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I am here. At last. And there it is. This great big looming building. It fills me with dread. As I look at it, I realise that my feet are glued to the gravelly ground beneath me.
I can’t do this.
I can’t go in.
But I can’t turn back either.
Do I even have any energy left? No. It was consumed in the struggle to get here, on the way to my destination. Only to find that…
I can’t go in.
But I can’t turn back either.
The dread and anxiety I’m feeling makes me grab for my cigarettes. The very thing that is slowly killing me. I know this. I don’t need the little pictures on the package to tell me this. One day, this habit will kill me.
And I will welcome it.
My hands shake. They give away the shaking of my whole body. One more thing that’s betraying me.
Slowly, I manage to bring one lonely cigarette to my lips, the other shaking hand fumbling for the lighter in my pocket.
How on earth am I supposed to light this?
I feel a bit of amusement bubble up inside me. When did I last feel that? The feeling is small and brittle. But I take it. Feels better than the void filling me.
When I finally manage to bring the little flame to life, I look at it, transfixed, lost in thought.
How small it is.
How bright and yet how brittle.
The smallest gust of wind would be enough to extinguish it, to rob it of the feeble life that’s in it. I feel a rush of protectiveness flow through me.
Would I have the strength to light it again? To shield it once more from the ever present wind?
I don’t know.
I slip the extinguished lighter back into my pocket, the cigarette still between my lips, waiting for a light that would never come.
I’m disgusting. Angrily I toss the cigarette aside.
What’s the use?
My gaze lingers for a moment on the abandoned cigarette, lying there – abandoned on the pavement – and then, as if drawn by some invisible force, my gaze shifts back to this great building. This great, big, looming building. I’m surprised and disgusted to feel another cigarette already in my hands.
I can’t go in.
But I can’t turn back either.
I promised.
The weight on my shoulders increases, pushing me down. Crushing me. Rooting me to the spot.
Why the hell did I promise?
Because you are strong , says the voice.
No, I’m not. I know I’m not. I don’t want to be.
I can hear birds singing. Sweet. Innocent. Merry.
Not for me.
Not today.
I turn towards the sound, drawn in by the hopefulness of it.
Not to look.
At the great building.
The great big looming building.
The sound came from a beautiful park nearby, some sort of refuge for those lost souls. Like myself. My feet move eagerly towards it. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find there.
Let me see the bird.
Let me see it and forget.
I toss the half-smoked cigarette aside. It doesn’t seem right to enter this refuge smoking. I can feel my feet moving, and yet I feel like the big beautiful trees, the shady grass, the birdsong and the promised refuge are slowly drifting farther and farther away from me. Fleeing me. Fleeing me and my lost soul.
As if I would never be able to reach this refuge.
As if I am not worthy of reaching this refuge.
As if I am not worthy of getting help.
Tears well up in my eyes.
At long last I reach an old and weathered park bench. What a relief to sit down on it. To listen to the birds. To smell the trees. I sit and stare.
What am I hoping to find? Why am I here?
Just go in!
No. No. No.
I feel my head grow heavy. The rest of my strength is floating away, leaving me drifting into panic, threatening to take me away from all this, to send me floating.
To make it all end.
Maybe that would be good.
I feel the bench beneath me, its warmth beneath my fingers. This, right here, is the only thing that ties me to this bleak reality, tethers me to it like a string does for a kite.
Will I ever find my string?
I think not.
I press my eyes closed. I don’t want to see the beauty surrounding me. It is meaningless. Because I don’t deserve it. Because I don’t want to deserve it.
Will I ever find peace?
Should I even try?
No.
There is no peace.
There is no refuge.
Instead, there is this.
The great big looming building.
Just go in!
No. No. No. I’m afraid!
How long have I been headed here? To this great building. This great big looming building, watching thoughtfully and patiently over my shoulder, drinking in every move I make.
Waiting for another victim.
A victim of life.
A victim of hope.
Like me.
I can hear myself sobbing, but I don’t feel anything. I bury my head in my hands and try once again to hide from it all. No use.
How did I get here?
Why did I come here?
How can I go in?
I can’t go in.
But I can’t turn back either.
My mum used to say – what was it? Something about being strong. Something about resilience.
I’m not strong.
Why am I here?
Just go in!
I look at my hands. So white. Probably as white as my face. As I slowly move them around in front of my eyes, I am reminded of dead hands.
My mother’s hands.
Disgusted, I look away.
I am trying.
Always have.
Always failed.
Everyone.
Bullshit! Just go in!
Do I really have to? What right do I have? What gives me the right to be special? To try? And fail? -!
Once again. So many times. Always the same.
You’re smoking again.
I know. I want to. I need to.
Why?
To do something. To breathe something. To hold something.
I’m surprised to find the sun still shining down on me when I open my eyes again. It’s illuminating the whole great vista in front of me, guiding my eyes farther and farther away. There was a time when I used to love this guiding light, the sunshine on my face, the grass beneath my feet.
Lost.
Not lost. Just go in!
My mum used to tell us stories about people during the war. About how they suffered and yet went on into an unknown future, with all the hope they could muster. How they would sing amidst the ruins of their former homes, their former lives, their former loves. What right to complain? What right to be here?
You promised! To him! To them! To yourself!
Myself? What self?
Selfish. And brittle. Yet I promised. And I’m going to keep that promise.
Even if it kills me.
To go in.
To see.
To hear.
Through the numbness I can feel a solitary tear running down my cheek. Like in the movies. The tragic ones. I can see it in my mind, building in the corner of my eye, getting bigger and rounder, perfectly painting a wet trail down my cheek. Dropping. Leaving a mark on my shirt.
Gone. So soon.
The anger I feel makes me press my fists against my eyes, making me see stars of every colour behind closed eyelids, blinded by my ever present fear.
There is a bird. Hopping on the ground. Its red feathers stand out clearly against the bright sunlit green of the grass beneath its feet.
So small.
So brittle.
I lean back and draw a deep breath. The sound frightens me, disgust and contempt following closely behind. Slowly, I get up and gaze one last time longingly into the crowns of the trees. So majestic. So beautiful.
Casting a last glance towards this promised refuge that turned out to be none.
Lost.
Once again.
So many times.
Always the same.
I can’t stay. I don’t belong.
You don’t belong.
Just go in!
My head turns reluctantly around to face the great big looming building, still standing there, waiting. My body slowly follows the movement of my head. In a minute I will stand there, facing it.
Will I be able to bear it?
The promise I made makes me move my feet, slowly, mechanically.
Like wading through a swamp.
The swamp of my life.
I stop and look back towards the park bench, my gaze lingering upon the couple of cigarette ends in front of it.
Just tossed aside.
Extinguished.
Finished.
I feel the familiar disgust welling up inside me once more. Contempt. I move my feet again. Towards the building. I will not look at it. I can not.
I will not register its greatness, its vastness, and the half dreadful, half hopeful feeling it gives me.
Promised.
As I climb up the stairs with my head bent down, I can feel the sunlight leaving me when I enter the looming shadow of the building. Without a word or a sigh or a feeling, I enter and hesitantly approach the big desk facing the entrance. Although my fear is almost killing me, I can feel an oh so very small flicker of pride deep inside of me, not yet strong enough to make it to the surface. I desperately try to gather all the courage and strength I have left in me to speak the hardest and maybe bravest words I have ever spoken:
“I need help.”