I am not embarrassed for people to know about the illness. I have bi-polar. It is often far from pretty. It is a difficult thing for me to live with at times. At other times it is nothing, just the background noise of daily life. We all have our problems. Mine could be treatable. These are choices to make.
So I begin to emerge, tentatively. I do not want false hope. I distrust the idea of a dawn, free of nightmare. But here I am and I look back over the apocalyptic landscape of the last few days and I look for wounded. There is an odd silence in the aftermath. It is the voice in my head turned down, not completely silenced, but reduced to a vague crackle like a radio playing in another room. The soft toxic dust is settling and I wonder about your lungs, you who have stood too close and breathed my poison. I think about metastasis and long term damage. I remember that story by Tove Jansson. Moominland. The Groke, exiled to the ice. Everything he touched froze solid. And it comes back to me, this figure that most closely resembles myself.
I am not so brave. The lonely Groke wanders in self-imposed exile. I hold onto you like a buoy and if I drown there is a risk that you might come with me. It is unfair. It is selfish of me.
Still the clamour of voices raise themselves to an ugly shriek. They misinterpret the world and I am confused by the ferocity of lies. I listen and the world becomes an unrecognisable confusion of self-doubt. I reach for a hand and I cling to it. There is a desperation to the gesture. I am aware of it and this awareness joins in with the cacophony.
This sudden silence. A world returned to it's waking and sleeping. I stand in it and survey the damage. There will be damage. I am incendiary.
Then your voice. The voice in my head. My imaginary friend. Who has not been imaginary for quite a while now. And you say 'Hi'.
This blog post is not about sex.
This blog post is about love.
You say 'hi' and it is like a wound beginning to scab over. It is like a fur of grass growing in a dug out vacant lot. It is the 'post' to the word 'apocalypse'. One word, a voice in my head but a good one. A solid one. I turn the radio of self-doubt down to a mere whimper. There is another voice here. Yours. A good person, my poor shell-shocked friend. I am glad of you, and I am sorry for the damage.