Cleaning My Dirty Mind. Saving My Innocent Flesh.

Cleaning: Hey, even writers and creative artists have to do housework sometimes. Write about doing laundry, dishes, and other cleaning activities.

Written late at night, Sunday 15th January.
While desperately trying not to hurt myself.
I do not know what words will follow.



I would clean my mind.
Tonight it lies destitute
Crying in the dark.

I would wound my flesh;
New scars to bandage the
Frailer skin inside.

I would carry my burden.
Misplaced synapses.
Misfire unpredictably.

I would stand and fight.
Refuse the crooked blade,
Lay down all weapons.

I would sleep.  Triumph
In this bitter black landscape
Where I nearly bled.

I would clean my mind.
Washed in hope's healthy lustre.
Rinsed in sweeter dreams.

Written morning of January 16th:

Yesterday was difficult.  You probably noticed that from the above words.  Perhaps such difficult days will crop of for the rest of my life.  I am fortunate though.  Days and moments such as bad as those are now the exception. They were once the rule.

I spent yesterday unable to write.  I'd been wanting to write about external cleaning.  A toss up between the joys of washing up and the joys of cleaning my teeth.  I have three small washing up related scars on one finger and no scars from toothbrushes although after an experience a few days ago I can recommend not getting toothpaste in your eye.  Don't ask.

Last night I couldn't even count to seven.  The lines above were meant to be haiku.  I knew one of them was wrong - the one with 7-5-7 syllables.  This morning I find others are wrong too.  But when the options are self harm or deformed haiku then my recommendation is to wound poetry rather than yourself.

The two photos may not seem relevant.  I didn't have a self harm or mind wash photo so these stand as alternatives.  The first was taken when walking to an appointment with a psychiatrist.  The second was taken from the consultation room window.  Two psychiatrists were at that moment in another room discussing my case and what could be done for me.  They spent half an hour in discussion.

Result:  They could give me the drug I'd been saying would help me.  But they couldn't do anything else for me because I have issues related to autism.  They would refer me back to the autism diagnostic team for treatment.  I tried to tell them that the autism diagnostic team just diagnoses and can't treat but they wouldn't listen to me.  After all, aren't I the ignorant patient?  How dare I try to tell the professionals they're wrong.  Of course, I was right.

I've wandered through the NHS for a year in search of some help.  Apart from drugs there isn't any available.  Unless I want another course about CBT.  They all say, "There's an autism link.  We can't help you.  Nobody is trained.  It's a gap in services.  Sorry.  Goodbye."  They do some cleaning too, washing their hands of me.

If I hadn't received a diagnosis of ASD I would have received practical help in the last year.

Be warned of this:  Being autistic can cut you off from mental health provision in the UK.

As for today, it will be better than yesterday.  I am determined.  I will treat myself well and between ticking off items from an impossibly long job list I will, perhaps, drink tea in a favourite place.