Friday, 21 July 2017

The Field of Poppies Of Oz

The Field Of Poppies Of Oz

Click Here For the Introduction And Contents Page

Click Here For the Previous Chapter

Click Here For the Following Chapter

The Field of Poppies

I want to sleep. Forever.
I want to lie down. Never wake again.
I want to take a blade to my skin, swallow the packets of pills by my bed.
I want to stand on a ledge, a cliff top, or look down at the river from Redheugh Bridge.
I want to jump. Fall. End.
I want to find a blessed, welcome relief from the fight.
I want to find freedom from the way my brain, my mind rebels against all that could be called happiness or contentment.
I want to scream as the old panic rises up again.
I want to give in to the darkness.

I want to let go, succumb to the poppy field and smile beatifically as the witch of mental illness laughs at her victory.

Today. Now.

I want to die.

I don't want to be told it will all be okay.
I don't want to be given a hand to rescue me. Not this time.

I want to die. Please. Oh God, please. Why not?

I want to step off that edge. Enough is enough. Surely it's enough. Haven't I struggled for long enough? I'm forty-six now. So many years of fighting, fighting. Each day. Often each hour.

Isn't it time for me to die? That's what I want.

Death, take me.

But death refuses.

I claim my heart again, my brain, my courage. I claim the possibilities of smiles. Of love. Of change.

I claim my future and proclaim that it will be better than my past.

I want to die. I choose life.

I want fresh rain. And I believe it will come.

This world has not finished with me. And I have not finished with this world.

There will be no suicide today, no fresh wound from the blade's invitation.

Somehow I will survive.

Somehow I will triumph.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Comments are welcome. But not spam and not obscenity. It's not all politeness though - religion and politics aren't banned.