The Voice

Throughout the lives we live, we encounter the sound of many voices. It's an exquisite component of life, considering a voice has the ability to evoke familiarity, educate and instil a sense of security. But I cannot say that all voices are created equally. One voice that I have the misfortune of knowing, is more destructive than an earthquake. The voice I know isn't exquisite in any essence... The voice I know is merciless and relentless. It's so deafening that it's not uncommon, in fact it's expected, that every beautiful voice becomes muted against its siren.

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The voice began as a dull beat on a drum and it manifested into an inescapable conflicting conundrum. Initially, its whisper was diffusible and I heard other voices amidst its murmurs. I do not know when the voice decided that it would start screaming but it happened so rapidly that I didn't even notice. It was like the days melted into weeks and then those weeks melted into months and then those months melted into years. And the final product? The voice wasn't apart of my life... The voice was the drainage point, where life itself was swallowed. Each day is tainted with the forces of its evil, as I am crippled by the war that's so savagely existent in my mind. I do not get a say at the beginning of each day, whether or not I want to hear the argument. Every snack, every meal, every hunger pang, every full signal is a moment that I will, without a doubt, hear the cruel, never-ending cycle. Just as I achieve tranquility, where I can vision recovery and hold hope in my palms, the voice pounces alongside mine until in some way it can find satisfaction that it has been heard, even just for a little while. Then bitterly, I grit my teeth because my longing for even a possibility, is gnawed at and devoured with destruction, determination and complete and total power.

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The Mystery Of A Memory

A silent room,

Is where a pin will drop

And the walls will reverberate against its gentle, fragile echo.

A pin dropped.

And then, so did a needle.

And then a hammer, perhaps.

Now, stomps the clack-ity-clack of thick leather boots with spikes at the heel and chains for laces.

Then, comes the rack-ity-racks of the bad-tempered tennis rackets that crush every tennis ball with smack-ity-smack smacks.

And the silent room becomes a memory of long-long-ago.

For it's now a space burdened with noise.

This room is my brain, pink matter and all, clinging to the memory of the moment where it all... was quiet. Such peaceful silence. Oh, how I long for that silent sound that I heard so long ago.

Luka

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Now experience my poem as though you're in a cafe with your mother who's telling you about her day, as you sit your HSC, as you walk through Italy, exploring its beauty, as you begin training for your new job or are babysitting a baby.These tasks that are simple for another, become insurmountable for those suffering from an eating disorder. Yet, we're left choice-less, forced to mount its spiky back multiple times at most moments of every brand-new day.

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In a room that is filled with clatter, clash, conversation, children's cries and machines beeping, one cannot help but notice the intensity of volume that these sounds are making. For most, the moment that the clatter, clash, conversation, children's cries and machines beeping ceased, would be the moment that they heard silence and felt peace and relief. Might it be, then, a tragic truth, that for me, those noises are the nearest sense of relief I will feel in that day? For your silence, is my headache. In your silence, there is nothing to dissipate the relenting nightmare replaying in my mind. When I first heard Laura Hill's Ted Talk, where she plays a recording depicting what an eating disorder sufferer mostly hears in their head, for the first time since I became ill, I heard silence. The interior of your mind has no voice other than your own, therefore when no exterior voice or sound is vibrating, you only hear the silence of your mind. But for me, I have another interior voice. Therefore, when I heard an exterior recording that played what my interior voice sounded like, for the first time, I'd heard the silence that is my not-so-silent silence.

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Such simple questions that once entailed simple answers, became the very questions that left me uncertain, fearful and in pain. In fact, my previous answers were laced with joy, enticement and experience. But now, those answers were laced with sadness, isolation and judgement. When the voice learnt its first words, I began to question my response to answers I'd always responded to instinctively. I had never second guessed whether I would accept or decline birthday cake, movie popcorn or halloween candy. But, suddenly, I wasn't sure... With my heart and soul, I wanted to accept but my mind, where the voice lived, was telling me to say 'no.' Although my heart began to feel unfulfilled, drained and joyless, the sick part of me, the voice, was gaining power, receiving validation and relishing in its control. But others didn't perceive my hearts eye... they could only see and hear the words that left my lips which more often than not spoke 'no.' Suddenly, others queried, confused by my change of answer to questions that had only ever had one answer: 'yes.' But alongside their confusion were the comments and statements that left me more isolated in shame than ever. They would say things like 'what's gotten into you? Are you crazy?', 'You're missing out!', 'Yummm...What's wrong with you?' or 'I could never say no to xyz.' But I just wanted to scream at those comments because my heart was longing for me to answer with my usual answer but the voice was so much stronger than the will of that beating, bloody, muscle. The voice was fierce and aggressive and cruel and I felt burdened with it, yearning for the belonging that saying 'yes' had once made me feel.

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The spritely, free and happy young girl whom I used to be became depleted of every one of those things. Now, I rest silently, with bags under my eyes, a broken back and cold, cold feet, defeated by this voice that has chosen me. I did not want it, I do not want it, I will not want it. But the voice is so sickly, that truthfully, apart of me cannot believe. Dolls, I hope you find some safety and sanctuary amidst my verbal poetic dump... I know it can sound confusing, shocking and vile, but if one person feels security in the mess that is my words, I will sleep tonight with peace, contentment and ease.

Kisses,

COS x

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