You can’t catch your breath, you can’t see, you can’t…anything.
Your hands shake, your world tilts, everything is through a film of a grey tinged blue.
You have that metallic taste on your tongue…
The world never reverts back after. It’s as if the pain has left an indelible mark. You’re more cautious, slower, quieter….you’ve become the prey.
The hairs on your neck stand to attention even hours later, the thing layer of sweat never quite evaporated.
I’ve become prey again.
I don’t know if I’ll become the predator again.
The demons in my dreams are back.
Because the demons in the day aren’t enough apparently.
I woke this morning, and all I could feel was that pain. The pain that had me weeping and wailing by a car in my dreams. Crouched, curled in on myself. I can remember that pain now, over 12 hours later. As if it had actually happened.
Because it did.
People write dreams off, as they should. They don’t predict or tell anything.
But this is exhausting.
This is panic inducing.
Night after night. After fucking night.
I’m in a battle 24 hours a day. My brain hurts. It aches. It’s so loud.
It’s a cross between constant static shock, a pneumatic drill and then….total silence. Total and utter silence.
I don’t know what is more jarring. The realisation that everything around me is silent and white or the relentless pain.
I am fucking Wonder Woman. I am Super Man. I am God. I am a mouse. I am a bug. I am inconsequential. I am everything. Hear me roar. Hear me laugh. See me smile. See my strength.
Because that’s what this must be. This must be strength. This is a fucking testament to battles won, lost and learnt from. This is just my weakening. Not my breaking.
Because soon, oh so fucking soon, I will beat it. AGAIN.
This is just my demons testing me. This is them poking the bear and hoping the bear doesn’t eat them.
I’m not having a relapse. I’m just stressed.
All full time.
So don’t fucking moan to me that you’re tired. That you haven’t got the time to check something I asked you about. Don’t moan to me that you’re “stressed” because you had to sort an insurance policy out, or because your car needs new tyres, or because you’ve been invited to a social engagement but you’re so fucking tired from your 37.5 hour week.
Tiredness isn’t a competition. Nor is stress.
But when you can’t even be bothered to listen to me, to listen to me for 5 fucking minutes, to ask how I am ; beyond that fucking compulsory “you ok?” In case you might hear that actually, no. NO IM FUCKING NOT.
But that’s you isn’t it, selfish to your fucking core.
You were selfish when I took my overdose
You were selfish when you lied and made me cover
You were selfish every opportunity you had to not be selfish.
I am the antithesis of you. And fuck me, that’s come at one hell of a cost.
Remember that pain? It’s raw. It’s bloody. It’s not new. It’s the result of years of pain mounting up.
But this, this is my beginning. I’ve acknowledged that now. Even if only to myself. One day you will hear, and you will listen.
You will acknowledge.
But for now, it’s me and my demons.
It’s me and my pain.
It’s me and the nights of not daring to sleep when I’m desperate too.
It’s me and the nights yet to come; unable to sleep because I’ve trained myself out of sleep.
It’s me and the racing thoughts.
It’s me and the waltzers.
It’s me and that goddamn articulated truck.
Lucky me, hey.