Reality bites (and we bite back)

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

About that pizza

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.