Senses upon a bed

[mabelcassie]

Pamela Hockley
2020/21

Senses upon a bed

In the state of what surely couldn't be her.

Bless, it was her.

Captured in her own thoughts and looming terror that ate it's way further into the core of deepening entrapment.

She couldn't know or understand. The frustration laid so heavy on her, to the open bone, as if been stripped of skin, as if the soul has been emptied, pins & needles, then to be numb.

The feeling escalates and grows like a soft whisper to a mighty boom, though she couldn't find the feeling of a subtle whisper she desperately craved, just confusion.

Has it come to the end game already, she asks herself, of course to noone, just her own wilting soulless soul, with no answer. Soulless is what her head was explaining to her, although little did she know the abundance of soul she carried, a good one at that.

Just no understanding, her normality vanished. What part of her fragile soul could she feel and share with others, as she would of, usually, and have the gratitude she would find succumbing to all the wonders of life itself.

Upon a bed, motionless, but the beat of her heart. Trapped in exhaustion of her pleading, search of Why? Where?

Someone, help.

The feeling escalates. Fear, growing like rapid waters, a lock filling and rising, fuller and higher. Then empties. Lights out.

Is she being killed slowly. Am I? Is my time up, her will agonisingly correcting her, somewhat.

The hospital bed, high with a cold metal frame, the off-white curtain, as if smoke stained, half open, for an invite for all and sundry to see her, in this ruffled state, like her hair do, as it stood. Her mind too.

A concrete mattress, a smell of chemicals, people. All she had was her senses upon a bed. These, cloudy.

A pert girl. She was slightly on the chubby side and with no doubt, bright.

Is this her downfall? To clever to deal with the highs and lows of what life is with it's pleasures and soaring woes. Coming together, churning around and around, like the production of cream, although not as such, not deluxe, cream is far nicer.

A smiley person on the whole, sometimes one would return it, others not. Why ever not? A smile goes a long way they say. A bit naive I guess, to think all would be willing to bare their pearly whites, just to please her.

Suddenly,
"Is that a handbag"?
The voice, was it real?
A male voice, near her bed. She heard it.
I should put some lipstick on, not for the male, but the handbag reminded her of the belongings she had. Beside the bed, she looked. Yes, it is my handbag.

The comfort flew through her. My handbag!

Familiarity beckoned and conquered for a brief period. Her mood lightened. She slept with the assurance, although only an ounce of it, that had made it's way, back through the blurry, dark internal tunnels.

It had gone. The handbag. Her lips felt dry, no appliance of lipstick and mostly dry through the concern, the only thing she had and understood at the time.
All gone. The entanglement returned, hitting harder. What now?

The sheer existence in such an alien, sometimes crazy, yes a pun, warranted mind you, frightened. Although trapped in the establishment, she could still realise she was trapped. Well, that was something she knew. That and the boy who had took the bag.

He too, a patient.

Never to be seen again, and the bag never returned.

Panic drew closer, startled with her safety. Is she at least safe?

The handbag crime had been committed. She thought it a crime. The boy red handidly took it. She was sure. She could live without the lipstick, no problem. The fear though, the impending situation, ever to improve?

The physical action of this crime had been carried out. The mental connection of another crime is in the far distance. That crime lay here. Confusion, the absence of knowing and understanding. Elevating up from room to room, sometimes damp with a wafting old smell, sometimes a slight whimper. The shadows of activity. Occasional, a shade lighter, firing diamond shaped bullets all around, showered. Imagine a spectacular firework display in the comfort of, or in this case discomfort of your own mind. Where is home?

She is a tall skyscraper with many many levels to reach. No elevator. Just climbing, threadbare and with heart wrenching delicacy. A pace of a snail. Slowly does it - she insists to herself.

This was the building she was in, just the building, in her head.

What has been lost by the discourage of a person who has succumbed to a mental state, interruption? Of this, she had plenty of.

Only her, to stand tall and robust in the requirement of survival.

Patience was running short. From an understanding of outstanding patience and to the patience put in to practise, abundantly.

Why am I here?

Before entry into the hospital, there were reasons for her breakdown.

All to coincide with one another to explode to the depth she was at. A loss of a parent. Of course, grief stricken. Loss & disappointment of a loving relationship. The love tilted to her side. Though, the reasons she understood. The loss of employment. All of this logged. The event of attempted drug rape, entoxicated by 2 men her friend and she invited to her apartment for a late drink. She wasn't. Morning came, remains of a substance in a tumbler glass evident. They took the neighbours bicycle, stolen. This was only remembered in the future, a free new future, her new future.

Did this help toward her decline. Probably.

Wrong pills prescribed in hospital until the right ones. Was she an experiment. No just a women trying to survive, in seemingly never ending turmoil.

Lucky for her, there were no inner sinister nightmares, apart from this one, hurting her. This blurry bubble.

The crazy world outside you'd think. Crazier on the inside. The only world she had.


Medication time. Not again..
The queue was longer. At the front she noticed the tattooed & pierced man that she had the unfortunate encounter in the ladies bathroom. He shouldn't have been in the ladies bathroom. Who was monitoring this. He tried to open the cubicle door, the one she was in, his foot slammed the door tight shut. She couldn't come out. Someone is blocking the way.
Eventually, the door loosened and released, then came his force again, pinning her against the wall. A much greater force than her."You're going nowhere".

He must have heard someone outside in the hall, as he let go & made his exit. To her relief.

48 days later,
96 doses later

A whole lot of hope later...

The final visit, her hero.

A father like no other. A fine specimen of a man.

Looking through a large red mass, she was sure it was her father. A startlingly beautiful bunch of red roses held in his hands.

He gave them to his daughter. The constant encouragement from the only person that could teach her, love her, like he did. He knew that too.

(The kindness for her, for strangers even, a homeless man, once, found wandering at the far end of the garden. Inviting this man in to his home for a neat whisky. Then he leaves, quite content, on his way. Thankful and warmed up).


Then..

The bolted & sometimes ajar doors finally open. A metaphor for her mind becoming clear. Coming back from continued darkness to the real world. The marbles were simultaneously rolling again, as it stood.

The actual hospital double door opens.

Awake & free.

With ignited determination and being elated with true understanding of what had been, she was back. Not required to be in that place anymore.

At the Office;
Follow-up meeting with the smart psychiatrist.

"I tend to leave it to the patient to decide whether to continue with the given medication".
He told her as she sat opposite him in the wooden chair. Of course, after some important questions.

A few days later. Enough, the pills, more harm than good. She knew, herself, Her mind, my mind. They are not necessary and by far, are not needed. She stopped, to this day.

-------------------

Can a powerful mind lead to our demise and be a hindrance, not in our favour, or, on the contrary?

Belonging, a sense of consistency, a place. Uncertainty isn't good for anyone.

If damaged, hatrid and glares from others endured, as if an outcast, someone far from their existence, no understanding of the outstanding way a mind can wonder in a way of only that mind knowing it's destination.

A way a breakdown is interpreted. Could be a positive thing, learning, along with the power of belief and grounded morals. The necessities.

You will get through it.

Life has reached out in cupped hands - what way will you decide.

Let your belief and survival and gratitude that you at least have had this kindly given to you, lead you.

An experience of one.

Out of the womb to become part of another kind of womb - the wrenched embryo of the journey from crazy to stable to a thriving life and be thankful that if turmoil should arise, move calmly & effectively forward at your pace alone. Coming back.

There are really no words for the difference. You learn through experience to your reality.

With maybe the odd u-turn, drive your life vehicle in a way that the difference is compelling and will leave a footprint of forgotten hope.

The end.

[Rabiul_tanmoy250]

Nicely written. Thanks man.

[John Owen]

Hew! This is too long!

[John Owen]

I can't be sure if it is a poem, but it is a nice write up

[John Owen]

Poems always capitalize on brevity and awesomeness.