I ruminate in my lair as I say a small prayer
while in the darkness everyone is snoring.
Night has cast her spell over the world, but I
am wide awake: listening to my Voice,
petrified to enter that world, night or day.
My bedroom is my castle. I sit by my window,
studiously engaged with the nocturnal movements
of Sister Moon, summoning up the courage to
face down my Voice should it scream at me again.
My hands are clammy and shaking as I roll another
fag. The pleasure my sexual attacker got, left me in
this state, now I cannot get him out of my mind: he
follows me to this day, or night, both mentally and
emotionally. I have flashbacks, all too vivid. But it’s
the Voice that has climbed the turret and bawls
out to me suddenly – I jump momentarily, startled.
The advice is: “Acknowledge, negotiate, talk back to
the Voice”. Words, words, words: if only I could.
I’m up most of the night, every night, Sleep’s magic
passing me by. I creep around not wanting to wake
anyone. I write incessantly, have endless cups of tea,
and in fear of the Voice, I smoke too much. I am me,
dammit . . . I’m saturated with contradictory feelings:
anger, forgiveness, refusal to forgive, and jump invol-
untarily at the slightest sound. I’m not leaving my
castle. They can lay waste to the surrounding city: I’m
refusing to budge – it’s much too dangerous out there
where humankind wanders day and night. I’m pet-
rified of what’s out there. Condemned as being
paranoid, I say I’m just being realistically cautious. Who
can blame me after what I’ve been through? Leave
me to be ME, I say . . . I enjoy my chosen methodologies,
after a fashion.
Two cats are fighting outside, and I can see the foxes
scavenging. I eke out my own existence, paltry as it is.
But I never force myself to sleep. Insomnia is my
friend, not a blasted curse. “Adaptability, old boy,
adaptability”. I wish my attacker, my sexual predator,
could have adapted himself to the mores of civil
society. I wouldn’t now be in the state I am. The cats
really are having a bitter feud.

They can give me all the medication they want, but I still
can’t sleep. As I fill-up my tablet box for the next week,
the first bird begins twittering outside. Light is beckoning,
it’s been a long night, I can’t bring myself to read, but do
spend a considerable time on the net. What would I do
without my computer? I’m getting dopey, but won’t sleep
for hours yet.
The heavy hand of Depression lays on my head. Horrendous,
day or night: doubly so day and night. That awful feeling of
abandonment, of no hope, no way out of the pit. When
Depression and Night join forces and resources, it’s a
potent cocktail. That familiar feeling of listlessness.
Why do some folk suffer so?
Other times I’m unexpectedly chirpy, activity-prone, and
deluding myself that hey! it’s all over and life’s returning
to normal. If only . . . It’s a scourge, these sudden changes
of mood. So unpredictable. However, if everything really
is relative, then I’m definitely progressing. Imperceptibly.
Don’t hold your breath. I’m so used to being up all night
that it’s a way of life now. I actually enjoy my own
company as Sister Moon scurries through the clouds. And
yet . . . and yet, petrified of others.
But at this stage, that’s
ME, and all I ask for is time, time to slowly heal, time to
sort out my problems.