Cold linoleum chills my back

Cold linoleum chills my back

Pine green walls-dingy

Tan metal lockers slamming shut

Padlocks bang against metal doors

My back is cold- cold linoleum;tan marbled floor

Echoed voices-hum of fluorescent lights overhead

Louder than they likely are

Dead flies and spiders encased in glass beneath the fluorescent tubes-2 by 2

Needles-firey fingers on my head

A cold linoleum floor is my temporary bed

My chest afire- my heart as though it is in a race

With my fingertips; those marbled marks on the floor I trace

Stiff neck-shoulders too

Eyes blur over

White matte finished doors all look the same

Only room numbers set them apart

More and more people line the hall standing; while some others sit on paint chipped wooden benches

Me. A corner of metal lockers to my left and to my right

I hear the steady droning hum of the fluorescent lights and the sound of an aluminum walker tap-tap-tapping; to me incessantly and thunderously; go by me.

My name is called. I hear it once,twice 3 times.

My legs twitch as I rise- like they are sleeping-melting from under me.

Thousands of needles-red hot needles.

I move my neck. Creak !!

Bone or muscle?  I do not know

Do others hear it ?

50 white starched lab coats – 50 white starched trousers

50 people plus the instructors of which I count 6 through my vibrant vision; though blurred at times like these.

49 of which I do not know; nor have never met; not including the instructors.

100 plus eyes on me? I feel like they are.

I sit in the chair. My teary eyes focusing on the white ceiling of 2 by 4 foot panels of acoustic tile; some beige stained from long ago water leaking.

One of those baby blue bibs with metal clips around my neck.

2 folded paper towels in my hand. A George Brown course guide in my lap.

It is warm.

It is damp.

Now sopping wet.

I’ve wet myself.

I feel shame.

I feel like a loser.

I feel disgust at myself.

I feel…maybe more than I should

I don’t feel like writing.

I feel the head rushes;eyesight fading.

My heart feels like it’s in the Indy 500 race.

I wish I had the cold feel of the linoleum on me again- away from the 100 plus eyes-eyes brown-blue-green-hazel.

In solitude.

In silence. Both around me and in my head.

Again; I sit outside; knees to my chest; my back against the concrete wall; surprisingly not marred by graffiti.  I do not sit near the wad of gum that I previously sat near.

A dove approaches me within one foot; its greenish purple feathers within touch.

It moves from me as the red double deckered bus stops across Kendal Avenue from me.

A rainbow of colored clothing on differently hued people.

I am at Davenport and Kendal now waiting to go home. Wanting to go home.

I see Casa Loma from here but I don’t want to walk up the street; nor the steps to see it up close today.

If I see what I see in myself; then I guess others see it in me as well.

I want to go home.

But “it” is there too

I know I took my Escitalopram today.

Like I do everyday.

I get up and take it.

A ritual.

Today; it doesn’t seem to be working.

It is a gorgeously warm (maybe too warm) sunny day; but in my head it is cloudy.

In my head it is endless shades of grey.

Yet I wait.

Brow and forehead sweating.

Body pulsing.

Then it passes as quickly as it came. Yet sometimes lingering longer

Joe Lethbridge June 11 2012