The Everyday Voices 

  
People meander and mill along the streets of London. Every day, the same but different in some way. I live on a main road, my kitchen window watching out below me, the lives and faces that I see, the coaches coming and going taking some on holiday and bringing some hopefuls into the country, people pulling, fighting, shouting and falling about laughing. 

From the perch on my window I view the world I want to be a part of, the world I want to fit in with and be able to mill amongst the streets like I seems everyone else manages to fit in with. Placing my mug of tea on the side and crushing the butt of my cigarette I decide once more to rejoin the world and see how it goes. If this time will be different, if this time I will manage to cope, if this time I will come home not on the borderlands of a crisis. Keys off the side the sleeves of my jacket hug my arms in a warm protection from the harshness of  natures world in the jungle. Zip up, pockets packed: wallet, phone, meds before inhaling deeply and slowly, exhaling deeply and slowly, wallet, phone, did I pick up my meds? 

Each stair bears the weight beneath me as I unevenly head for the door. It kisses shut behind me, the noises from the street overwhelm me, infiltrating my ears as the cold air brushes the skin of my cheeks and sirens violate my ears. The corridor closes to and end and it’s one final step out of my comfort zone back into the real world, back into the world I want to fit in with and the swarm begins. 

Skulking along the edges I avoid others, meandering when I have to like something out of a video game. I need to keep a safe distance from others or I could hit a mine and strike, kaboom it’s all over. 

“Hit him”

“Pull her hair”

“Punch him”

It begins. The torture of being around others I could hurt, the torture of battling my sick mind and the battle to stay true to myself and not follow these incessant, “kick her legs” sort of orders incessantly nagging and whispering in my ears. 

I don’t want to do it. I really don’t. I’m not the kind of person to find pleasure in these acts so I have to stay stubborn to my true nature of kindness. I have to really look into my inner self and access my true nature to not want to hurt people and to keep my private quiet self and not cause another scene for passers by to watch in shock, horror or sometimes sickeningly amusement. The last thing I want is an incident with the police. 

Like the slithering snake in my ear whispering orders, and like an attention starved child the order grow louder and louder, too loud for me to tolerate until under my breath and eventually out loud I have to speak back, “STOP”. I try my best to remain strong. Fumbling in a panic I reach deep in my pocket for my clinical white box: Mon, Tue, Wed, Thu, Fri, Sat, Sun engraved on the top of each little compartment. It doesn’t matter right now what day it is, besides I barely even know as I rip open any day for my emergency PRN medication to ease the struggle and calm my panic in a world I so desperately want to be a part of but struggle with every day. 

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One thought on “The Everyday Voices 

  1. It doesn’t matter how many people write of their mental pain, I continue to feel the solidarity in our words. Yours were beautifully written and I could picture every vision right down to the snake whispering in your ear.

    Like

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