Potential content warning, abstract views of manic depression, suicide, depression, anxiety.
There is a door at the end of the hall.
Paint peels away in a never ending timelapse, small flakes dusting the scratched dark wood floor.
Above, a bulb flashes inconsistently, hanging from an old, whitewashed ceiling, accompanied by a fly-esque buzzing of tired electrics.
The door, standing alone past the flickering light is locked.
It’s my house, but I don’t have the key to this lock. I don’t get to choose when the door opens, but I know, through my whole being, that the room behind is filled with dark things that overwhelm me. Whispered endings to stories that don’t need them, and I do not want. Shadows of old things that could never be buried deep enough, ready to raise ugly arms and grab at me.
The music of the room is all consuming. An orchestra of screaming violins that saw through all my calming anchor chains and drag me on riptides of inky black despair. Echos of songs I know and love, twisted into mocking cover versions, play within the walls, jarring and dissonant.
I have tried to do something about the door. Plastering over it was a first success, till that too flaked away. Slowly, as though to make a point, poison leached through my attempted barrier, burning the floor, and staining the walls till the hallway was turning acrid and black. I pulled down my attempt, followed up with prayers and pleading, and time spent in blank rooms speaking from varying shades of couch, till eventually the stains retreated and the door alone remained.
I tried confronting it. Sat in the hallway, candles, and mantras placed carefully like at an altar. I gazed on it, willing it to open. I waited, first in anticipation, then in hope. But no hope lies beyond, and once that is gone, the fear slides out and up and in and I again fall back from the door, cursing my naivety. Just as I do not have the key, I do not control its opening. I am not its master. Again, the hallway sits foreboding, as I retreat into referrals and retreat.
I’ve tried moving away, starting life again in a new location, surrounded by new sights and sounds, and fresh new walls and rooms. For a time, all is well. Then, on an evening like any other, a light starts to flicker. Paint starts to dry and crack, and another door starts to decay. The buzzing starts, quietly at first, slowly rising in volume till it becomes all I can hear. And then the door returns. It is part of my world, and it will come with me wherever I go, however far I run.
It is my door, and I belong to it. It is me, my thoughts and memories peeling and cracking, my voice whispering of bridges, cliffs, and piers. It is my mind throwing shadows into my days and nights, casting shapes of demons and darkness across the walls of my every day. It is my demon, my shame, my worry, and my dread. It is me.
For now the door is closed. The light flickers slowly, buzzing ever gently, as though telling me it’s watching, waiting, and present. I turn around to retreat downstairs, take my tablets from the medicine cupboard in the kitchen, and my mug from another, and boil the kettle.
The Bit Between 