there are certain actual needs I have.
Even when the cliff is not of stone.
I need eyes that see the abyss.
Eyes that see me, where I hang.
I need strong arms that hold a rope.
Even when the arms are not of flesh and bone.
I need a friendly presence
while deathfear cramps itself out.
I need safe silence when I have no words.
When words are there, I might need:
I need a clear brain that reality tests with me:
Was I pushed?
What do others own?
What do I own?
I need someone who gives me time and space
to find what I can learn from my past.
When the time is right.
Someone who knows that it is my abyss.
These are my fingers.
This is my past.
Someone with guts to stay beside me
and does not try to show the way.
Can you give me what I need when I hang over an abyss?
If you can’t, more than anything else,
I need sentences that begin with “I”:
When you say it like that
you own your reactions.
You don’t give them to me.
Rude, you say?
Subjective, you say?
Have a look at this:
Is this polite?
Postscript: Have I been “psychotic”? I don’t know. 24 years ago there were months when I was hallucinating, hearing voices, suicidal and very confused, and I managed to hide these symptoms from my family and the health services.
I had an inner image of hanging on to a teetering “me” when people in my surroundings were trying to push me into a void. And this “me” was validated and strengthened by memories of people I had known and loved as a child, so I was actually hanging on to them, to what it felt like to be with them, what safety and trust and acceptance felt like.
And I knew how my mother acted and what she did before she lost touch with reality, so I knew not to go into her world of polarization, of insisting that everyone else was crazy.
And I finally managed to communicate with my inner critic, who knew that I was wrong, and that the world would be a better place when I was dead. That story is in “Psychiatry or liberation?“, but you need to scroll down a bit. That broke the spell.