DIY Therapy

– Tamara Jones

Now this is so weird, I can feel everything going down, it’s a real physical sensation.  Like everything in my body is being pulled down, down, down and I’m just sitting here watching it, as if it has nothing to do with me – like my head is still sitting up here not quite catching up with the rest of me.

My head doesn’t want to know, I’ve had enough. Enough of the reasons, enough of the rationalizations, enough even of hope.  Ideas, hopes, plans, thoughts, knowing – give it a rest. This is all there is, always has been, maybe always will be.

The sinking sensation has stopped.  Words always do that, they always get in the way. Somewhere down there is me, and up here I’m floating around like I’m not connected anymore, like it’s all unreal, not me, not mine.  I’m lost somewhere and I can’t find myself anymore – not in me, not in other people’s eyes, not in my things – where have I gone? Has someone stolen me? Ha ha who would want to do that? Stupid thing to say.

No, actually that’s not so stupid after all. Somebody did steal me, a long time ago, they stole the real me and left this me in its place. This shell, this shadow, this void. And I don’t know where they put the real me. Did they hide me somewhere and if I keep looking long enough and hard enough I’ll find me again? Did they just throw me out with the garbage, a piece of rubbish that got swept up in the spring clean that nobody noticed? Did they get tired of playing with the toy and when it couldn’t sing and dance anymore did they get mad because it was no longer  new and shiny and cute , shoved in a cupboard somewhere and forgotten about?

I want me back and I can’t find me.

I’m tired of explanations, there’s no explanation good enough for this, no explanation at all. Tired of turning myself inside out to be something I’m not, tired of having to keep on going, and going and going.

I want to tell my story, I so want to tell it and tell it and tell it. My life isn’t a nightmare anymore. It’s just pain. Walking around on tippy toes so as not to touch the pain, keep it as still as possible. Because if it gets bumped then it swells like an ocean and there’s nothing else.

And it hurts to give, but I can’t get if I don’t give. Hah. Like the little mermaid or something, eh? Getting fanciful now, dressing it up, making it poetic with words, making it bearable.

Well I said this was DIY, so DIY it is. I can’t find the real me, so I have to make a new one out of what I’ve got.


Tamara Jones

Former languages teacher pleased to be devoting all her time to writing, a lifelong ambition that can now be fulfilled.  Beats lesson preparation and marking any day.  Winner of Jotters United ‘Spirit’ short story competition.  Story ‘Stalking the Watcher’ published in Jotters United.  Flash story ‘Take A Number Please’ accepted for publication in Short Story Sunday.  Lives out the back of beyond on the edge of a forest and when not writing, spends inordinate amounts of time gardening and watching the wildlife.