text: We don’t know what’s the matter with me, but we know why I’m in bed and not at work. I lie here staring up at the white gotelé ceiling, but I can’t be sure it’s white; I can’t be sure of anything, really. Maybe the ceiling is like the green curtains that still glow purple no matter how hard I look; I could glare a hole through these dreadful, frenetic curtains, and they would never be green. I glance up at the lifeless clock on the wall, the limp hands forever indicating six o’clock. I don’t know why I still look, why I anticipate change. How long was I asleep? Beyond the swirling purple of the curtains is a rose sky, and clouds already trimmed with orange; so much for a nap. This would interfere with my sleep again, and a sleepless mind wanders, a sleepless mind invents, a sleepless mind sees what isn’t there. The purple curtains, for instance. John said he’d filled the room with calm colours since my episode --that’s at least what he called it--but all I see are nauseatingly bright ones. There’s a portrait, for example, in a banana yellow frame, and the woman’s electric blue eyes sicken me. I removed her from the wall last week and shoved her in the wardrobe, but John wasn’t pleased. We can’t always change our environment, he said, but we can change our reaction to it. I try to will myself back to health; I try to see green curtains where I see purple ones. It’s very scary up here in my head where I can’t trust anything. I don’t recall there ever being anything wrong, really, but I suppose one hits a breaking point. I’m reading a book called Self-Discovery which argues that one cannot exist in a vacuum; one’s existence is confirmed by collective perception, and we must know ourselves not only in isolation but also in company. It then goes on to discuss meaningful encounters , and there’s one particularly enlightening part. I pluck it from the bedside table and flick through it--don’t you love that sound? the rustling pages? --and here we are: “...transformation is indicative of an encounter which is still taking effect.” My relationship with John is one such encounter. He continues to challenge me, and I know that I’m growing as a result. He’s uncovered so many parts of me I didn’t know were there, he’s shone a light on all my misconceptions, and he points out when I’m being irrational; all this, and he’s supported me through my episode --I still shy away from the word--both emotionally and financially. It’s this latter which humiliates me, for I’ve always been independent. Independence, however, is toxic when it prevents us from seeking or accepting help. John says it’s OK to focus on my mental health before returning to work, but there’s a nagging urge within that resists this dependence on him. I don’t like when he raises his voice, though, so I’d rather not mention it. Sometimes I think he’s the problem, that he’s trying to trick me, but that’s why I’m here, in bed, staring at the white gotelé ceiling and stroking a book cover. It’s fun to play with the senses, with perception, but I think I go too far sometimes; I sense what isn’t there and create a world which doesn’t exist. That’s what he calls an episode , a paranoiac episode, not that he’s a doctor. But he’s right in that I’m the problem, and I have enough self-awareness to acknowledge it and take accountability. I ruin everything with my insecurity and lack of trust; I interpret everything, even help, as manipulation. It’s no wonder John is struggling, and I’m ashamed to put him through this. Can you imagine offering someone genuine love only to have them study it like a specimen under a microscope? I don’t know where my suspicion stems from, but surely it’s a defence mechanism; perhaps I think myself unworthy of love and thus doubt it. I can’t be sure, but it’s not John’s responsibility to navigate my trauma. He loves me, and I’ll keep reminding myself until it sets in. The real world is not divided into mortals and monsters, and it’s unfair to project my insecurities onto him. I decisively repress the paranoia because I owe it to him, I owe it to myself, and we deserve to be happy. It might also help with the stress, and maybe this rash will finally clear up, maybe I’ll stop hyperventilating, maybe the migraines will subside. It’s insane how the mind plays tricks on us, and how said tricks manifest physiologically. I try to will myself back to health; I try to see green where I see purple. Those piercing blue eyes on the wall follow me to my desk; I can feel them like darts in my back. I resist the urge to hide her in the wardrobe again. I don’t know why John makes such a big fuss about it--it’d be just a small concession--but he’s a little stubborn sometimes. You’re the one making a big fuss about it, he says. Maybe I’m insane--well, I mean, yeah, I’m the one at home--but if you find a portrait unsettling, where’s the harm in removing it? And now we’ve assigned it so much disproportionate significance that it’s taken on a life of its own. Every morning I wake up to those electric blue eyes on the wall, and it’s ridiculous how much I hate it, how much I hate this stupid blue-eyed woman watching me. But I think, maybe, it’s because of what she represents. But John’s adamant about a lot, about me getting better, about changing our response to the environment when we can’t change the environment ourselves. We can, though, and if not, we can remove ourselves from said environment. That’s at least how I see it. We magnify everything, don’t we? All this over a bloody portrait that holds no sentimental value to either of us. But it’s the principle, he says. God, I always fall down this rabbit hole. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, it’s just that... I don’t know, but see, I can’t even trust myself to think the right things. John’s been encouraging me to write again, but how am I to write when I can’t trust my own perception? Still, I flip open my laptop with the little hope I can muster. The limp hands on the wall still indicate six o’clock, but beyond the purple curtains is a sky dusted with paprika. *** The moon hovers above red toffee clouds, and the sky melts from red to purple. I’ve always loved describing things. Well, I used to, until I learned my descriptions didn’t quite make sense. I hear John pull into the driveway, the brakes, the pop of the car door. I scamper down the hallway and swing open the screen door. He looks up at me from the lawn as he closes the mailbox--a rusty creak --a few letters tucked beneath his arm. He’s tired, and I swallow my excitement like a gobstopper. I glance down at my bare feet on the dusty veranda and hop onto the doormat. Welcome Home. “Long day?” I ask, as he climbs the porch stairs, wood creaking beneath his weight. “Long day,” he says, leaning in for a brief kiss. I step aside, back into the hall and into the coatrack which wobbles an instant. It’s hard to always contain my enthusiasm, but I know it’s overwhelming. John dodges me, and I follow him into the kitchen where he tosses the keys and mail into the cane basket atop the microwave. He turns around to embrace me, heaves a long sigh, and rests his head on mine. I waited all day for this, for his warm embrace, for the familiar scent of sweat and cologne, for the scratch of his beard against my forehead as he plants a kiss there. I could collapse here, now, in an odd desperation; and I sigh, I melt, I tremble in his big, tender arms. This is my safe space, this is home, and I could cry from this strange sense of relief. We withdraw, and he nuzzles my cheek, my nose. Oh, that familiar scratch, that familiar cologne. “I wrote today!” I say. Surprise flutters across his brow. “I’m proud of you,” he says, then opens the fridge. “Did you buy more pesto?” No, I didn’t, but I remain silent. “That’s OK,” he says. “I guess I’ll just have mi goreng again.” I watch him enter the living room and kick off his steel caps. He drops onto the couch, snatches up the remote, and with a click he’s awash with light. Voices trickle into the kitchen where I turn on the kettle and fish noodles from the pantry. He said he’d buy the pesto, didn’t he? I know, I know; it’s not worth worrying about. This is what I mean when I say I perceive what isn’t there; I saw something in his surprise, a micro expression that betrayed anything but pride; and I heard a complaint in his reassurance, impatience in his fatigue. No, we don’t know what’s the matter with me. I drain the noodles, rip open the sauce sachets and squeeze them into the bowl. “You coming?” calls John, an arm slung over the back of the couch, and I watch him for a moment; I watch the white light from the television flash across his wide eyes and raised brow. I try to see a smile where I see a smirk; I try to see green where I see purple.