I have spent years of my life, bottling my feelings away, one by one. Every doubt, regret and fear in the world. Till I exploded. Anxiety crippled me. I couldn't leave the house without having a raging fit. I cried and cried before leaving for work. I dragged myself off each day to a job that was pointless, I couldn't eat. I just slept and slept. It was the day David Bowie died. I found out in the morning and felt my heart pulled out from my chest. I couldn't speak, I carried on pushing things deeper inside till I felt sick and could hardly stand. I ran down stairs and fell into a pool of tears. I was sent home. My old work friends never looked at me in the same way after that, they teased me and I left a week later. Humiliated.
What I remember from that day is a tearful phone call with my mum on the beach. She is the only one that understands. She listens and gives so much. Her calming reassurances reminded me of when I started secondary school, we'd moved across the country on our own, it was difficult transition. I would leave school early. Walk over to her work in tears, she'd run out and hug we and wipe the tears away. Eight years later I feel no different, just as alone and useless. On that beach it was so cold, people were walking by with there dogs, smiles pasted on there faces pretending all was well. Since then I have locked myself away, within my fortress of books and cds. Only art holds the answers.