The Field of Poppies Of Oz

The Field Of Poppies Of Oz

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The Saint Of Oz

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The Emerald City Of Oz

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.