Thursday, 29 April 2010

Teach me gently how to breathe.

I stand patiently, quieter than usual, as if silence will calm my tossing stomach.
But it doesn't.
It rages and churns, like a violent sea, crushing innocent sailors and their little wooden boats. The rooms spins and and everyone becomes a distant blur, every sound is further away and out of reach, all I have are my hands against the wall, in hopes of finding a better place.
Moments melt into each other and I have stumbled into my sanctuary of comfort and release. My knees give way and I am on the floor, soaking up the cool tiles, waiting for my dizzy head to clear. I have never been this far gone, and the loss of control is neither thrilling nor comfortable. I feel far away, like I am floating in space while my body lies in the dark bathroom, aching and sick. I hear voices rush to my side, and caring hands pick me up and stroke my hair. The sudden movements have upset me, and out of nowhere, I release the contents of my stomach, over and over again until all that is left is my skeleton and skin.

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