Illness is

a lonely place. It's nothing to do with that person who asked how are you? this morning. It's to do with staring through fear-frosted windows as snow sugar-sifts the street, watching through dark windows as firework flowers burst to bloom in a New Year sky, or watching day-jaded mums dragging snot-nosed kids to school - and wishing it was you. It's watching cacophonous YouTube family vlogs because you're so lifeless, so ghastly ghostly-wan, you feed off the energy like some hideous vampire or leech. It's listening to people moan about doing the bloody washing up while you find joy in the rank sink-slops of last night's rancid pots, giving thanks when you're just able to do it. It's sitting sweltering in 80-degree heat under summer-scorched ashes and looking grey as crematorium ashes. It's coffee alone at 5 a.m. waiting for the world to wake or watching fluorescent clock hands creep round until the hour is godly enough to text or phone for help. It has to do with rocketing house bills because you're awake when the world is asleep burning midnight lights and fuel. It's the horror of an unexpected knock at the door or a visitor because it's 3 p.m. and you're still slop-dollying round the house in your dressing gown. It's the horror of being buried alive in an MRI coffin-scanner. It's taking comfort where you can with whomever and seizing moments when or if they come. It's the cliche of feeling alone in a crowded room. It's about when they assume the anorexia's back and you're on a f*****g diet. It's about cancelling appointments, leaving restaurants early or making excuses not to go out at all. It's shutting off the laptop because you're too tired to see, disconnecting the phone because you're so weary you can't speak, while a filthy grey fog creeps into your head and mind-twines. It's reading their words while you fumble to find your words or the right words, or being suddenly blessed with the write words to squeeze out a line or three of poetry. It's about family discussing the plot of a film while you're losing the plot in another room. It's snotty sobbing, screeching at doctors and mewling for the f*****g morphine. It's that precipice where you teeter awaiting the latest test result. It's fear so intense you frantic-fumble the phone book, scrabbling for a hypnotist. It's a late night date with a suicide site (you flirt but don't know if you would) researching helium versus hanging because you don't want to become a burden, you don't want to lose your dignity. It's about the outer you staying intact while the inner you slowly disintegrates. Illness is all this. 15/3/2017