Clean and unpolluted,
white is without pressure:
it does not exert
or seek to detract.
Rather,
it simply sits:
comfortable
and at peace.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Pressing anxious paws against my lower arm,
she marks my skin,
3kg of stiletto feet.
Easily startled, nerves like gum,
she twitches like a bird:
permanent fight or flight.
Even asleep, she is awake
and I worry:
what does this do to her?
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Today, the vertigo is back
and my energy is flying around
like rabbits.
Gravity has become my enemy
and I cannot lie still enough.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Anxiety
sits in my shoulders
like a bird
without wings
watching
the approach of winter.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Huddled amongst dust bunnies and cobwebs, I claw at the things that stare at me and shy away from those that bite. It’s cold and I wish that there were others: spirits, perhaps; and fairies and angels. But the part of me that believed, that believes, is struggling to reach out, bereft of clarity and energy. Behind closed eyes lights dance, colours come and go and I know it won’t be long now until I am ready.
The days pass and October dwindles. Soon it will be November and then the end – of fast, of angry, of sad, of lonely, of cold and damp and grey and black… of disrespected and disconnected and struggling to keep up… of tension tight in my neck and belly and not being able to relax… of constant traffic and constant people always rushing past… of feet above and feet below never letting up… of grimy windows and oily floors, slamming doors… of pushing and shoving and phones that swallow, umbrellas in the way… and tomorrow a carbon copy of today.
The page grows heavy, the uncomfortable inside climbing out. A hand finds my arm, a head my neck, thighs grip my abdomen and press. The baby in my belly complains. As usual it is unhappy.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Whatever way you look at it: my life is a triangle with uneven sides; wonky, like a tower that is crumbling or a cake that’s not right; a pack of cards stacked, tumbling. And as I attempt to navigate the landscape of my life: traveling across terrain that is uneven, bumpy; brushing up against, crashing into, obstacles that bar the way; incurring wounds and injuries… I am increasingly aware that, with time, instead of better, it gets less and less right.
Good days, bad days; happy days, sad days. Fast days, slow days; high days, low days. Days that are nice and days that are mean. Days that are concealed and days that are seen. Days that smile and days that weep. Days that wake and days that sleep. Days that talk and days that think. Days that lift and days that sink. Days that expand and days that contract. Days that add and days that subtract. Days that love and days that hate. Days that embrace and days that escape. Days that do and days that don’t. Days that will and days that won’t. Days that are days and days that are years. Days that are friends and days that are fears. There are a million ways for a day to play out… A mere traveller on an expansive back, I am fed up with being their victim.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Feeling antsy;
finding it hard to write.
Sitting down’s a mission,
but standing up’s worse.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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“There is no point in trying to suppress the babble of words and ideas that goes on in most adult brains. So if it won’t stop, let it go on as it will, and listen to it as if it were the sound of traffic or the clucking of hens.” Alan Watts
It’s my last day. My flight leaves tomorrow. I’m packed, the boxes have gone, the dog has been to the vets for pre-flight jabs. And I’ve tidied, washed, ironed and cleaned, to the extent that the house feels empty. I am no longer here.
I am lying in bed beneath a blanket writing by candlelight. In the main room, a fire burns. Outside, its raining. It has been for hours. The shift I had hoped to avoid caught me unawares, materialising without warning. It’s winter now, properly; not sometimes or some days… Still, at least I will be better prepared when I land, which is something.
I’m not sure how I feel, as I’m doing my best to avoid thinking and feeling is strictly banned. I’m scared that if I pause for long enough for it to sink in, the everything that’s happening around me (which is pretty scary and big) will rise up causing me to drown. I have a tendency to suffer from overwhelm at the best of times.
To keep the monster at bay, I drink lots of camomile tea and dose up on sedatives – all herbal, mind. I move a lot, too – all nervous energy atop impatient feet.
Looking after my dog is helping; tending her agitation, aiding my own dis-ease. What she is suffering is bad enough: she sees boxes, cases; knows something is happening to her environment, chipping away at it, but she can’t quite explain what it is. Is mummy leaving? Is daddy going on a trip? Has she done something to anger or upset? Why are things disappearing: her blanket, her bowl, her bed? I know where she is. Being in limbo is uncomfortable.
I wish I knew what was on the other side, whether I will love or loathe it. I wish I knew how long it will take, the exact length of this interlude. I wish I could have a guarantee that if I hate it, if I am unhappy, I don’t have to stay that long. I wish someone could promise me that the temperature will be favourable, that there won’t be much rain and that the sun will always shine. I wish there were answers. In their absence, I have no idea where I am, how I feel, what is happening. Like my dog, I am confused.
I reach out my hand to those around me, looking to them for comfort, only to realise too late that they are only interested in subtracting. I lend my shoulders, my arms, my breasts… while my heart endures a battering. I need to widen my circuit, balancing the flow between to and from.
Tired, drained, I shrink back, taking refuge in the one place only I can find. It’s quiet and dark. Even in a busy cafe, nothing reaches in. Safe within the void, held by the flow, I find comfort. For now, it works.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Last night’s dinner covered in ants.
The metal contraption that cooks in various shades of black.
Dirty plates, empty cups.
A girl with broken eggshells in her lap.
The snake of uncertainty.
A spider without legs.
A dust mote, a cockroach,
a senile cat.
The hive of a head.
The blue beneath.
Paper birds.
Hide and seek.
Tripping over objects.
Impatient feet.
The man in the photograph.
A final receipt.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Uncertainty wakes, rises, puts on a dress, washes her face and administers makeup; moves from the bathroom into the hallway, on to the kitchen, where she is blinded by light. Last night’s dinner sits in the sink, stale and menacing, covered in ants: creatures that smell a meal on washed-up plates, dine for hours on empty cups.
Indecision joins her, filling the kettle with tepid water, placing it on the hob to boil, taking four slices of factory bread from the artificial sheath that contains them, slipping them – slowly, carefully, ever so securely – into the metal contraption that cooks, painting their surfaces caramel brown and various shades of black.
The light flickers, the kettle whistles, the toaster clicks. There is comfort in action, reassurance in order.
Anxiety enters on impatient feet, circling, pacing, crying out in tones are far from dulcet, bereft of endearing; although her mother might love them, perhaps?
Uncertainty sighs and moves to the cupboard, extracting a plate and a bowl; taking a packet of something vaguely meaty, pouring it in; filling the empty hollow with dried-up balls that chime as they connect.
Setting it down with a tap like the rapping of fingers, the patter of rain, she begs a window of space from the creature that hounds her. The air, however, has other ideas. It hisses and cracks.
As she searches for purpose and meaning inside a present that is deceptively labelled, longing for a destination which manages to be both familiar and exciting at the same time; Indecision deliberates the tangle of life, feeling bitter and cheated, freshly abandoned.
Meanwhile, Anxiety circles, carving rivers of worry into the floor.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 