Me In the Third Person – Part One of a Series
Loss of control was an almost desirable condition. The lack of self-determination imposed upon her by the psychiatric ward was accompanied by a sense of isolation that was only mitigated by the presence of Aurora. They walked from madness to reality. She had succumbed to their demands. She had given up all hope of a cure. She was the queen, tall as a nodding sunflower amonst daisies.
She was pure again. All sins forgiven and forgotten. She arranged her belongings in rows. This was, they assured her, psychological well-being. She immersed herself in the ritualistic nature of life on the ward. Her vision was exernally focused and her internal life suppressed. She was a good girl now, meek as a small white mouse nestled in somebody’s hand. Easily manipulated.
This was her psychological rehabilitation. She had escaped and now they were in the process of recapturing her. Slowly, surely, they were reeling her in.
Her obsessive-compulsive rituals, interspersed with all too brief snatches of sleep. They were a series of small defence mechanisms, shielding her from the world.
So Sick of Drowning 