I stood in the water, motionless, facing the cold whiteish – could- be- washed- more tiles, my forehead resting on them, my hands flat pressed up on the wall beside my face. I didn’t intend to wet my hair, but it was too late, i was a drowned rat in my one place i can rest, recover or cry. Yesterday I chose cry, softly at first, then sobs, big heaving loud sobs, a drowning crying soggy rat. I wanted to hurt, i wanted to be dead…again with the dead? I would never, but i thought about the relief i might get from just a quick slash of the razor i had on the shower rack and imagining the pain i would be released from. What it might be like to instead feel physical pain for a while instead being haunted by emotional pain, it wouldn’t take much. I scared myself then and cried even harder.
I stood, and watched the water fall down the wall and tried to imagine it all being washed away, but instead of washing some imaginary black dirt i feel is covering my body in patches, it landed in warm drops near my head and as it fell down the tiles it all joined together and eventually into the drain and out to …probably the ocean, my dirty grit was now headed back into the ocean, off to poison the earth and everything it touches. I like the smell of showers and baths, the chlorine smell i know i shouldn’t want to wash in, tainted in chemicals and the pipes it comes from dirty grit. Perhaps the chlorine will strip the grit away.
Instead of cutting my wrists with my imagination; i sulked into see my Batman who was at work in the garage/studio he saw my face and i just sat on his lap like i did all too often, and cried on him, gave him a soggy cape and babbled ridiculous ramblings of death and endings. He said “You don’t really want to die, but being dead is the ultimate “end” to everything. Even though you’d never want to leave your kids motherless, death is at times appealing because it would mean that you wouldn’t have to worry about any of this stuff any more.”
He was right, he is always right. Well, not ALWAYS…
I took myself for a walk and sat down the old man made creek that is so oddly pretty and green and quiet in the middle of suburbia with Old man/lady fart dog. The creek was empty somewhat like my insides, it was lined with metal caging in the old manky stones that hold the shape of the creek, it would be so much prettier if it were filled with running water, flushing away all the old reeds and debris from the last storm months ago. The trees are large and hang over the creek, making the area cold and a little bit sombre, but inviting because of the glimpse of sun through the canopies. The old man lady dog forages around and eats random disgusting things, possibly body parts. I walk home along the potentially dangerous to the elderly paved path and humans in cars pass me, on their way to their own lives and their own dramas. Life just goes on without you. Even once you die. I probably should leave some good thing behind. Not just some floral old lady panties.
I return home to screaming but beautiful crying children, make a loaf of bread and everything is fine.
And then i know in just a little bit longer i’ll be fine.