Electric Shock Therapy.
Where do I even begin?
I am considering Electric Shock Therapy.
They haven’t suggested this again.
No, on the contrary.
They, seem to think I am handling this latest turn of events quite well.
But lets put Them to one side for now.
Them, with their voice free heads, silent nights and Mindfulness.
No, It is I, and I alone, who is now considering jamming a chunky finger in to a plug hole, just for kicks.
Electric Shock Therapy DIY.
They could write a show on it.
Britain’s Best Brain bake off’s.
Because really, how much worse could evening television get?
I want a seizure.
I want to see if it helps again.
‘If you want to sit in the corner and rock while we talk about this Lexy, you can you know.’
And besides, Ive always fancied a perm.
Sit in a corner and bloody rock?
Is there a socket big enough anywhere, for me to just have a bath, and climb in to?
A full body shock maybe.
I should market this idea.
I do not sit in corners and freaking ‘rock’. (Unless spongebob is on anyway…)
I ignore the voices I hear a million times a day, deflect the commands telling me to give up, blink away the visions of him everywhere, walk away from arguments about choices, smile through the suffering, laugh, joke about killing myself with a 250 voltage plug, live. I live.
I dust myself off and get up.
Not because I want to, but, because I have to.
I come across normal… Or at least I think i do.
I do not rock in corners.
Wait… Is that where I am going wrong?
Should I be rocking in a corner?
Will that help?
‘Are you ready?’
Is there a plug socket in that corner?
‘So let us begin.’
I watched every second on that damn clock drag by, I deflected bullet after bullet, protected wound after wound, swallowed a hundred thousand memories and an ocean of pain.
But I got through the first session.
‘Can you bring some photos in next time Lexy?’
No James I can’t.
‘I want to know more.’
I have told you. Fuck off.
‘You have told me you had a brother, how he died, how you felt.. but not about him. I know nothing about him. I want to know who he was. What he looked like, your memories of him alive. You stick to edges. I want filling. Who was this man to you?’
If I wet my hands before I ram three fingers in to the socket, do you think that would quicken the end result?
‘Do you feel like you have worked today?’ He looks up at me through long eyelashes.
I will not let you in.
I cannot remember who he was.
I only remember how.
I will not do this.
‘Can I have Electric Shock Therapy?’
‘Have you grieved do you think?’
If I straighten my hair before I do it, do you think I could avoid the inevitable frizz and instead be left with Wedding like hair?
I will not freaking do this.
Seven years in, seven long years in, and I think, I think, I just hit Denial.
I need a forced seizure to escape this.
Just one last one?
I better take the battery out of the smoke alarm.
*Therapy is not fun and Mental Illness is not a choice. Grief has no time constraints (Apparently) and we should not feel we should be ‘over it’, just because society got bored of listening. Do not be fooled by time. It may heal wounds but the scars remain the same.
*I am a Judge in the MAD blog awards this year. If I have curly hair on the night, you will know the DIY EST didn’t work out and I am still here fighting the long fight.. Feel free to ask me about my dead brother though and we can go rock in a corner somewhere, together.
Hashtag; Good times.