am i human yet?

A short piece of writing today.

…

When you first meet him, the therapist gazes at you earnestly and asks why you have come here today.

It’s the first question that has to be asked, of course, but you’ve been dreading it and have no idea what to say.

How do you describe what is happening inside your head when every word that falls from your mouth betrays you?

When every breath you drag into your lungs fights back, is heavy and reluctant.

When you look at the stars and see only the blackness that surrounds them.

When food turns to ash in your mouth.

When every waking moment is spent trembling on the brink of crying or screaming but you find yourself physically unable to do either, so you smile and smile until you think your face will break apart.

When you notice the black hole churning in the ceiling above your bed and decide that today you will die.

So you grin at him wildly and shrug. Then ask if you can mime your problem. Or maybe do an interpretive dance. Then you laugh, because you can’t do anything else and the laugh turns into a sob and you sit there staring at the pen in his shirt pocket.

It is a green biro. Its cap bears deep teeth marks.

He smiles and says nothing.

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I originally posted this to my Tumblr. I’m putting it here as well. As you can see I’m a bit confused about what should go where, but ach. Whatever.

I would love to have a room of my own.

The room would be wide and long and white with a high, high ceiling. There would be a wooden floor. There would be a large, worn rug.

I would have a wide desk at which to sit and write and read and lay out new treasures. On the desk, which is wide and deep and happy to acommodate things, would live:

• some favourite stones from the Scilly Isles in Cornwall;
• a Dia de los muertos skull from Mexico;
• a red Anglepoise 1227 reading lamp;
• the wooden lion my sister brought me from South Africa;
• pens and notebooks;
• a few postcards and photographs;
• my mother’s old orange Olivetti Lettera portable typewriter.

The desk would face one of two large windows. There would be no curtains, drapery or blinds. The window would face fields with mountains in the distance, or the sea.

I would have a good office chair, something beautiful and functional and which doesn’t hate my back. I guess this means Eames.

I would have bookshelves taking up most of the wall space. The shelves would reach the high ceiling and I would have a rolling ladder to reach the higher shelves. I’m 5′ 5″, so the higher shelves would be most of them.

I would have books filling the shelves.

I would have maybe a few pictures on the empty wall. I haven’t decided yet which, but there would be a couple of old photos of my mum, maybe one of my Dad. There would be at least one really old map of the world and one of Jamaica.

I would have my old telescope set up in front of the window without the desk, with a low stool.

I would have an Eames Lounge Chair and ottoman in Brazillian rosewood and black leather, because I’d have to do some lounging when my brain stops functioning. In the lounge chair I would ponder and read and cook up schemes and day-dream. I might throw a sheepskin on the lounger in the winter.

I would have a small wooden table next to the lounge chair. When I’m lazing I’d have on the table:

• coffee in a mug, or vodka with tonic in a glass, or Laphroaig whiskey in a tumbler;
• a notebook;
• a book;
• a pen.

I would have a little blue-grey cat with yellow eyes. The cat would

• doze on the rug;
• pounce on my feet while I’m trying to write;
• jump up onto the desk and mess up my papers;
• sit on the window sill to watch the birds;
• tell me stories.

Sometimes she would join me in the lounge chair and curl up against me and purr. And then we’d both fall asleep and wake in the evening when the light is low and golden.

I would love to have a room like that.

It would be a room just for me. A room of my own.

Sort of inspired by Virginia Woolf, but sort of not really.

Image via emmas.blogg

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