She’d had a long and fairly variegated history of mental ill-health: a patchwork of reds and spots of polka dot yellows which defined her quite clearly in the attentive eyes of the world.
On a previous occasion or two, she’d tried to break everything: not just break herself free of the nightmare of emotions but break almost everything around her. And this explained exactly – and she could understand it herself – why everyone had (wrongly, in her mind) come to the conclusion she was mad.
And she clearly wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. But the implications of not doing so were tremendously hurtful to take on. Because she knew, like no other, that one of the main ticks to be boxed – by psychiatric manual in the condition she’d been assigned – was that of latently, even blatantly, wanting to promiscuously break away from the safety, comfort and goodness of a “life at home”.
And this was even the case when such a home was “safer”, “more comfortable” and “less bad” than the world you’d objectively find outside – although from her (admittedly) subjective point of view, it was a world where less bad meant living death, where comfortable meant a sofa and TV dinner not a passionate embrace, and where safety implied the house wouldn’t go up in damn fool flames – never, however, that you’d feel at one with your people and surroundings.
So there in a nut[ty]shell was the reason why she was totally unprepared to attempt ever again to break free. If she didn’t, she might objectively fall very ill again; on the other hand if she did, they would more than likely, even as quite incorrectly, claim – once again – the surreal assumption that because she wanted more of life, she was ill.
A Catch-22 if there ever was one, dear friends. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Who said there wasn’t a heaven on earth? After all, hell existed in tandem with the former – and hell there did exist most definitely.