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ablation
I fall. I let myself fall. I sink. I
hit rock bottom. I don’t resist.
I say nothing. I am damaged.
They damaged me because
I wouldn’t be able to do it
otherwise. I grin and bear it.
Stagnant water traverses my
body. I have no strange words
to pronounce. My tongue is
heavy. My tongue fell down.
Nothing could get it moving
again. It ’s the hollowness,
the large hole, that sucks me
in. I don’t have bad thoughts.
I know it is important to go
through it and that af ter
all of this, depression will
distance itself from me. I will
not triumph over depression
but it will abandon me. What
state will I recuperate into?
I do not dare to imagine.
My wanderings in the void
of my current life occupies
me rather well, so I am not
suffering or doing poorly.
I look at the time on my alarm
clock. Everything is frozen
and I am at the bottom of
the hole — a well, or a pit.
Animal bones, dirty rocks,
extinguished candles, dirt,
and the suf focating smell
of piss. Yes, I will eventually
need to leave here, quit this
hole and emerge, like a tired
swimmer who decides to
return to dry land.
So, what happens? This all
is a part of the recovery
from the operation. I repeat
that to myself. A small bit
of depression af ter the
ablation; or maybe worse:
depression after too much
pressure. Nothing gives
anything away to me. No
need to panic. Just some
patience and perseverance.
I have to piss. A bit later, my
pajama pants are wet. My
sheets are stained. I should
move. Go! Get up! I count
to three… One, two… three.