BY CHRIS SHARP
The face peered at me out of nowhere.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
But, of course, I wasn’t okay.
It had only been a few days but it felt like I had been here my entire life. Perhaps I had been. Perhaps everything before now was simply a mirage of a memory ─ a story I had created to make some sense of where I find myself. Or perhaps I was lost in a haze of paranoid delirium. Either way, the face felt oppressive; a judgemental figure who only wanted the best for me…as if that’s something I am expected to provide.
My skin felt restrictive and claustrophobic. I wanted to undress my bones and escape to a different reality, one not weighed down by bodies or lies. Somewhere where the light was a refreshing balm and not a harsh beam shining into the depths of my unrelenting despair. A reality where smiling faces were a source of happiness and not unease.
Had I ever felt that way?
‘Surely you must have when you were a kid?’ a voice replies. Is it my voice or someone else’s?
A vanilla-hued home video plays; happy children playing in a garden. But it’s not me I see, just some version of me. Some self that existed in another place, another time. Perhaps it never actually existed at all.
Another wave of nausea hit me; my throat closed and my voice became mute. Words ricocheted off the inside of my skull at the speed of light, unable to escape. Loneliness crept up my spine; my mouth curved down to meet it.
‘Well, if you won’t talk to me, I don’t know how I can help,’ the well-meaning voice came again.
Help me? Am I supposed to know how I can be helped? My chest felt heavy; my shoulders weighed down by some invisible boulder.
‘I’m dying,’ I croaked.
‘You’re not dying ─ don’t be so dramatic,’ came the well-meaning voice once again.
I collapsed back into myself. All semblance of solid ground fell away like loose gravel and I found myself tumbling further downwards, inwards. Darkness enveloped me and the air felt thick and heavy, like a cloud of dust obscuring the light.
Sleep. I dream of sleep. I crave a slumber the likes of which I have never known. Perhaps no one ever has. Peace. I wished I could stop fighting, stop trying, stop flinging myself into the future with no real sense of hope. Pain. All I felt was a mosaic of every type of pain, a painting of despair, a menagerie of loneliness. And anger. A sweeping fire intent on consuming everything, indifferent to good and evil.
Perhaps death was the answer.
‘No, you can’t think like that’
Another denial. Another path I was forbidden from taking. Pain, anger and death ─ the holy trinity of the morbidly depressed. Anger and death rattled their cages while pain read them stories. Stories of the future, stories that excited them both, but stories that, ultimately, they would never be allowed to play a part.
‘Fuck this,’ I said, gritting my teeth into a grimace. A single tear ran down my cheek, the salty taste bringing determination to my jaw.
Breathe. Just breathe. It hurt my lungs. Jesus, had I ever breathed before?! I suddenly felt unsure, like I had been submerged my entire life and was only now surfacing for the first time. Is this what fresh air feels like?
It wasn’t fresh, of course. It smelt of antiseptic, fear and bodily fluids. Yet somehow was the freshest air I had ever experienced.
The weight shifted on my shoulders, the boulder slipping, breaking, crumbling away. The heavy burden turning to dust.
Keep breathing.
There are memories now. Pain and sadness, yes. But also compassion and light.
Laughter. In the face of the pain, we collectively shouted a big FUCK YOU! Torture us all you want, we’ll still be here laughing in the face of it all.
Tears of compassion combined with tears of pain. All the hurt was somehow ours, we made it a part of ourselves. Like the rocky cliff face, etched with the salty tears of the sea.
And so, it dropped the shackles that once constrained our hearts and we became free. For that moment, we were free.
The End
