The Noisiest of Places
My head is noisy. It races at paces I can’t control, and when I find the courage to speak against the noisiness and I ask and I beg for it to slow down and I hope for peace, it hears me like a disobedient child and does exactly the opposite.
The noise increases.
My heart races, my body shakes, my vision blurs and words fall from my mouth and fingers, but they have no meaning and every word I deliver is almost right, but never actually right and it’s completely out of place and utter wrong. I’m lost again, and I am sure you are too.
I want to share with you the feelings I have, because the truth is they’re difficult and your instinct is probably to empathise and relate them to that time, you know that time that things were bad and you were stressed, and I hate to say it, I hate to dismiss you but it is nothing like that.
Because here you are.
And here I am.
And I am this mess, in this place where I have no power, no domain and no agency. I am locked away from reality in an effort to ensure I can be released and live successfully and happily in reality. Does that make sense to you?
No, me either.
And there are bars, and meal times and they don’t allow caffeine and people monitor me like they’re waiting for me to fall, they check my room for contraband, and you can tell me this is because you care and because this is the best for me but whichever way you paint it I am in prison. And what have I done to deserve this sentence? This world is big, and busy and loud and contradictory and sometimes so confusing that I have no idea how to work my way through each day.
And so my brain says no.
And then the chemicals do not work and here I am causing a fuss and making a mess, a mess of this thing you call a gift, And I can’t see this supposed gift. I see myself and trying, and pining for normality but the hurdles are so large and there is no peace. And then I stop, with the confusion and the loud head the racing pace and the pounding of my heart in my chest and I am running hot.
Then I stop, and I see blackness.
In all the bleakness of my illness I see a blackness and that blackness is not a future or an effort it’s a nothing and most importantly it is a silent nothing. I want to grab it. I want to run for it and see it. I want to feel that blackness fall across my weary body and for peace to wash over me.
And you tell me it’s wrong.
My only hope is wrong according to you and yet to me it’s a path and it’s peace and compared to all the options before me this one seems like it could be the best. Better than doctors and medication, pitiful looks and unwanted meaningless token sympathy. Better that this prison. Better than my noisy head and my racing heart, and my fingers that get so clumsy because my brain tell my body just to not cooperate.
And still the darkness gives me hope that I could feel peace.