It’s the hallucinations that are the hardest to deal with.
Imagine your brain as a half eaten pot of strawberry yoghurt, you know the big silver spoon will soon reappear and hungrily begin scraping and scooping out the final remaining blobs of your sanity, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.
They eat you from the inside out.
That’s not to say that when I am in them, I don’t enjoy them.
I don’t know if I do or I don’t.
Ok, that is a blatant lie.
I love them when I am in them.
I am an empty pot of yoghurt.
Profound escapism from the mind, caused by the mind.
What woman wouldn’t enjoy that feeling?
Like they say, sometimes the fear of something awful happening, is much worse than when it actually does happen.
I have no idea where I have come from or where I have been, no recollection of my journey, no idea what I am wearing or how fat my thighs are, whether the dog has been fed or whether Addison’s clothes will be dry in the morning.
I am completely unaware of everything and anything.
I do not know, or seem to care who I am, and whether I am still in fact, behaving as I would allow myself to.
I am unable to remember my name and I have no graspable thought patterns, only feelings.
And yet, I remember them wholly, in their entirety.
I am unable to process rational explanations and nor do I feel the need to.
I am, simply put, a cloud of particles, clumped together, made from only what I see before me.
Amelie is one of my favourite hallucinations.
Dark skinny jeans on short skinny legs finished of with enormous lace tied black boots.
Her frame is delicate, fragile, but you would know instinctively she is anything but.
Huge elegant black eyes and under her pond green hooded sweatshirt, hidden away, is a completely hairless head.
I do not know why she is bald, but I envy her.
Funny, or perhaps not, that I can think of nothing and yet feel with the intensity of heat from a dancing flame.
We meet, just like I do with all of the others, at 3am, usually in my grubby and chilly kitchen.
My feet are always bare but I do not feel the cold.
She requests food in a voice that betrays the gentle look of her, like a ravenous street girl.
She always asks for food, seems to always be hungry, and yet she never eats.
I make her whatever she wants, I don’t have it in me to be paranoid about my lack of cooking skills, the fact I haven’t done a shop.
I don’t know any of these things.
She asks for sustenance and I set about to provide, just like I would do with any of my closest friends.
We talk at length, about nonsense.
Long drawn out conversations about roller coasters and theme parks, the sticky and yet melt in the mouth delight of candy floss and where Dulux paint colours get their names from.
We giggle in to the night.
I feel vivacious and effervescent, I enjoy the animation in me, the lightness she brings.
I could stay with her forever like that, her biting what is left of her scraggy nails and snuggling her wrists under enormous comforting sleeves.
Her jumper is too big for her.
I always mean to ask, but I know I will never be able to.
I adore the sound of her laughter, throaty and deep, as if she holds not a single part of her back.
Does not care for judgment.
We feel whole somehow, the two parts connecting.
Is she a fragment of me, perhaps caught in time?
A part, maybe I am desperate to connect with, and yet am unable to?
Or is she nothing to do with me at all, and is simply a smattering of electronic sparks misfiring in my brain while I should be asleep?
The latter is more likely, and this makes me sad.
Or, is somewhere else in the world, a young bald girl having midnight hallucinations about a fat thirty year old woman with two tone hair and long acrylic nails, wearing her husband pyjamas?
It always turns though.
It goes off, like I suppose most things do.
A children’s party that has run on too long, the kids all sugar high and fighting, the wedding guest that holds the brides hair back at 4am while she drunkenly vomits in to the toilet bowl, a once beautiful, but now manipulative trophy wife, who peaked too soon.
It all eventually turns to pain.
What is that song?
They burnt down paradise and put up a parking lot?
She pulls her eyelashes out one by one, the salted anguish dripping from her eyes, and although I hate it, I am unable to stop her.
I am transfixed.
It is always the same, we laugh until we can laugh no more, and then the harm starts.
The more time we spend in each others company though, the more reluctant she seems for it to end.
Almost as if she is never quite ready anymore, to turn off the light.
Maybe she needs me like I need her.
It is the nights I spend with Amelie that I am usually awoken by the smoke alarm, or a banshee like Irish one, prodding me and interrogating me as to why I am making sandwiches using unopened Gas bills, badly cut cheese and fairy liquid.
I am an empty yoghurt pot.
I thought I was making Bolognese.
I am often found, he tells me, his eyebrows all knotted together, sniggering in to the washing machine, twirling pasta around in an empty pan, ironing his pyjamas while still wearing them.
And when he pulls me out, I am bereft.
Then there follows the migraines, the sickness, the unimaginable struggle to raise my lips in to an upward half crescent, the disbelief that none of it ever happened.
That she doesn’t exist.
I remember all of our conversations for a short while, and how she made me feel, but then the memories disperse.
I know they happened, I know how I felt, just like I know how it feels when you give birth, I just can’t connect with the feeling anymore when someone asks me to explain it.
The memory is there of exactly how I felt, I just can’t remember it.
Does that make sense?
What would I ask her if i could?
This friend that doesn’t actually exist.
Who are you?
Where have you been?
Do you know my brother?
Who’s jumper are you wearing?
How do I know your name?
Can you stop asking me to cook as I am destroying our kitchen and could possibly end up poisoning myself in the process?
She is not real.
I know this.
Except sometimes, she really is.
I really fancy some yoghurt now…