I am lovable when I am good. I am detestable when I am bad.
My badness has to be choked out of existence. There is no room for the ugliness of who I am to be seen. The ragged underbelly of my personality is not for public display. But my failings seem to fly into view at the drop of a hat. Charged with the responsibility of keeping them under wraps and stopping mayhem, I manage myself, or else I am the mad woman marching relentlessly to the beat of my own drum. But I grind to a stop at the edge of the abyss. Toes touching the cragged overhang that falls into the void. Will I jump?
The edge calls to me. Oblivion screeches my name. But there is no quietly slipping off into the dark night. There is clamoring, scratching and flailing -- clinging and holding on. Pleading and begging to exist.
The hospital room fills with people. Angus is pushed out the door.
Bells and buzzers are going off. Even though it is the middle of the afternoon with plenty of daylight the overhead surgical lights are turned up scorching my eyeballs. I’m on a cold hard table. And the room is freezing or I’m just cold from blood loss. Doctors and nurses are rushing round dressed in their blue scrubs. I wear a flimsy green hospital gown. There is a clock on the wall and the ticking has been drowned out by the hum