Water

I open My Eyes, first feel Him laying next to Me, still between the soft sheet layers, then – though, as usual, I try to avert Her – fondle, feel for, Myself. “No, not now; I’m not ready to feel yet,” I tell Her. Still, She persists. Even though still, I am resisting. Still, I am resisting.

Still; I am resisting:

Her.

As usual, I soften (not straighten) Myself, right up next to His Skin Sheath/Sheet, pressing My Nose against the sweet smelling blush layer who is My Comfort Cushion. Who always serves as My Comfort Cushion, especially, specifically When Things Are Tough, such as When I Feel Like I am Dying. I wait, nose still plump in flesh, for the sound of His alarm to go off again, which means that I too must get up (still, shortly afterwards). His alarm goes off three to five times (ish) but each time He snoozes (ish). On around the fifth (ish) ring He un snoozes, slips easily out of the covers, and heads over to the bathroom to shower. I hear the sound of the tap as He pulls the lever on it because the bathroom is next to the bedroom so sounds travel pretty easily between the two spaces. Then, hear the sound of the shower as He pulls the lever on that too, allowing it to run freely from the top, down. I dread Him finishing his shower because this means I will have to get Myself up. Hoist Myself up again. So, as the water continues to fall like bad yoga (waterfall) music, I wrap Myself further up in His bedsheets like a baby who all She wanted, who all She ever wanted, who all She still wants in the world was for her mama to really love Her.

“I’m done,” He calls, fatefully from the bathroom, while I still in the bedroom. “Just give Me five more minutes,” I croak from beneath cover cloak. I don’t want to get up. I really don’t want to get up. That’s because I can feel The Lump in My Throat rising again as I feel My Chest closing up again, The Hand on My Heart closing in/on again. Close. Metal. Down. In fact, I feel physically sick. I can’t believe I have just woken up to another day. I wish – to death – it were night again, and I just could go back to sleep again, safe, tho’ not safe at all in the black. Tho’ I am truly haunted, I’d say, hunted, down by My Dreams, I just want to be in That Place, That (S)pace where I do not have to think, overthink, do, but mostly, feel how I am feeling right now, as in every damn day it seems in the near past. I shut My Eyes, striving, hurting, as I do eternally, to dream up that I am sleeping again, that I have seven or eight golden, nay, godly hours of sleep ahead of me again, and when I realise that I don’t, can’t, then just trying to imagine what it would feel like not to wake up, not have to face The Pain of Another Day (not In Paradise to cite Collins, ‘s’cuse the reference). Again.

Again.

He’s out of the shower now, He’s coming to get Me, to wake Me. Now. He stands at the bedroom entrance, His masculine frame, so natural, so alive, so ready for the day I do yet, at the same time, do not want: “Come on, get up, Alice” He says, smiling. “Two more minutes,” I say.

As usual I am pleading with Him, attempting to birth, then to grow a big smile to happily convince Him, then the rest of the world with, still, seed not shooting, not even germinating, not even there. Seed no chance shoot: up. “Get up,” He whispers, voice silky with love: like coffee I want to drink in the morning, it fills up my throat (in a good way this time), giving me the con fidence I require to get Myself upright again for the day that is calling me much (still, awfully) to live Her.

Purely on the basis of Him, I get up (I don’t want him to think he has a girlfriend who can’t even get up out of bed). As I do tho’, My Neck starts to speak again. She’s aching like hell at the front and at the back. I want to get up, I want to be Here, I want This Day, so, so badly. So, so much. In fact, more than anyone could and more than anyone could imagine. But I also don’t want to get up, I don’t want to be here and I don’t want this day. More than anyone could and more than anyone could imagine. Yes, I know, it’s a strange feeling to want to both live and die simultaneously, but that’s what the pain does to You. That’s what the pain does to You. That, Reader, is what The Pain does to You.

I try stroking the side of My Throat where The Lump is lodged, like my therapist told Me to, but She doesn’t calm down either, rather She’s even more river restless than before (probably, because She’s allied, Alice-d, laced to My Neck).

“I am with You, Alice,” I sigh, soft, as I take My Body, slowly thro’ and into the bathroom, empty now because He’s gone to do His Exercises in the other room, in the main room. Now, I feel significantly sicker than before. Now, My Throat is Thicker than when I first pulled open My Eyes, pulled back the sheets, pulled out that tired little thing, who is Myself. To face another day. Again. Again, I dream of what it would feel like to cold shower – like He does, courtesy of Wim Hof – without this diurnal proem. I almost get in, then catch Myself. No, I can’t bear to just yet. I go over to Him instead. He’s doing a plank, independently, on the floor at this point so I wait patiently for Him to finish, then say, like a baby would, if She could have spoken:

“Baby, I need a hug.”

As I fall into His Arms I take in That Scent of His Skin, again, still-so-smooth, still-so-soft from the shower-water-falls. I put My Nose onto His Surface, again, and smell the rose blush, hot, of His strong outer layer, again, touch My Tongue, as I hope again, that some of His Strength would eventually stroke off on Mine.

As always, I don’t want This Moment to end. I never want This Moment to end. I don’t want His Arms to release Me. I never want His Arms to release Me – ever. Ever. Ever. Now.

Afterwards, I take one more breath, deep, step into the shower steeply, feel the cold water mirroring what I don’t even want it to mirror, still, touching My Skin, as I say to Myself, while drawing a heart in the steam of The [Shower] Mirror: “Alice, You are Alive.” Shaking slightly as I say this, like a falling, still, gladly, not yet fallen leaf.

Dressed, but still not ready for Myself, let alone the outside world, we set off for our morning walk. As we approach our usual [Corona] coffee place, I place My Hand inside of His. He buys Me my usual oat milk latte (He always has flat white, extra hot), and we continue, all the way to Hyde Park thro’ Knightsbridge, still holding, hasping hands.

“You are on the last layer,” He says because I know He can feel The Pain, rippling like residual shower water, from My Hand, all the way to His.

“I know,” I say, still trying to squeeze the juice from His as if it were a ripe lemon and we were making Limoncello in Amalfi (not sure why I am thinking about our summer holiday when it’s only March, but, well, anyway, Corona pushes you to the nth degree…):

“But it’s so hard, Baby. It’s just so hard, Baby.

It’s so damn hard, Baby…”

I say, as we walk up the path, where The Daffodils sprout and are still sprouting (one of the few benefits of feeling this way in Spring because I get to walk past and observe their golden, ever goldening heads every day). It’s then that the Dread-Smell/Stench starts to dawn, The Same Dread as occurred when I peeled back the morning sheets like onion skin, as I tried to unearth My Body from their depths today. I can’t stop thinking, I’ll need to say bye, Baby soon, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to.

I DON’T WANT TO!!!

I don’t want to let Him go, because it means being all alone again, and I am not prepared

–for That.

Despite all my adulthood, I still feel like a baby inside.

Final hand lemon juice squeeze, and He is gone – to The Office, and I am, as dreaded, as sensed, as smelt/stenched, left all alone. Again.

Left all alone – without Him. Again.

My Heart’s just started to beat again, uncontrollably. Wildly. Sometimes, but quite often, even, desperately. I try to calm Her by heading over to The Water to fix my frayed nerves. I take several deep breaths, but still, She isn’t calming – She isn’t fixing, instead She’s breaking, despite my thick top. Despite Instagram. I try to strap my attention to the small water waves, waving up and down in front of Me, imagine Myself, My Body, both alive and unalive, being taken by them (it’s strange that I am still alive, given the amount of times I have imagined my own death). Still, no joy. I cross to the waterfall that runs across from The Lake, as I usually do because it is my perennial passage in the first blush. There, I take five more deep breaths (every day, no matter how I am feeling, I always take five there, and five here). I try not to imagine that there are people around as I close My Eyes, softly, and whisper My Wish, winsomely, again, whilst unwishing my own death story;;; again:

Six words.

“I Just Want To Be Alice.”

As my coin clatters down, it skims the lip of the water; sinks. I watch it go down, gracefully, breathe long, and whisper again, louder this time, not caring if The Others hear Me:

“I Am Alice.”

Then I walk on by the lake – skinless – still; with Myself inside of Her

–Skinless, still with Myself inside of Her.

These days, my tiny baby organs are turned inside out, especially My Lungs, and My Heart.

Always My Lungs;;;

AND MY HEART.

And it hurts more than ever to feel.

It hurts more than ever to feel.

The Pain, when I am so exposed.

When I and My Wounds are so full with the light, the air, the sounds of the park playing on top of them. Playing all over them.

I carry along The Lake in Lulu, tears falling like leaves now, right down the boughs of My Face. I can’t even hide behind the huge, shaded lenses of My Dior [Sunglasses] anymore. I used all My Strength on the coin throw.

I used all My Strength on The Wish.

My Wish.

The Pain is now bare, unashamed. Intense. Moving freely down My Face now because now She is unaware of The World and What They Think Of Her.

She does not care about The World and What They Think Of Her.

She does not care about The World and What They Think Of Her.

Not for one single second;;;

As She cradles Her Baby, Her Alice in arms as She walks down The Lake in Lulu, down The Cheeks of It, now creasing up at Her, naturally, as She bears Her Pain, finally, all frayed to Them, finally allowing Her Tears not to tear, but to travel down freely to meet with Their Loving Water-Depths…

Then I turn, smiling slowly, soft, as The Lake whispers back at Me, as the planes fly like ships across the blue sky, reflecting themselves on the surface below, as My Right Hand touches My Right Cheek slow and soft too:

As I whisper soft, and long; one last time to Myself:

“I Am Alice.”