Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Inside is a Hopeful Sanitarium

The world is a horrible, horrible place.

Three weeks on, post crack-style-withdrawal and I want to crawl back into the drugged up haze of my medicinal buffer. Everything and everyone is loud and jagged and shoutey, including me, and I am entirely alien, to and in my surroundings.

My home doesn't feel like mine, my clothes look like someone else's - 'my' stuff, rather 'the' stuff, (none of which seems familiar or part of me anymore; in fact, I am mystified as to how a lot of it got here) - I just want it all gone. All I want is a small table and a chair; and a ream of paper and a pencil. And maybe a small alarm clock. Sanitary - there's a word that springs to mind. Sanitarium is another.

I don't have (the space for) any of those items, so I crawl into bed, pull the duvet over my head and sleep. I am in hiding. In silent hiding, with fingers in my ears and hands gripping a pounding head. Whitewashed and blanketed walls with straightjackets, have never felt so safe or welcoming.

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