It's time

A glimmer of the morning sun caressed my cheek and a calm breeze flew into my room to let me know that it was time. Here we go again, I thought to myself.

I could have cried floods the night before, and the night before that, and I knew that every time I opened my eyes in the morning, it would feel like I was ripping the skin off of them. It hurt, but not quite as much as it would have if I hadn’t cried at all. Sometimes I would just lay there by myself with my eyes closed just staring at the crimson-tinged colour separating me from the world.

Other times I would build up enough strength to carry myself onto my elbows and stare at my empty bedroom. I wish that it looked like a dump and that there wasn’t enough empty space on the floor for me to step on without risking a fall. Because that would mean that I cared enough to try on clothes and leave them out to try on the next outfit, to somehow feel good about what I was wearing. I cannot even remember the last time I looked at what was left of me in the mirror.

Some days were harder than others and some activities took too much effort to even bear consideration. So I would sit and think for hours. I could not recognize my own mind then, for my thoughts weren’t my own. It’s like speaking words that somebody else put into your mouth without your consent or even, awareness. The thoughts would circle round in a hurricane, demolishing everything it managed to swallow and breaking down your world. When it finishes, there is calm and you’re left there watching the blank canvas where everything had blown up. And it would make you think that it’s your fault. The skies were always ashen grey, and the clouds always seemed strained as if the slightest breath would shatter the peace, and the storm would begin again.

I would sit and shake by myself because I’d lost all control over anything that mattered before. There were times when I couldn’t even tell the time of day anymore. There were times when the memories would come raging, flooding back, breaking out in a war between my imagination and what was real and I could never tell the difference anymore. And by the time you realize that you’re safe, you can’t tell whether it’s the small girl in your head screaming, or whether it’s you. So I’d sit, alone, as still as the broken clock on the wall. The feeling is quite surreal, as if looking through a thin layer of glass, just thick enough for you to be away from what’s happening, as though you’re merely a witness of your own tragic existence.

But not today.

The birds were singing a most joyous tune. They might have sung it every other day I had been alive, but that was the first time I had ever dared to hear, dared to listen. My feet touched the floor and I remembered what it was like to stand up again, to be able to hold my head up. I walked out onto the terrace and looked up at the gorgeous globe of flame emanating its power onto our world. There wasn’t a single hint of fluffy cloud, nothing but long, smooth stretches of blue, like the soft azure surface of the Southern sea. My hands rested on the harsh wooden rail and my fingers remembered what it was like to be alive again, to be able to feel anything other than a blanket.

I could breathe. The crisp air almost burned my throat and it exhilarated me. There was a breeze making my white curtains dance against the doors and gently sweep the wooden floor. I looked to the park where small, sharp blades of emerald were sprouting out of the earth. It was no longer suffocated by a thick blanket of icy white frost and colour could start to grow again. The naked tree branches could start to grow leaves again, and sweet, orange, succulent fruit that we could harvest in a few months.

There were large flocks of lovely bluebirds, flying across the sky as though they were jumping from one soft cloud to the other, effortlessly, trying to make everyone listen to their song of hope and new beginnings.

I walked to my bathroom and splashed crystal clear water onto my face as I looked at myself in the mirror. There was something different, a sparkle in my eyes or the long lost smile that I hadn’t been able to maintain for months, but it was now there and there to stay for as long as it would allow me. I threw my clothes onto the floor to try and deliberate what I could wear that day, to go outside and meet the world again. My long yellow dress, patterned with darling blue forget-me-nots sat just right with the weather. I went into my kitchen and I made myself a coffee because I now had the strength to. I could drink it on the terrace while looking down at everything that was happening or I could drink it in my kitchen while watching some TV. I gulped it down because I couldn’t hold back my excitement at being able to go outside again.

My heart seemed to want to fly out of my chest and sing, scream all that it wanted to. I could reclaim myself now, every little inch that had become fragmented and disintegrated into dust and tears. I could hold my head up high just because I was walking outside again, because my feet had touched the cold floor again. I could look out because my world was no longer dark, there was a blazing aura of excitement to look forward to. I lifted my hand and placed it on the doorknob as I undid the locks. Nobody would be waiting for me, but it didn’t matter because I had been waiting for me for a very long time to be able to return to the woman I was before. And now I could because I was back again and nothing could snatch my long-awaited smile from where it rests.