In May they tend to refer to my description as having a flight of ideas, but evade the question I can tell they are dying to ask to begin with. No I didn’t jump. Are you suicidal, do you have suicidal ideation they ask now, as if it were logically connected to thinking straight off the roof of a second storey townhouse. Linking key tones to messages from a god who knows who else can hear me screaming out I can’t move. Because now the ideas have left me and all that remains is the block of flats with loose roof tiles, a few half remembered feathery thoughts and a lot of injured dreams about who I could have been before.
If I didn’t leave it up to my subconscious to plan an escape, perhaps I’d have engineered it much better. My flight of ideas might have taken me somewhere other than a secure ward. Somewhere with juggling angels and real sunshine as opposed to pain medication and dopamine regulators. Still, every life has a bright side somewhere. Even if it is behind me I must look towards the creation of a new life out of the wreckage of the old. I may have slipped rather than jumped, but the outcome- would it have been any better?
It’s officially the first day of autumn here, the end of my summer of 2016. At least even if my writing is not so good, there is an outlet somewhere. And I apologise for the intensely personal nature of this post.
Inspired by one word prompt.