Encounter

I.

Awoke during the break of dawn,

heavy with sweat and despair.

Pressed to the thin hospital mattress

Unable to move

as if I were already laying in a casket.

Three inutile blankets to secure my shivering torso  

Offering no warmth, just to hold me firmly in place.

Laying with my eyes half shut,

Pharmaceuticals pulsing through my veins.

I had placed myself nose to nose with Death

My memory is thick with the fog of my grief

                                And the unspeakable violence of my action.

I could only recall being on my knees the night before,

                                                                                              begging.

It was the first time I had prayed

 Anguish grips my heart tight with this revelation,

 A nurse shuffling past in her sky-blue scrubs.

 I realise with a hot urgency; I desperately want to be outside –

 A feverish desire to look up.

"Breakfast is in half an hour"

her voice sweet and soothing like the mother I don’t have.

Flat bare feet slap on icy tiled floors

I look down at my bare legs,

Observing the tuft of hair I had missed shaving days earlier.

I am devastated

                         by the realisation

                                                  that I am human.

Inhale deeply, try to stagger my exhale,

like Dr. [redacted] taught me.

Hands held out in front of me, cupped slightly - as if I expect to receive something.

Closing my eyes I scour through invisible notes

to recall all I learned in my single semester of Introduction to Psychology

                                                                                                               searching for proof I can persist.

My arms start to ache from the waiting and -

                                                                                                 Can you help me? Would you help me?

Allow the cold from the floor to run up to my spine

There is a low hum that is growing louder,

I realise it is my teeth chattering

I let my limbs fall heavy to my sides.

II.

Assorted breakfast items

Small butter packets that remind me of year four camp.

Biting into the cold soggy toast - I don't complain.

Encouraged to socialise with the other patents [but] I never know what to say.

Exhausted Rapunzel sits in front of me,

bleach blonde hair engulfing her petite face.

Her slender fingers grasp a flimsy Styrofoam cup

precariously housing her morning tea.

Stormy blue eyes framed by even darker bags; I think she might be the prettiest woman I've ever seen.

 I don't have anyone else to ask

                                                            so

                                                             "Is God real?"

her eyes meeting mine for the first time since I arrived.

"Yeah, I think so darl', not sure how much good He is here though"

she says it so casually.

I wonder if He's hiding in between the SSRIs

or in the condescending adult colouring in books.

My heart stops aching for a single beat.

A brief whisper of peace through my unrelenting

insurmountable grief.

Cork-backed clip board is passed around,

we must indicate if we will be taking a day pass

on this mild September Sunday.

I do not even notice

my own hand reaching out for the pen.

Bewildered by my body moving without permission

I continue to write my name

                                          Messy and smudged because I'm left-handed and careless.

Staring at the page, as I continue to involuntarily write

a small declaration

                           Reason: c-h-u-r-c-h

A busy teal frenzy of a woman retrieves the sheet from me

"Oh what church do you go to?"

"Just one around the corner"

I bathe and pull the teeth of my brush through my hair

                                                                                               Pretending its someone's fingers.

Standing between the security doors of the ward

I catch a glimpse of myself

in the shatter proof glass that encases the nursing staff.

Black shoes, brown skirt, white top

                                              an enormous black leather jacket shrouds me from prying eyes.

I do not like to be seen.

III.

I arrive

there are young people outside the inconspicuous church building.

Beaming so bright

I half expect them to vomit pools of sunshine from their upward turned mouths

There's no way they're that happy

The foyer is filled

with the kind of affectionate community I've only seen in films.

I slink to the outskirts of the commotion,

finding a spot to hide in.

A man approaches me, smiling

tall and broad he says "hello".

I remember to say "hello" back.

He asks me what brought me here - I look up to his face

I cannot shape my words to explain to him

"Just thought I'd try it out".

I can tell he knows

this is not truth, but I hope it is enough to satisfy his curiosity.

He tells me he's the pastor.

                                                          Panic

People that good can always smell the rot on you.

I offer an excuse for my presence -

Something about being in town for medical reasons.

I wonder if Jesus is okay with half-truths?

this might only qualify as a quarter-truth.

Pleasantries are exchanged

I stumble my way through them but I want to say:

Please

            don't look at me.

I am burdened with shame; can't you see the chains?

He would have seen the whole bloody mess

                                                         and I'm sure He was revolted.

My sins run through my veins

                                                            and I cannot see a way out.

Instead of making this confession

                                                               I lie

 about liking worship music (I do not know any of the songs).

Standing in the dark crowded auditorium

acutely aware I am here alone.

The atmosphere is warm and bright

despite it being an objectively dark and cold room-

this is unfamiliar. 

Every body in this room seems to flow together in unison.

Pink and purple light gently spill over me

The congregation is illuminated by soft pastel hues.

Intently I am watching the projector screen

trying to decipher the words to the songs

The voices rise - I can feel their praise pressing into me.

Remaining silent, not singing along -

I do not feel like I deserve to join in.

The room continues to move and roar

                                         but suddenly

                                                                      I cannot hear a thing.

I feel time slowing around me

my body in a sea of thick honey.

Close my eyes and wait

                                for this peculiar feeling to leave me.

A palm curls itself over my right shoulder.

Abruptly conscious someone is standing behind me.

My eyes do not open, I do not turn around.

The distinct indent of four fingers and a thumb press through my thick jacket -

                                                                                   piercing my carefully curated armour.

The crowd continues uninterrupted, but I cannot hear them

They are seemingly unaware my senses have been knocked out of me.

                               Someone has reached out and touched my soul

                                                                               Ripping through me like a cleaver.

The hand does not shy away, instead

amidst the thunderous praise

I only hear a voice say

                                    "sing"

                                                    and my mouth opens.

obeying before my brain can keep up.

Words tumble out,

It takes me seconds to realise what I am saying;

“I'm coming home.

I'm coming home.

I'm coming home.”

Georgia Hart is an Australian emerging poet who weaves narratives of faith and resilience. Her work explores personal struggles with surviving abuse and mental health complications, juxtaposed with the she has solace found in nature, reflecting a journey of healing and hope. Georgia is passionate about illustrating the power of community and the personal growth found in the mundane miracles of every day life.