She’s feeling blue. There are so many words, with the same
meaning, that she could choose. Depressed, low, gloomy, down, sad,
disheartened. But blue is right. Not a summer day sky blue. A murky, polluted
water blue. A blue teetering on grey. A cold blue. Frozen. And she shivers with
her misery. She pulls the blanket of numbness over her knees to soothe her
aching, weary bones. A covering of detachment and remoteness. How different
from last week.
Last week was anxiety. Heart palpitations and sweaty palms. It
was insomnia and a tight band around her chest. The nerves grew quickly and it
had felt as though someone was blowing up a balloon inside of her. Taut,
expanding fear. Growing, growing, pop.
The pop had been like shaking a bottle of fizzy drink and
then unscrewing the lid. The madness came then, as it always did. Effervescent
bubbles of shrieks and mighty sobs. Of angry recriminations and suicidal
flirtations. Of feeling as though the whole world was laughing at her, sneering
behind her back. And the paranoia marched on as words whispered inside her mind
and told her to cut herself with scissors.
But the regret inevitably arrived and there was a hysterical
phone call to the emergency services. Flashing lights and losing consciousness.
Nurses with pursed lips and sorry bandages. Talk of getting her the best help.
Doctors questioning her right mind; but ultimately letting her go home alone
anyway.
Home. Walls. Private suffocation. Denial and disinterest
cosied up to her on the sofa and she relished the company for a little while.
And it all washed over her head. She didn’t feel it as a pain now. It floated.
It exhausted. Though she knew full well that she would soon have an appointment
to meet with anxiety and turmoil again. Because that’s how it worked. That’s
what happened when she was feeling blue.
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