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I cannot lift my hands. I cannot move my body, I can barely keep my
breath coming in, going out, coming in.


My feet are heavy, my shoulders crave to meet them, my heart
feels crushed between them. I can only lift my eyelids, to see that I
am alone. I can only feel the weight of the dark on my back, pressing
me into the bare wooden chair, which does not fit, the spars
challenging my spine, my spine giving in. The seat edge digs into my
backside, my legs feel even heavier. I cannot hear anything but the
dark, filling my ears like bath water. I feel my heartbeat, pain behind
my ribs, labouring to keep going. I wait.


The air in the room is heavy, but empty, devoid of energy,
even the dust is settled. It is dark in here. There is a bulb, naked
and low-watt, above my head, though I cannot lift my head to see it.
The pool it casts illuminates only my knees, which is all I can see.
Beyond is nothing. My eyes do not adjust, they feel sore and tired from
looking.


I hear a sound, and my body tenses. I cannot tell where it
has come from, or what it is. I know there will be fear, and it comes,
like a cold wave, swallowing me up, my heart pounding in my throat, a
rushing in my ears. How loud a silence is!


I want to cry, but the tears do not come. I want to laugh,
but I cannot remember how. I would shout for help, but my voice has run
away.


My body, ice-numb, leaden, begins to shrink, shying away, but
my head feels swollen, the vein in my temple throbs a little more. My
body slips away, blending into the ground, but I do not feel grounded,
for there is no ground, just my head in the nothing-room, swelling as
my mind, frantic, seeks to escape me.


My skull is fit to burst, then, as if it had been expecting
it, dissolves away, leaving only the whisper of my mind to fill the
room, circle the meagre light like a desperate moth.


I wait for the voices, I know they will come next. Quiet, at
first, then more insistent, until I feel I will explode, the very atoms
of me will dissipate, I will be no more, feel no more, think no more. I
want it to happen, I really do.


Then my soul rebels, and I make the pain come, to send them
shrieking away. My body wearily climbs back up to contain my thoughts,
unwilling.


The cut on my arm wasn't deep, and I had done it at the top,
where my t-shirt would cover it. I decided not to tell my doctor. This
was between me and myself.