Just a sign would be good. A little update. Yet nothing.
Eight weeks, they said. That was months ago. How can a win feel like defeat? That jubilation has long passed. Instead an ache like no other has filled the void. I feel it in my chest, my collarbone, and as firing spasms of burning paresthesia. It hurts.
I’ve never felt so insecure, so vulnerable, or so weak. It shatters me: a nerve-wracking wrecking ball of uncertainty. I feel waves of anger and catch myself ready to lash out. I picture walls with new found dents, wrecked knuckles, boot-marks in fences, and all manner of destruction.
My mind tests itself with views that I fully disagree with. I see the Union Flags and England colours draped and tatty on street lighting across Manchester and I feel that I don’t belong anymore. This isn’t the nation I grew up in. I feel ashamed to be British. I feel lost.
And that all-important growth is all because of life in limbo. I feel the self-appointed hangman’s noose tighten. I question whether I should section myself. My mind is at war. My body is giving in. It’s weighed down, as if trudging in mud, and I am sinking.
The bad news flows like a torrent over High Force waterfall. The plunge pool rises and I’m face down. The breaths of air I want to take are slipping away. “Come back” on one hand versus a suspended existence on the other. A pulse racing. Light flickering to off.
I’m a grenade. The pin is loose. It won’t take much. A lost bike light in a dark park refused to be found. I boil further. The tangled lead and the dog that refuses to follow. I pull harder. A stubbed toe. A tear that refuses to flow. I am ready to burst.
It’s the hope that kills you.
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