scratch

This evening I sat on the bathroom floor against the locked door. It was a moment of having lost myself. I stared ahead at the bathtub and saw me in it, standing, naked. Scratched all over, hair a wild mess: a tiger in a woman’s body. I saw myself terrified, displaced, taken hostage, unaccustomed to the slippery porcelain, out of my element. I paced back and forth in the bathtub, disoriented. They tried to talk me out of it and I lashed out, roaring, arms and legs flying. I spun in circles, head chasing tail, unable to make sense of my surroundings or my circumstance. Terror turned to anger, and anger begot self-destruction. I tore at my own body, looking inwards for a way out. This was fear and rage, colliding.

  

Tonight I came home from class and, how appropriate—the light bulb inside the lamp next to my bed had gone out. I have no replacement in the apartment. My single safe place, now enveloped in unavoidable darkness—the very thing causing my crazies. The universe has a terrific sense of humour.