Traumatised Plastic Ducks

Yesterday the plastic ducks floating in my bath witnessed a traumatic sight, a pathetic sight: me crouched in a warm bubble bath, crying and rocking backwards and forwards, a refrain running through my head, ‘You are an ugly old witch…you are an ugly old witch…you have no place on this planet.’  I was pummeling my round zyprexa tummy (It was as flat as a washboard before I started taking those things), karate chopping my thighs and pulling at my hair.  I am a beached whale.  At one point the voice in my head told me I was a witch and should be burnt at the stake.  I want my benevolent voices back.  I wonder where they’ve gone.  Where do disembodied voices go to die?  Is there a hell for the malevolent ones and a heaven for the benign ones?  I just want them out of my head.


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2 Responses to “Traumatised Plastic Ducks”

  1. dedicationtorecovery Says:


    I really like your blog, you really express something so unique to each person with creativity and honesty.


  2. sanabituranima Says:


    Poor Louise.

    I hope things get better soon.


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