So yeah. As part of my English literature course, I had to write a creative writing piece. I decided to write it about what a meltdown is actually like. It’s probably 1000% triggering, and it’s definitely pretty crap. HOWEVER, it ticks all the boxes for a creative writing piece, and that’s all it really needs to do!
I let my mind drift, casting it into the oceans of thought, trawling the depths for the elusive fish of memory. It’s a strange image, but then again this is a strange time. Sitting in a familiar space, staring at the wall, wondering when my time will come. I look up at the nice person at the counter. They smile to me when I walk in, and I get a chocolate from them when I leave. They’re solid, reliable. They never change; they just sit there, tappa-tapping away. It’s like a buzzing, the sound of the hive mind of the internet. Tappa-tappa-tap-tap. Incessant, never-ending buzzing.
Bees communicate through dance. Not many people know that, but they do. They twirl and dance and wiggle and wave, all the while buzzing and chirping. The reception-person does that too. They get up, they sit down, they wiggle around in their chair a little. They move their hands up in the air too - the lady I come to see here calls that “gesticulating”. I think it means frustration, but I’ve never been very good at other people. I wonder what the hive said that made them get so frustrated.
The lady is coming out of the other room now. She’s a nice lady, she gives me water and I can talk to her. Mummy gives me a hug, and says “Now, you go and talk to Dr. Buwitsche, and be a good boy. I’ll be here when you get back, OK honey?”. I look at her and nod, and give her a kiss. I don’t really know why she’s so worried. I see the nice doctor every two weeks, it’s on my timetable. I like my timetable, it keeps me anchored.
Now I’m walking into the room. She’s moved some things around since I was last here. It… It… It… Isn’t the same. Not the same. Not the same. Not the-
I’m on the floor, and the nice doctor is talking to me. She’s telling me… Something. I don’t know what, it’s all gone out of focus. I can hear colours again, and the nice doctor says that means I need to calm down. I take a deep breath, and I hold it for a little. I let it out. The ringing and whistling is stopping now. It feels a bit better.
"-and just keep breathing, that’s alright, very good. You’re doing really well, it’s OK. You’re safe here, OK?"
I lift my head up a little bit. Was it always this bright in here? I fumble for my bag, and it’s not there. I feel a tingling in my face, and I breathe faster. I need my bag, did someone touch it? Nobody is allowed to touch it! No, no…
I’m in the corner now. I don’t remember moving, but my face feels hot and wet. I think I was crying. I’m clutching my bag to my chest, pounding heart throbbing into it. 1… 2… 4… 8… 16… 32…
I’m counting out loud. The doctor is smiling, and she offers me a glass of water. I stop counting, and I look up at her. She looks like my mummy looks when I need quiet time. She looks sad, and happy, and worried, all at once. She looks loving. She cares about me. I like that feeling.
I take the glass, and I purr as it touches my hands. It’s cool and nice, and it feels like when you touch a cold metal bar on a really hot day. I remember looking at a painting once, and it had sheep and a shepherd on a horse in it. The sheep smelt the water, and they stampeded past the man on his horse to reach it, which is silly. You can’t smell water, water doesn’t have a smell. I think I can smell the water now, because it smells like safety. This is the routine. This is what happens.
I walk out of the room, and I knock on the door again. The nice doctor lady opens the door, and I walk inside. I sit down in my chair, which is where it always is. I look up at the flowers in the jar, like I always do. The doctor sits in her chair, like she always does.
I notice something new.
The flowers in the jar… They haven’t dropped yet. They’ve been there for months, and they haven’t dropped. They’re plastic.
Plastic flowers in a room of unchanging sameness. A room as unchanging, as eternal, as neverending as the ocean. I let my mind drift, casting it into the oceans of thought, trawling the depths for the elusive fish of memory…