Monday, heavy lids and limbs start the day
Screams and thrashing as I change your clothes
The windscreen is dotted with teardrops
The sky is cloaked in grey
You spill your milk, I rush my coffee
I’m not giving up on today
Mahler on the radio, I catch sight of you making ballerinas with your hands in the air
We venture to your dance class
Your joyfulness lifts me like the chiffon scarves twirling around your arms
We bite into gyoza
You shout “YO!” at the top of your voice, and everyone breaks into a smile
We’re not giving up on today
An inauspicious Thursday evening
There was something about that pizza right from the start. It surprised me with its beauty, all hand-stretched bubbles and micro-mushrooms. No tomato – just the fragrance of truffle oil and a scattering of rocket.
As we talked over that half a pizza, I told you about my fears for the future and my deep loneliness. My feeling of my career having been stolen from me by mental illness. My plans to volunteer with a mental health trust, my worries of never finding that thing, that elusive vocation which would satisfy me and make me feel whole again.
My beautiful friend, you turned it on its head. Wonderful and unfamiliar like my tomato-less pizza. You wondered if I could spend a year on enjoyment, on pleasure, on finding out about me again. Beauty rather than darkness. Could I take a gap year from obligation to any previous map of what my life should look like if I hadn’t been ill?
Somehow that half a pizza persuaded me that I really, really wanted to try.