I sit at the back, in the corner,
Quietly rolling the ball on my fidget cube
While my leg moves, involuntarily,
Hardly noticed by me.
Maybe I rock?
I can’t remember.
Since I stopped actively preventing what feels so natural
I am not always conscious of it,
Just like I do not always observe my breathing.
The parquet floor reminds me of years
Spent in public buildings.
I adore this pattern and its pleasing geometry.
It calms me.
They read poems, the poets, proper poets.
The theme of the evening – mental health.
Bipolar disorder all over the place.
I almost wonder if anyone in the room has not experienced
That wild fluctuations in mood and behaviour
That so many of us do.
My own system is on high alert.
It has been for hours.
I nearly didn’t make it.
Mid afternoon I felt so anxious, so unable to cope,
That I thought my entire being would shatter into a million pieces from the strain…
Like the glass panel in our sitting room did, ending up like crazy paving.
But 15 minutes beating my head against a cushion
I sit, my legs now folded up beneath me, playing with my hair.
Machinery from the coffee shop behind me a persistent aural backdrop.
Traffic noise, horns, bicycle bells, the sound of footsteps in the street below.
British history books in my line of vision.
And words. Surrounded by words
(Not just the ones in the books,
But the loud ones, in the air).
I know I have to listen and make pictures from these words
Because there are no subtitles at a live poetry reading.
Maybe I should have acquired books of the poems at the start.
Never thought of that.
They speak well.
This is all good stuff. Mental health awareness.
Yes yes yes. It is. This is right.
So much of my own experience described.
These people know. They talk sense.
And it’s like they have been inside my crumbling head…
They have taken the same medications, felt those same effects.
I relate to what is said, even though I cannot say.
I would contribute, but my words are drying up.
There is open mic
(But no actual mic – so open air?
But we are indoors. Oh confusion!).
I stay silent. I am not a poet.
I leave the poeting to the poets
And the writing to the writers.
I am a foreigner in this world.
Afterwards, people chat.
I feel it, the heat, the familiar nearly nausea, as the sound of talking starts to overload my system.
The beads of sweat start to trickle down my back, just like they do every time I go shopping.
I retreat round the corner
And focus on the Russian history books.
Ivan the Terrible, Catherine the Great, Peter the Great.
Trotsky, Lenin, Stalin.
Gorbachev, Putin, Litvinenko.
I am bizarrely fascinated by Russia
So this is a good place to be.
I covet a thick volume on Rasputin.
My husband finds where I am hidden.
I hug the poets, friends of mine, known online for years, some only just met in person.
All I can tell them is “Yes, all the things, yes…”
Or something like that.
I hope they understood what I meant.
As we get into the car I speculate that folk didn’t seem to mind me being there.
He makes some comment about me being the person in the dark glasses.
I had totally forgotten I was even wearing them.
I’m so used to that part now!
By the time we get home making words is difficult.
Exhaustion engulfs me.
But I did it.
Gradually working out
How to be in the world again.
But in this new life I am going out there as myself,
No longer pretending to be someone else. The act is gone.
It is all new.