I thought I had a gremlin, or some kind of malevolent spirit living inside me and I told the healer to get rid of it, get rid of this fluttering black thing inside me.
She said it wasn't a thing, it was a part of me and while I sobbed, she spoke:
"Where is she?" asked the healer.
"Perched on the window in her old bedroom," I replied.
"What is she doing?"
"She's crying, she wants to jump. In the distance, far far, far, she can see her parents, they'll be so disappointed..."
"What colours can you see?"
I looked around.
"I can't, it's all black. Black."
She spoke alot this healer. Very gently, coaxing. A I cried I bore my knuckles into my eye sockets, desperate to disappear.
"How does she feel?" asked the healer.
Wracking sobs, my torso shaking, then a word appears. A new word to me. A word I never knew. A real word. The truth.
More tears but different somehow. The healer gently asking why and taking my memory back two years; making sense of everything between until that realisation that I too had abandoned myself and suddenly all of that, everything that the 16 year old inside me was feeling, was acknowledged.
"Shall we see if she wants to come in now?" The healers voice drifts into my revelation. "Shall we comfort her? Shall we wrap her up and comfort her? What colour shall we wrap her in?"
Through the black comes "pink, like the t-shirt my friend gave me", then "No, blue, not pink,"
"She can have blue aswell,"
"Blue like Mary's veil..."
"Oh that's lovely.."
I giggle, excited, then embarrassed, say I'm being greedy, but the healer doesn't respond to that, just keeps talking about bringing her in from the cold, from the dark place, from the nightmare.
"Perhaps she didn't know that you had stepped back in," she says gently. "Maybe she didn't know you hadn't jumped."
The comfort of those words, a feeling so huge it stayed with me for days as I held myself at night.
The healer wants me to go again. It's really expensive. I'm not sure I want to, but I feel I owe it to myself.
(Taken from Notebook 20th November)
This post is for Marcus, a school friend I recently discovered killed himself two years ago. It goes to Jennyfer Spencer, the disabled woman I wrote about, who left her note with the local paper. To Helen and Mark, the couple I read about the day after I wrote a post about being internally paralysed. It goes to Gary Speed, the Welsh football manager who was found hanged.
It goes to all of those who cannot cope
Do Cuts Kill? asked Patrick Butler in the Guardian recently.
Yes, yes they do. And yes, yes they will.
Find hope and hang on to it.
I wish you all peace, in this lifetime as well as the next x