"One need not be a chamber to be haunted, one need not to be a house. The brain has corridors surpassing material places." - Emily Dickinson
Blessed sleep… safe, behind a wall of dreams where her voice speaks to me in lullabies. Yes, that is where I go when the memories begin that incessant pounding at the door as if I would ever invite them in; as if I’d ever share coffee and crumb cakes with them. Nor will I chat lady-like with my hands folded in my lap, comparing notes with white-coats in order for them to dissect me and judge my sanity.
I’m never far enough from the stench of reality. It paces back and forth in the room waiting for me to show some sign of cognizance. I won’t give in.
There always seems to be someone in the room with me at all times. I can taste their sour rancid breathing every time they let go of a deep sigh from the boredom that seems to keep them company as they make notations on their little charts, attached to metal clipboards. I can almost make out the words as they are written down… like reading lips, only I’ve become very keen to the sound of the word ‘catatonic’ as it is scribbled upon the page.
Catatonic… a word that does no justice for the peace it provides when I am able to remain safely inside of my own psychosis. Oh yes, I have become an expert on the medical terms they use to mask their communication, as if I either cannot hear or would not understand.
I understand that if one more of those fucking nurses come near me with a brush in her hand, I will break her fucking nose!
Shhh, relax baby girl. I’m here. I haven’t left your side… sleep, sleep, shut it all out and sleep…