31st December 2020
Much of the time I wrap myself in a cloak of invisibility. A cloak that makes the rest of the world invisible to me. Within this cloak I am safe, and when the outside world rips the fabric and tears in I react predictably - screaming around B and / or K, or with resignation otherwise. This is not a totally new experience, but what is new is that I want to be around B rather than alone. That is despite B, particularly, often being the "fabric ripper". When I do unwrap this cloak I quickly find myself confused. Uncertain of who or what to believe. Which narrative about my life is more accurate. The one that blames my illness or that which demonises my circumstances. I guess narrative therapy would externalise both, separately or together, and give them some name. This named something, like Jeanette Winterson's "creature", could be interacted with without consuming me from the inside. In the abyss of her own crisis narrative, Winterson found refuge in a Parisian book shop run by a friend, with lodgings in a motel next door. Able to immerse herself in the words that were her comfort blanket, the same as words are mine. This image of refuge drawn by Winterson resonates with me. When confusion abounds the written word and images give me a mooring post. With its base driven deep into the sand and mud I can hook a rope around it and stop drifting.