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.
Traumatised Plastic Ducks