Walking Through Concrete (repost)

This is a repost: I had deleted it when I changed the blog. It’s not where I am at this moment, not at all. But I think maybe it’s okay to put it back. Originally posted 09 February 2015, after a shitter of a January. That I’d managed to write it and dared to (quietly) make it public was a sign that it was going to get better, that it was over the hump. But I think it’s useful to remember that these things come around, and it’s the same thing, it’s not the end of things, that these things have been before.

NightmareFuseli

The bad days are the ones when every step is like pushing through concrete. The bad days are the ones where all there is in my chest is a gaping hole. The bad days are the ones I know are coming because I lose my words. The bad days are the ones where I buy ankle length white leopard print coats. The bad days are the ones where I can’t stop talking. The bad days are the ones where I can’t go to sleep because then I have to wake up to another bad day. The bad days are the ones where I can’t get out of bed because. The bad days are the ones where I can’t. The bad days are the ones where I shove you back as hard as I can because I can’t bear another endless conversation about you, you selfish cow, and can’t you hear the screaming that is going on inside my skull? The bad days are the one where you aren’t allowed to touch me. The bad days are the ones followed by the bad nights where I might as well keep drinking and hopefully I’ll bash my fucking head in on the way home. The bad days are the bad nights where I am so bright and so loud and so brash I hurt to look at. The bad days are the ones where my response to everything will be ‘I don’t care. I don’t care what they do, or he does, or she does, or we do. They can do what they want. I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care.’ (If I’ve ever said ‘I don’t care’ to you in conversation, I’m having a bad day). The bad days are the ones where it all goes hollow. The bad days are the ones where I can’t even meet your eyes because you might just see that they’re only mirrors reflecting the light and masking the fact that it is just empty inside the skull. The bad days are the ones where the screaming stops and becomes whistling through space. The bad days are the one followed by the nights where I can’t stop crying silently and I can feel your concern through my back and I can’t even speak to you because I have nothing to say. The bad days are the ones where I’m afraid you will realise I have nothing to say. The bad days are the ones where I am so afraid of everything I can’t cross the street without waiting for the traffic lights. The bad days are the one where I expect to fall off a kerb and break. The bad days are the ones where I can feel my teeth shattering to stumps again. The bad days are the ones where the rat has gnawed through to my ribcage, and the hag is riding my back and raking my scalp, and I can feel that dark hound pacing behind, and I am so scared to turn around. The bad days are the ones where the concrete has reached my knees and I just want to lie down on the pavement. The bad days are the days I can’t. The bad days are.

Hound

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