I spend a lot of time sitting. Waiting. In places like this to see people who I have to trust know more than me about how to deal with this messy business of living.
You see I’m not very good at it.
I hate having a body that needs feeding and sleep. That gets cold and tired and lets me down by getting weaker without food. That decides to embrace the pavement with only a moment’s dizziness as warning. And I have a mind that never stops. Every word I hear I see on a mental typewriter and I have to rearrange them into equal patterns. It was years before I realised not everyone did that.
There are loads of reasons I shouldn’t exist but I don’t know you well enough to share them. It’s enough to tell you that I struggle with carrying on. And so I wait to see the professionals. To be weighed. To talk meal plans. To have blood taken. To talk about drugs. To try to engage with the conversations about how and why I feel. To avoid answering the questions that are about personal safety and risk, the ones that come with carefully disguised consequences of having choice taken away. I don’t belong to myself. And I worry about who will love my cats when I’m not here. Thank you for listening.