Days passed in a grey fog. I was becalmed. Without energy, without hope, with no sight of land. I could remember feeling better but I somehow couldn`t believe in it. There was nothing but this.
Sometimes I managed to get out of bed. Sometimes I didn`t.
Sometimes I slept. Sometimes I didn`t.
Sometimes I thought about killing myself. The idea of it circled my head, shining and lovely like a tinsel halo. How beautiful it would be if everything could just stop. If I could stop. If I didn`t have to feel like this. Yes, I thought about it and thought about it, but I was too exhausted, too depressed, to do anything about it. That should have been funny, right?
Sometimes I took out my phone and looked at grainy, flash-flooded photographs of a glittering man standing against a wheelie bin.
One day, in a fit of energetic self-loathing I didn`t want to waste, I deleted them.
Sometimes the doorbell rang. I ignored it.
Sometimes my phone rang. I ignored it, too.
Sometimes it kept on ringing but the noise came from another country, a different life.
And then I got better.
I woke up one drizzly afternoon and, although I still felt like shit, it suddenly seemed possible to function. I got up, heated some Heinz tomato soup and, giddy with triumph, ate it.
There had been a subtle realignment of the spheres. The world was somehow a place I could endure again. If life was a grey corridor lined with doors, it was now within my power to open some of them.
Having experienced such unqualified success with the "eating some soup" door, I opened the "having a shower" door, followd by the "reading the newspaper" door. Not wanting to push my luck, I then went back to bed.
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RamingoWS16 июля 2018
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