The serene strike of a benign relaxation exercise leaves me annihilated,

Jolted out of it aggressively with the memory of a child perversely violated.

Now I am dead, can’t move, paralysed, come to a stop,

Eyes stuck in a fixed stare, can’t rise from the soft sofa chair.

There is a famine of action here, at first I’m unable to fathom,

My mind ruminates to examine, riding thoughts of guilt and shame.

Slow circular repetition between emptiness,

Til I see for this abyss I’m not to blame.

This whole being dissociation, swells waves of frustration,

They rise to a mental agitation and crash nauseous against the thoughts.

Now I’m drowned again in nothing

but the suffering of enforced stillness as before.

I’m in a buffering of sorts but the signals not returning,

Only pools of anxiety and fear

and occasional motionless desperation turning.

A waking nightmare as I vegetate in my nightwear.

Devoid of motivation or choice and I no longer recognise my voice.

Why is there nothing I can do?

Feeling I should be able to override it

It’s MY body but it’s shackled in position

Ignoring requests from MY brain to initiate.

How much more am I expected to take.

I take a glass of water offered,

It remains stuck in my hand, resting on my belly,

No more able to return it to the table,

Than reach the control for the telly.

When with monumental strength or a caring hand,

I rise to my feet and feel so glad to land.

Short periods of activity keep my soul alive

And a glimmer of hope I’ll once again thrive.

But the noise of everything is frightening, cuts my mind like lightening,

Movement is strange and independent of mind which feels inflamed inside.

My head swims in something thick, in-penetrable,

It rings, full and opaque, nothing makes sense,

Its density overwhelms me, need to sit soon or not be awake.

Reluctantly I break from winning and return to sit back down.

This disconnection of body and brain, still alert but thick with goo,

Forcing a body made of lead to get to work,

Is nigh impossible to do.

I concede my campaign against them,

My pleas for more action fruitless and in vain.

This dearth of activity, devours my self worth.

The disappointment and criticism cause pain.

Til I shift and realise I can only do what I can do,

The voices need ignoring until they are none or few.

I can swim a little in the stagnation, occasional pushing,

With kind and gentle expectations doing a few small things.

This shutdown is another thing to survive

I’m used to finding it hard to be alive.

When this episode leaves me free,

I’ll resume my recovery, diligently.