No Biscuits? No Club!

I’m in the bath. I came here with preconceived ideas. A plan. A task. A destiny to get to. I haven’t got there yet. I’ve been in a while.

Sweat is dripping into my eyes.

I’ve thrown time to the social media dogs, ferral and bloodthirsty.
I chucked my email address on some strangers list. She spoke to my deepest secret. With brave words. And bewitching honesty. I hung my shabby hopes on her hook.

God yes! Save me! I’m not alone!
Maybe I can be fused.
Fixed.
Unfractured.

I grab other people’s stories, pictures and shares like a hound, starving and reckless. I don’t notice the kicks till I’m bleeding and crumpled on the floor. Deep in the basement.
Light ripped from the world.

You stupid girl, I think.
You gave yourself the kicking!

Like Fight club.
Where the bloke is fighting against himself. Only he doesn’t realise it because the gritty rule of Fight club is, we don’t talk about Fight club.

Depression club.
Guilt club.
Comparison club.
Grief club.
The ‘I don’t enjoy sex anymore’ club.

The first rule is, don’t talk about it.

But who’s the cocky bastard making up the rules anyway?
Could it be me?
Could it be all of us?
Could it be that we don’t gift ourselves the space to see that there are other clubs? Tribes in fact.

Full of hope.
Love.
Laughter.
Togetherness.
Human — ness.

Maybe it’s time to rewrite the rules.

Disband the club’s.

Especially the ones where the support groups suck and they don’t bring out biscuits!