Alea

I was not a writer nor a poet nor a musician nor an artist. 

I speak my voices. 

I dictate the words spoken to me and the thoughts stolen from me.

The voices I hear are my guides. 

They are the spirits of my ancestors. 

They are all around me. 

They are not my demons.  

And do not need to be medicalised.  Or silenced.

The voices I hear are my terrors. 

They battle with my ancestors. 

I throw a blanket over them to quieten. 

I have no place in the MH system for it terrifies me.

The violence is everywhere, 

The energy conspires with my terrors so I must shut down to protect.

Or immerse myself in the healing waters of the Thames. 

You can't catch fire in the River.

Where the spirits live.

Feb 2020 it is Tet and I am in Hue, Vietnam.

To pay last respects to he who guided me throughout my life, to be cared for and nourished in the spiritual community that heals me.

That supports me to invite my voices in for tea.

Where mindfulness is a ethical way of being and not a tool to silence.

I have freedom.

I am sent by those who love me and because there is no healing in the NHS in mental health. 

For I am the disengaged.

And they are the hard to reach.

But there is threat there is fear there is violence. 

So I am escaped.

And immune .

And I am now back in UK told I am too contaminated to be allowed out my home.

The government says so.

But where terrors are lying within the walls and wires.

And tentacles in blood trying to strangle me.

Because the world I now have to come back to has shut down.

And is only there in Apps and Zoom.  

A to Z.

24 letters inbetween and words jump out with signs.

There are people on the telly building castles out of sour dough.

And singing on multiple split screens.

Badly.

Very badly.

I wear headphones all the time.

I wear 2 headphones all the time.

Police come.

Again, again, again.

Violence of welfare checks.

Because I have no access to real time.

The world is now remote.

My flesh and blood are not allowed to touch me.

Because I am contaminated.

They wear masks to disguise themselves.

Terror voices tell me why.

I must hide.

Remote working but no one is at work.

My front door is smashed in the name of welfare so strangers move in.

To protect me they say.

I barricade myself in my bedroom.

And pay them to leave.

Everything in my physical body is hurting but there are no body doctor's anymore.

Like the mind doctors they are hiding behind masks and WiFi. 

The new barriers. 

I have no phone.

I have no Wi-Fi. 

I have no food.

I have multiple layers YouTube videos playing In my head eyes open, eyes shut.

Stop sleeping because it is dangerous to let my guard down. 

Food boxes with war rations come from the government. 

Corned beef and Frey Bentos sentient beings.

I know they are poisoned.

I need the sangha but it has zoomed.

I need the cafe but it has closed.

I need my green space but strangers are exercising in it.

Star jumps, bike riding and dogs.

So many dogs.

And the police keep coming and drag me to the detention of the ED.

Where the faceless assassins await to retraumatise. 

Because that is the point.

What point.

And each time I am turned in to the night shoeless. 

And cold.

I was so cold.

My home is no longer safe.

I go seek my ancestors at night, always at night.

The tide is so low I smell the salt in the air.

And in the water I feel free.

And safe.

So safe. 

My other safe place of rebaptism.

I write on my arm DON'T SPEAK IF ASKED.

I have 22 Sharpies. 

2020 = chasms.

Hundreds good deeds on BBC breakfast.

Kindness.

Random acts of kindness.

Walking people and crying people behind glass windows. 

I know because one was mine.

The haves and the have nots.

Acceptable: Anxiety and stress

Not acceptable: Command hallucinations and prophet paths. 

Chasms in services.

Telephone only or die.

I am too contaminated for the ED.

Which confirms terror voices of violent ends.

So no telephone I must die.

The writing is on the wall.

Literally.

I miss human touch.

I miss random conversation at 2am on the Southbank. 

I miss .

I miss.

I miss.

The haves and have nots. 

Those who zoom and those who can't.

Those who phone and those who can't.

No matter how many times police drag me in 2020 there is no mental health contact after.

And I am grateful that they closed up shop to the severe endurings. 

For they have shut down to all but the worried well.

That was my 2020.

Alea