Hold On To The Crazy. The Crazy Spurs You On.

I know it is in there.

I can run at force, and lunge my shoulder in to the door. I can rattle the decaying and stained gold handle and scream, pound and shout through my tears. Let me in, goddamn it let me in.

I can sink to my threadbare knees in front of the bastard armor of thick brown wood, which blocks me from entering and claw at my face with my nails and shout please please, make it stop, just please make it stop.

I can lie down beside it, heaving sobs at midnight, beaten. The cold of the night, the slap of the concrete floor, laying claim to my wet face.

I can get up before the sun rises and plaster on my heavy smile.

A smile plastered on to a face, which is becoming more manufactured with every passing day.

I even have fake eyelashes now you know.

My own eye lashes, you see, weren’t long enough or battery enough to protect me from my own self depreciating thoughts or the preying eyes of vultures trying to catch a glimpse at the crazy woman with the cuts on her arms inside of me.

I just changed Crazy girl, to crazy woman.

Because I am no longer a girl am I.

It is a fact.

I should grow up, I should shut up, I should get a grip, I should… get Botox.

Or fillers!!!

Anyway,

I know it is fucking in there.

I just can’t get to it.

I can visualize it oh so clearly in my minds eye, I feel that if I could only grab a coat hanger, I could shove it under the door and coach it out with a gentle puff and huff, like one does a mini dinosaur.

Or car.

Or chip.

I know what it looks like.

I can almost certainly remember what it feels like, and I can all too easily reminisce about the way it would positively mold itself around me, like a python, ensuring every bone in my body would fill with a fulfilling tingle, a glow, an honest to god fantastic inner smile.

A taste of hope.

If I could just get to it, if I could just find a way.

The problem with medication, one of the problems with medication, should I say, other than the obvious ‘unusual’ side effects;

Included but not limited to,

• Excessive sweating;

Which of course causes me to smell like an old tea bag minutes after I arrive, bounding and false, in to the office gates, only to find the air conditioning ‘has gone down’ and I, of course, am wearing the skin cut from a thousand sheep, (who are all now stood shivering, cursing my name, on the moors.)

• Occasional bouts of Nausea;

Just as I walk in to a full nursery room, stinking of small children, wearing sagging and sloshy nappies and locate my child biting a beetle in half, (YES A BEETLE!) causing me to unceremoniously dump the contents of my stomach in to my new handbag on the way home, while Addy insect chomper wiggly tongue in the back, sings the theme tune to Ghostbusters. AGAIN.

• Increased sex drive;

Before I go in to how truly magnificent The Irish One is finding this particular side effect, let me move swiftly to the next one.

• A loss of orgasm;

Forget ‘it’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife’ for Irony. Alanis Morisette, take note.

My orgasm, however, is not what I have been searching furiously for. (When would I find the time, in between all the stomping around pretending to be happy? And besides that, Doodle is always staring at me, it is very off putting.)

No, what I have been searching for, is me.

My inspiration, my laughter, my hope, my happy vision for the future , the dreams I used to nurture.

My very sense of bloody me.

I know that behind that door.

That gate.

That grotty window that I have my nose pressed up against, struggling to see through the grime, lays a dusty and dampened room filled with boxes upon boxes of regrets. Crates filled with drunken memories I hurriedly discarded and sometimes even hid behind the screw pile labeled – CRINGE.

I know I will also have to bat away the numbers flying around the room, the numbers that of course never add up.

My virginity too, will be hidden somewhere in there. Ashamed and cross with me for throwing it away on the wrong man. A man with a crappy name and not my first love, the first love who I wanted to give it to but couldn’t.

I will also find my orgasm, smirking at me.

I will also no doubt find all the things I used to enjoy. Reading magazines, singing, dancing, cooking, drinking with friends, getting dressed up and going out, chatting, hugging, a good book, a film.

When did I even lose these things?

And of course, packed in there somewhere neatly, will be my ability to write without using brackets. (God damn brackets.)

Me.

Me.

I am in there somewhere.

Regrets, warts, awful memories, but also hope, and kindness, and hope, hope, hope.

I think I could fly through those boxes now, if I was just given the chance.

I am not proud of who I was, but I can be proud of who I can become… right?

Give me back my heart. Give back my mind. Give me back my fun.

I want to take back my life. I want to take back my heart, I know I can hold it together.

And that’s what matters.

If only I could get through the doors and… feel.

With medication I am alive.

But.

Numb.

Without medication,

I want to die.

But if I could just get in that room…

Then surely…

I could stay on the medication AND swallow myself whole again.

Give me back my heart. Give me back my life. I know I can hold it together.

I don’t know.

There just has to be a way in.

Doesn’t there?

Isn’t that where the light switch to the end of this tunnel is kept?

It just all feels so pointless.

I’m back on my knees.

Will somebody please bring me a Krispy Kreme?

This concrete floor is awfully cold.

What time should I expect you?

From what I hear, we don’t have to do this alone.