The Field Of Poppies Of Oz
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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.
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.