I've been out of hospital since Tuesday, I was there for two and a half weeks due to intense suicidal urges. I don't feel like giving a full update right now but I thought I'd share something old. ...
The following was written during a life writing class I took as part of my (unfinished) Masters in Writing and Literature. I stumbled upon it tonight whilst going through my hard drive and thought I'd let it see the light of day.
Senselessness always leaves marks; we’ve all done stupid things that will not be forgotten, not because we can’t purge them from our minds, but rather because we can’t eliminate the evidence. It may be weeks between the forced recollections, maybe just hours it depends where I look whilst on the toilet. It’s not a problem in the shower or getting dressed, I don’t study my body at those times, just get the task at hand over with. But I can’t help but gaze around me, and occasionally at me, while I urinate and defecate. I’m sitting there in a tiny white room with a frosted glass window, a wooden cat shaped toilet roll holder and an out-dated Astor poster to entertain me. Then I glance down at my right thigh and remember that I used to cut it, not a big deal since it’s only been 8 weeks since I last sliced my arm open, but I haven’t cut my leg for months and I forget that I ever did. I feel that my bloodlust is confined to my left arm, but it’s not. The occasional thigh glances remind me of the gash on my torso, the one that I really should have had stitched but let steri-strips suffice. They remind me of the Bolte Bridge incident, the many over-doses, though they are very blotchy memories, also the building incident, the knives, the banning from hospitals. A cascade of memories from a few lines that are usually covered. The fire on that thigh is out, but the smoke remains.
No comments:
Post a Comment