noticed
Inside us all is a silent protest you can acknowledge or ignore but me

SPEECH DEBELLE – FINISH THIS ALBUM

ANAIS NIN IMAGE CREDIT

Muse on the run

 why have thou forsaken me?

The only God I ever thought could fulfil and denounce all insipidity.

Creativity- my muse. usually, I type -words flow not perfect but in some sense of verse.

Can’t swallow – I’ve been cursed.

Another person knows the truth – think I want to go back up the birth canal first

over thinking rhyming words – music, hoovers, the energy is far from an ideal haven.

Look above, hear the wings flap – a freak migration of the black wings – inaugurate the raven.

All exercise comes from my smile –  I’ve packed on the pounds frowning lines overused, flex around my mouth.

flex around my mouth.

Drop dead. A blow to the head. I’ve lost it.    Muse? ditched me to become a stitched up cowboy down south.

Swallow guilt in packs of threes.

Music to my ears -guilt shake me, blood seeps out -donation date in arrears.

These fears.

This rage.

doubtful mind -caution mindfully what you attempt to incite.

Confederate  vocabulary union matched up on  a strike

No more smiling faces in sight.

Each word resigns – there is nothing left to type.

No tears pouring down his face. There is no moisture to wipe.

Studpity rots the brain

no more stories when a writer runs out of grain.

Shadows – I cower away . Shadows induce carbon monoxide attack

Clamp down on every thought – seize all my gear-leave me with not one solid fact in tack.

Sincerley ,

the writer who dunnit

Just ice cross- fire

Bang Bang, I’m going to shoot you  dead!

Electric convulsive shocks creating heightened velocity in her head.

Trigger words of mothers who have died, snowed, under morphine.

Malignant lungs charcoaled.

The death rattle  – gargles and fills up  the lungs ready to  drown every last Mercedes Benz  dream.

Bang Bang –  a Prayer  sent up to her envisioned maker with  every bad lead thought that scatters  across her  mind.

Know psalms off by heart. Guy Fawkes terrorism  paid  for this public bonfire – doesn’t make it right -doesn’t make it an act of kind.

Chug a glass of spirited potatoes – grapes squish out the thoughts that stain thy window.

Moderation is not what she seeks, she merely wants to come to terms with her grief.

 Such a sudden blow.

Patriarchs invades her  self-made sanctuary – no amount of sage can expel the plague he carries.

Itching, biting, scabbed. riddled with disease.

Blackened limbs fall off – ebony  hearted-trickster – outlawed  even the one  he marries.

Therapy Cluedo  in the south of France, – sewn up mouths and eyes , compassionless –  flesh hanging – bubbled , leathered  and well worn.

Every day he promises he will leave. He promises he will come visit his own mother – She can’t speak or talk – she is one of the frail old born.

Forlorn- A bus goes by – Sunshades hide the tears pouring out of her eyes.

Waving off a friend she once knew –  she may be safe under lock and key – it doesn’t make her feel better when they embrace with such passion, it could stoke  a field of fires.

Brazen- bewildered – lice infestation  and puffed up Eskimo  mess – Look at this  fragmented shell , she is in need of just  one caress.

Consumed with guilt – that is not hers to own. It is the cat’s fault your  home is a shambles and smells of piss , whispers biased loose lips, fresh off a scandelous printing  press.

Chased out of her very  -own home –  headphones firmly planted  in her ears to make her life monotone .

A spectrum of color and vivaciousness she has lost- who can silence the screams pouring out of  her mouth in tones of monochrome?

Safeguard her from inbred exploitation – cast back this tokoloshe to  his own devised theater of purgatory.

If Jesus wept – he didn’t do enough- a lake full of holy water can never anoint  his aimless  trajectory.

Justice is who she sides with ,in every battle – Ready for an outbreak of  war – she will evict Denial from her friend’s abode.

No more dossing about and ejaculating  scandalous words  – lies -that make justice’s head spin around so fast. Run Tyrant -she is about to  explode.

Remember,  what  a scrupulous enemy she can make  out of you.

Manipulation test- she scored well  above average –     The school of the gifted bestowed her with the largest milked  cash cow taken from mother nature’s personal  reservoir of dew.

She knows the rules, she knows the moves- instinct  and empathy are her winning tools.

She cares not for  his  sexist Judgment  increasing multiples of spore bacteria – frozen in  barricaded  transparent  igloos .

All it takes is one breath of hers to melt him into a little boy blue.   crying profusely until he is nothing but another muddled puddle in the tarmac.

A careless afterthought only remembered  if one is quick enough to look at the sole of the innocent’s  shoes.

* inspired by my own personal feelings towards something I have witnessed in silence  for far too long. My fuse grows shorter*

 

 

 

WRAP -OFFICIAL PROMO VIMEO

MY WRAP FACILLIATOR TRAINING STARTS SOON, SO EXPECT  SEPTEMBER POSTS  TO BE FULL OF NEW WAYS OF IMPROVING THE QUALITY OF YOUR LIFE.

ALL FOR FREE.

THE ONLY CURRENCY REQUIRED IS COMMITMENT

Daisy in the Willows

I have been quiet on the WRAP  front – wellness recovery action plan . Only  for the reason I knew this testimonial video would be available for YOU and others who want to take their life in their hands and have a plan for if it all goes down the toilet.  Eeeugh!

WRAP TESTIMONIAL PROMO VIMEO

Anyway here it is. I think it will have more of a powerful effect on those of you who do decide to watch it. Instead of me waffling about it over 12 weeks on camera. If you want to  to do WRAP and are not in a physical place close to where I live. You can still do it via my WRAP page. No costs – for free.  Or you can go to the founder of Mary Ellan Copeland and pay for the various material (if it is not free) that can be…

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Even the Odds -Fiction

Record. Ready to engage. This is ED500, the time 6 a.m., 12/02/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets (equating to the dosage of 1500 calories) taken. Weight: stable’

 I close my eyes and open them, and when I look into my black bordered mirror, I see me but a younger, naïve me staring back. I inhale and exhale creating a crescent shaped smile. My hair shines vibrantly, my face: doll like. My mouth flushed, it appears to have taken on a bitten nuance of natural rouge. I smile to display ivory white teeth only a poacher could appreciate. In my world, white teeth are a rarity on someone from my generation.  It has taken too many of us. I caress my prepubescent size breasts and so does she. Nipples aroused by the naked air. Small boned, fragile, envied. If Eve indeed took Adam’s rib, raw-boned: it should be on display. There is nothing more invigorating than this reflection. There is nothing more exquisite to be hold. That is all it is: a former reflection. I close my eyes and then open them again. I am back in my bathroom.  The first course of treatment started five months ago. I have responded well and I have been able to observe the many seductive versions it shows of me, without resorting to previous extreme coping mechanisms.  It was not always like this.

            ‘The starch whites’ snatched me away from my entire world because of it.   Desperate to claw back some control of my life, I signed up to this new radical method of treatment for it. They inserted a hippocampus-morphic capture camera (H-MCC) into my brain. It creates recollections of all of a human’s senses. I only need to say ‘record’ to activate it. This is a part of the rules of engagement. There is nothing more innovative in terms of therapy treatments for it.

                                               **********

‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time is 6 a.m., the date 12/03/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets consumed.’

 Numbers flitter up and down. I look straight ahead, my feet push firmly onto the scales. Like a corset it dares me to breathe .The difference in numbers is a knife-edge in reality, but it will try to emphasise how little control I have if the numbers goes up. Today it is stable.  This is attempt 7. I close my eyes and for a split second the scent of oranges linger.

 I open my eyes and I am blitzed by an array of green, red, and yellow coloured fruit. I pose and I am poised, in front of that golden gilded hall mirror. The reflection is of me, in the original inpatient stay clinic, before this modern therapy treatment was possible. Before the pandemic rise of it. Like the eye of a hurricane, it mischievously lulled a large portion of members of our community into a state of security, then sucked us up with one sinister intake of breathe.  My reflection captures me in all my nakedness. My hair swathes over my scrawny shoulders and breasts. A pair of hands comes up from behind me, pushes away my tresses and cups my breasts. A deep throb pulsates in-between my inner thighs. I cannot fight it. I submit.  My head tilts back; my mouth opens to reveal my tongue. It is like a red carpet, awaiting for a celebrity to enter. It is him. His dreadlocks tinkle with multi coloured beads. His tongue commands to explore mine as if it is a well-versed master of sorcery. I tremble from the hot expulsion trickling down my inner thighs .My eyes remould into wide crop circles.  I realise that it has tricked me again. I spit out the clustered black mob of grapes into the bowl of fruit. I only have a moist stain as a reminder of his existence.

‘The time is 06:35 a.m. The location: bathroom. It feels more aggressive – not dormant as the manual states is what should be happening.’

                                    *********

‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time 6 a.m., the date is 12/04/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets taken. Weight: stable. This is attempt 8.’

 I close my eyes and open them. I see an ashen me spiralling further and further away as the powder compact mirror is whacked out from my hands. I can’t see my reflection, so I start furiously tapping on my collarbone, urging it to jut out that bit more. Gristle grinds against gristle. My knees knock together repeatedly: agonisingly tender from the friction. It takes more pain to make me feel. I can hold my head up that little bit higher.  A surge of power brushes a justified half -smile up my cheek, as they wheel me out of the ambulance and into ‘the starch whites’ base. I peer into my old inpatient room with its rosy shaded walls. The ‘starch whites’ are preparing for that time again. The battle with them every mealtime.  Their lips are moving but I can’t hear them. My eyes veer to the sight of my legs- splayed wide on the bed. In between my legs, reveals the man’s body, which seemingly hustles in time to some primal, instinctive beat. His tongue flicks in and out of my moist swelling vulva. My inner thighs quiver. Combined sweat drips collecting evidence of our lust. The flicking escalates in speed. My chest rises and falls in breathily rhythm. I open my eyes and he is gone! Another trick!   On demand it projectile vomits grotesque abstractions out of drink supplements and gourmet food; flung and hung pretentiously along the walls of that room. Cups, plates, knives are thrown about. It takes three of them to get that tube down me. Three!

                        ********

‘Record. This is ED500; it is 2 a.m., the 13/04/2025 Location: my bedroom. There is an almighty sound of bells clanking. I am trying to do the breathing exercises from the prescription manual app but my eyes won’t register the letters.’

 The contained puddle of letters on the screen splatter as my tablet falls to the floor. The memory is too potent. My back arches involuntarily, my eyes will not open fully. Seizing up, they flicker upwards into the half-moon gloom of my eyelids. DING- A LING! A bell rings. Saliva sloshes down the sides of my chin. My back is set against a cool wall; I look up and around and find myself in an unidentified location. The walls, the flooring- everything is a shade of white. ‘The starch whites’ hover around the location in an aura of purity. I fiddle with my zip jean and pull down my T-shirt as I try to cover a mound of excess flesh. I join the procession of the group gathered around the bell ringer. The wait commences. A stomach grunts hoggishly. Mine. My eyes sweep across the group hoping no one has heard it. In total, there are fifty of my kind. We all have the same scraggy arms and legs and distended stomach. We do not queue politely, but circle around the bell ringer like a pack, collectively growling, from the pit of our stomach, slavering: ready to attack. It does not do political correctness. It does not like conformity. Nobody wants to look too eager. It is part of the game. Parlour tricks. One involuntary twitch in the ringer’s direction and the game is lost. The bell rings again. I look up, it is him. He winks at me. It rages from him seeing me ready to engage in combat in the ‘labyrinth of edibles’. It gains so much power in numbers.  Deafening whispers ripple around the group. Those that cover their mouths with their hands only heighten the grand faux pas of my behaviour. The smirking turns to vaporous laughter. I watch that retro version of myself, head bowed, arms folded, shoulders hunched, walk alone and into hostile territory- a vulnerable outsider for betraying it.

‘The time is 3 am, location: my bedroom. Urgent memo! I should be having more control over my flashbacks not less. ED500 needs to make contact’

                                                            *******

‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time 6 a.m., the date is 13/05/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets consumed. Weight 0.2 grams more than 13/04/2025.’

 I close my eyes and when I open them, I am naked and in what appears to be a floor to ceiling mirrored dressing room. Reflecting back in every mirror is us! The man stands behind me- pulling me in every direction. Every angle stabs at my eyes, repeatedly. One stab- that’s me! Another stab –no, that’s me! What am I looking at? An arm. The shards of deceptive flesh wound my eyeballs. An almighty shriek surrenders from my lungs; I see a pair of hands reach up to cover my eyes. Is this real? I grab an arm and pinch it, hard. The skin feels dimpled, not in that artistic stippled kind of way but in that bumpier cellulite fashion.

‘The time is 06:15 am location: bathroom. I feel out of control, I repeat I feel out of control. Urgent contact needs to be made.’

                                                *********************

Dr Owle presses the pause button.

‘You have stuck rigorously to the manual?’ – I see that flashback projected onto a wall- paused and very much in control.

‘Well, of course.’ I blather, ‘That’s why I signed myself up for this whole spectacle. You told me that I would be able to control the memory and the sensory triggers. I can’t just flick the pause button on like you’ve just done’

‘The results when adhered to correctly have shown a 100 % success rate. Today is the final attempt. Are you still willing to engage voluntarily? ‘He looks in my direction. I nod sagely.

‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time is 09:00 a.m., the date is the 13/06/2025, location: Professor Owle’s office, two feedamile tablets consumed at 6:00 am this morning. My weight is 0.3 grams heavier than 13/05/2025.’

 Final attempt. I close my eyes and open them.  Astonished, I see a pair of muscular legs, a toned stomach adorned by a hint of hipbone. My wrists have a nodule of bone on each side, giving it a certain elegance. There is a fleeting recognition of this body. A fragmented puzzle of reflections pull together as natural as gravity. The magnetic pull, reassures, in the way that waking up before landing in a fall-dream- reassures. In the mirror reflection, I see him. A bolt of nerves implode in my brain, splintered nerves carve furiously.

A voice.

‘What do you see?’ It’s the Owls-no, the professor’s voice: the professor is an owl?  My mind steeps in ambiguity.

Then an almighty pressure forces my head to drop backwards from the weight of it. My hands instinctively go to touch the intruding protrusion. I catch sight of my reflection in the orange oblong mirror. My head is mal formed. I look like some freak, like some helpless victim with radiation side effects from some way out, imaginary town in Chernobyl. Grievous puss amalgamated to create a massive abscess.

‘I’m disfigured’, I scream. I feel his presence in the room as he moves closer to my puss-filled growth. Stretched, overcooked, fibrous skin. Heated puss bubbles away inside. He holds my head up.

 ‘It’s the man. I don’t know what he is going to do. He has something in his hand.  He is going to kill me.’

Tortured screams echo around the space.  Another voice penetrates through the pain.

‘Have you seen him before? Look properly. ’ it is Professor Owle.

‘No, I can’t bear to look .I’m repulsive!’

‘Don’t give up. Open your eyes and look in the mirror, tell me what you see.’

‘Something has gone wrong. I’ve consumed too much. The experiment has failed.’ I weep.

‘This is professor Owle. Tell me what you see!’ he orders.

‘Tell him my name’ the man urges, his dreadlocks shake off a familiar laugh.

He wants me to name him.’ I howl in pain, ‘He’s jabbed a needle into me!  He has jabbed a needle in my head. He is extracting the puss. It wants more power. I will not name it. Never!  The truth is what I‘ve believed from the start. You give it a name and it automatically assumes power’, I scream.

‘Look at me. Please!’ the dread locked man implores.

SLAM!  A car skids unlawfully across the black ice.

‘Who are you, what do you want?’ a tone of hysteria.

BANG! Car tyres leave vicious tracks marks on a deer.

‘Are there any letters forming in your mind? The professor inquires.

CRASH! A body smashes through the windscreen.

‘Yes, but I’m too afraid to let them form. Abort the experiment please, Professor.’

 The body lands with a nondescript THUMP. Blood marinades the icy snow.

‘You need to fight it.’, Professer Owle cajoles me.

My eyes burst open like a ruptured pea pod. I look into the mirror and this is what I see. It is me –a, hysterical woman with savage hair, screaming in despair I take both my hands and scrape my fingernails down both sides of my face. My grey slate- coloured eyes, dilated, search with hope. The man’s hand goes to brush away the tears trickling done my face. My hand goes up frantically trying to scratch away at the face etched with wretched wrinkles.

‘It is an older me. The growth has gone.’ Fearfully I take in the rest of my body. Again, I see reflected the same pair of muscular legs, a toned stomach adorned by a hint of hipbone. My wrists have a nodule of bone on each side- Holy shit, how can this be? This reflection is the missing piece to a surprising feeling of unity. I look over to him– he smiles. I look into his eyes- all I can see is admiration.

‘It’s me! Not perfect-far from it. But it is me!’ The man leans in to kiss my neck then his reflection turns around and leaves the room.

‘Very good, now carry on –what is the man saying? Interjects the Professor.

‘Professor, he has gone. ’, I turn away and around from the mirror to make sure that the mirror has not deceived me.

‘Gone?’

 Gone. It’s me. Professor Owle. It’s me! It is Vesna. My name is Vesna Numeral’ I babble out.

‘Vesna? If this is Vesna tell me who the man is? Professor Owle enquires dubiously.

A wave knocks my emotions. I buckle. The reeds of guilt tangle around my legs pulling me down to my knees

‘Oh my God! No, it’s Raymond.’ I cry.

‘Bravo Vesna. Well done. You did it- you engaged until the very end. We can finally start the de-briefing process.’ The professor hugs me.

‘I’m recovered? ’ my tone incredulous. ‘All he tried to do was help me recover from it.

Yes, Vesna. It was an accident…’

‘I couldn’t control.’ I conclude.

‘We now work together to start the process to rehabilitate you back into society.’

‘My family. My friends.’ A medley of images calibrate in my mind. ‘I will never go backwards, never! I have to keep ticking forwards’

‘Life will have a purpose again,’ the professor smiles

                        ************************

 One year later and numbers still hold this world together. I can never completely get away from numbers. It might not possess me but it still haunts me every so often by catching me off- guard. These days a brief encounter with my reflection consistently reveals my broken half capped teeth and withered bones. These are the scars of my struggle. I remember the lesson Raymond tried to teach me. These days I tend to look into people’s eyes when I speak and I tend to listen more. It is so easy to get caught up in that negative internal chatter everyone has in them. These days in spite of my scars, I smile and look for that small break in the sky. My name is Vesna; and like a cloud that merges and transforms all too rapidly, I too refuse to be defined by it.

Vacant

I’m scared  because I don’t know how to comfort her anymore.

I’m scared because when I go and visit her ,

she  does this trick of making out like her eyes have glazed over into a  dark,shut, emerald door.

I can’t see inside. I try to peek through  the key hole,  carefully.

There is  seemingly no one there.

Vacant. a word chastened in hyperbole.

The remnants of a body is  clearly  still  in front of me.

I only sit and stare.

I hear a sound – high pitched screams.

It sounds like there is a disturbing altercation   going on in there.

A neighbour  breathes and passes by , leaving  only a scented whisper of

” Feed her chocolate. It keeps her subdued”.

Fair trade Chocolate does not seem like the  ethical solution  to end  a deplorable mental feud.

The air is thick with  my punctuated  words.

WHY?

the neighbour screams,

Red, furious and right up in my face-

“BECAUSE THEN YOU WON’T HAVE TO KEEP UP YOUR NOBLE ATTEMPTS TO MAKE OUT SHE IS STILL A PART OF US HUMANS SPACE

She is!

look,

Look at her .

I kiss her head and she flirts with that smile.

The neighbour shakes his head.

“All she does is mumble like a car spluttering ,trying to clock one last mile”.

“It would be kinder if they actually just stopped and kept her  underfed.”

Oh really, if she  doesn’t understand then why the hell did she lash  out to hit me ? 

She saw her ring on my finger .

If she is only a  shell then why do  such  emotions come out like she is  an venomous, angered Bee?

“I wish she would go. It is no existence”.

Yes, it is hard to see her exist like this but the only the alternative you suggest is that me ,you and her have even more distance.

Maybe I am selfish,

but nobody really knows how much she  knows.

Just because she can’t speak or walk or do much anymore .

it doesn’t meant everyone can just talk  around her like a she is a retard.

 It doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel our ignorance  like fists pummelling  her heart in  fierce blows.

I see the image of her in bed , sleeping with her Teddy bear.

 I can’t take my eyes away from it and just pretend that this is what it is and carry on like I don’t care.

I don’t cry. I try .

I don’t try . I cry.

Suffer.

Suffer.

Suffer.

If it was me in her place,

 I would make sure I had a will that specified I decided when I wanted to  dissipate into another state or  place.

(For my Gran. Dementia is ……. I am at a loss for words)