Semi-Autobiographical novel in progress about all the things I wished I had said to people but never did. From transitions to psych wards to foster homes to feeling alone and being lonely.
I never wanted it to end up like this. But mother you have to realise that I had to get away, that the floorboards were snapping every time I stepped over a crack in the past. I did it for your own good too. You held your soul on your sleeve, and begged for me to hold it too. I held it for a long time; clutched tight in the palm of my clammy hand. But after 15 years it started to slip – slipping through the gaps between my fingers. It’s a lot for my poor body to carry around with me.
I didn’t intend in going into the psych ward again because I knew you would hate me if I did. And you did. And you never even visited me until it was too late and I had already let go. I resented you for that, because when places are so crowded like that hospital, I start to feel lonely. And sometimes all you need is a familiar face that isn’t trying to impose strange coloured pills down your throat. Being in a place full of strangers makes you start to feel strange. Most nights people spent their time in the therapy rooms cradled by their families. I spent mine looking at them in envy. So when they told me about a foster family I took this better prospect – partly out of spite but partly because I wanted to get out of this place but home wasn’t much better either.
It’s not you whom I hate, not your personality either. It’s your illness that everybody is running away from, and they’re running away fast. Quick, catch them before they turn