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Personal Piece- Contains upsetting material - Portrait of a Madwoman [Partly Auto-Biographical, Partly Fiction]
This is a piece I began writing today. It triggered me very badly, but I had to get it out. I really want to expand upon it and write more. Please tell me what you think? I have been in a hospital once, and it was when I was twelve years old and in a very bad place. I've always been more intellectually and emotionally mature for my age, even at twelve. Anyway, please comment? Xx
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Portrait of a Madwoman
It had been seven long years since I’d seen the walls that were before me. Just when I thought I’d defeated my inner demons, they’d come back to slap me in the face. My arms were bandaged heavily, as I was led through the halls of the ward. My long stringy red hair almost seemed as lifeless as my dull steps through the ward, and my bright blue eyes had lost their shine. I felt utterly defeated and worthless as I was half dragged, half led through the halls. It hadn’t always been like this
A young woman with shiny red hair was smiling as she sat upon a swing at the park. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and her feet were bare as she slowly kicked at the ground and sent herself flying on the swing. A laugh erupted from her throat, and she felt hands on her back, pushing her. Her eyes flashed, and she turned her head slightly. They mixed with deep brown ones, as she smiled. Her swing came to a stop, and she gazed backwards at him, reaching a hand up and brushing his hair from his eyes. He leant down and pressed his soft lips to hers.
A voice interrupted my memory. “Place her in here,” it said. A sterile white room stared back at me, as I was shoved roughly through a clear glass door, which then shut. I stood for a moment, before crumpling into a heap and bursting into tears.
“You’re a mad woman! My darling, why must you constantly do this!” cried his voice, pressing a towel to the bloody wounds on her arms.
“I’m sorry, love. I can’t control it,” she whispered gently, tears streaming down her face to mix with the blood that covered her clothes.
“Patient number 001402. Attempted suicide. Diagnosed with borderline personality, bipolar, bulimia nervosa, mania, paranoia, insomnia and obsessive compulsive disorder. Also has epilepsy and regular seizures without medication. Severe suicide risk, and self-harm risk,” listed one of the nurses. My head cocked up through my tears, and I stared through the glass door, which had several holes in it. Always labelled. That was how they always knew me. A list of words that had no meaning except that I was ****ed up. Eternally ****ed up.
“I have a name you know,” I said defiantly, as several doctors, therapists and nurses stood outside my door.
“Sarah, what do you want from me?” he asked in a quiet voice, bandaging her arms.
“David, I just want you to be here, to be by my side,” she replied, her voice as equally as soft.
“I can’t do that anymore. I don’t love you anymore,” he said.
Tears streamed free.
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Just so you know, Sarah is my middle name, and David is the middle name of someone who still to this day, means too much to me. I have a soul tie to him, because he emotionally, physically and mentally changed me.
Please comment?
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