The Emergency Department of the Soul
It is a psychological implosion — the demolition of the false self that was built inside me. The walls I built to survive it are finally coming down, and underneath them is the raw, bleeding, real me who has been screaming to be let out for many years.
Right now, I am in the ICU of the soul, sheltering from the storm. Lights are out.
When I get to leave, I will start to rebuild. Starting with the foundation, something that I can use to find my footing. It does not need to be flat or color matched. It needs to be functional and work for me. Something that doesn't sink into the ground when extra layers are added, and something that can hold the people I want in my house.
The buckets I placed to catch the leaks are now out of sight, not fully discarded. The uncertainty, the fear of needing them, is still there. There are signs from them still — marks on the floor where they stood, water damage on the boards beneath. Put there by an amateur. I know it was my work. My doing. That is harder to accept than the marks themselves. The damage is everywhere, exposed for all to see.
The scaffolding is a different story. That was put up by others — people who wanted to help, maybe me too, wearing a different hat at times. But none of us knew how to do it properly. Some of it was put up, and left. Other parts were hazardous, left damaged by half attempts, after seeing that the job was too big and too hard. Other parts were maintained, but still a brace missing here, a joint left loose there. It held for a while. It was never going to hold for good.
For decades I didn't even know I was trying to steady myself. I didn't know what was wrong, and why my floor was wet. The ceiling sagging. I was too busy looking after the scaffolding and the temporary tarpaulin. The weather was constantly pulling, ripping and letting water in. I understand now that the stones cause the leaks — they broke the tiles.
I speak from having lived it. It becomes a guessing game, with a chance to find the right fix being almost impossible. If I had discovered the fix early, I might have had a chance. With multiple failures, then one working fix isn't enough. Putting in a new window in a rotting wall will seem like a fix. But the wall was never the problem. It was rotting because the roof above it had been leaking for years, and nobody thought to look up. Soon enough, the wall will fail too.
This was me, going to get help. One diagnosis followed the other. Each time, they handed me a new bucket, in a different color. A bucket for the sadness. Another bucket, a different shade, for the overflow. It never occurred to anyone to look up. The system, with its plastic cover solution, wasn't helping either — it made the real damage harder to see. It felt like the temporary tarpaulin over my leaking roof; it might seem like a fix, but it doesn't really work. It should have been a temporary fix while the roof got repaired.
I did get around to fixing my imaginary roof, and I succeeded as well. Only to find the stones again, breaking it, tile by tile, each one finding exactly what I had just repaired. And the tarpaulin had to come back in.
The storm I didn't know I was weathering — it wasn’t the storm itself. It was stones—stones that have already landed, breaking my roof cladding in different places, never missing, never random. That would have been an easy fix if I actually knew. So this is where I am, finally figuring it out, what was causing the damage.
The storm is over, I am still here. I see the damage done over years of this. There is nothing to save, so I can let it go, let it fall over. Take a break and breathe. The exhaustion from keeping it up has finally won. I had to let it fall.
I am writing this from a bed in the emergency department of the soul. I find it intriguing what they do, and that is nothing. There is nothing for me to do until the bad weather has lifted. The scattered rubble has stopped moving. Now it can be safely removed. I need a big cleanout and this will take time. I need clear weather and a helping hand. That is when the rebuild can start.
The buckets are outside now, lined up against the wall. I haven't thrown them out. Not yet.
So while I am waiting, I have picked up the pen. Trying to plan ahead, and learn from my mistakes. This will be a long story to write, and it feels impossible. One letter alone isn't enough, a word alone isn't enough, I need them all, a lot of them.
I have seen what loneliness looks like, from a house falling apart. Desperately moving buckets, reaching for quick fixes. I know now. That this feels too big. This time I will plan ahead. I want to write this with someone I love. I invite Germaine to join, to build something without scaffolding, tarpaulin or any quick fixes at all. A place we can call home, safe and open, where I can be me. Not afraid of finding stray rocks or a ripped tarpaulin.
