Post Mortem

I'm feeling a little broken.

Don't ask me why or who or what. Just know that for some reason, I'm feeling slightly morbid and hurt.

I catch myself wallowing. And I catch myself fuelling it.

I spent an hour reading reports from the Coroner's Court.
It's where the Coroner discusses why or how someone died. The post mortem is on full display.

The Court is filled with cases of suicides.
Investigations into causes of death. Assessing whether someone was suicidal. About the knife, the rope. How they were found. And the why. Why? Why? Why?

I feel I’m being intrusive. As if these are stories I shouldn't know.
It’s how I felt reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. Intrusive but persistent in my quest for knowledge. I had to know. Someone has to know that this is happening.

But between these moments of solitary intruding I'm balanced with sparks of joy.
True smiles.
The ability to converse with work colleagues and shop assistants that I often lack. The world is not all doom and gloom. I can see both sides, and I’m surviving in both sides.

I’m balancing.