I was only recently saying to a friend that having mental “health”, after three decades of trying to understand my mental illness, is a foreign place, to me.
Mental stability has a sameness to it that has never been part of my life, either as a child or an adult. I’m used to peaks and troughs, constant confusion, the gripping chill of reasonless anxiety. I’m certainly not used to emotional equilibrium.
At first, it was a most welcome state. I was able to deal with any issue that arose in a calm, secure, and controlled manner.
Then it just got kind of boring.
I lost the desire to write. Nothing stirred my passion, anymore. Nothing seemed worth the effort. It appears that my passion is fuelled by rage. By injustice. By bad people who get away with doing bad things to good people.
And that’s why I’m here now, in my old angry home; a place that is red and sharp and full of tiny little pointy things.
I wonder whether I should be concerned that this place makes me feel safe? It’s a place where footsteps need to be considered, because when you step too far inside, it can be quite difficult to leave. But it’s nice, for now. Nice to recognise something of myself.
I know I can’t stay here, I have a wonderful world waiting for me on the other side, but for one day, I’m just going to take a little holiday inside the red, and remind myself why I worked so hard to leave it in the first place.