Clowns Don't Cry, It Ruins The Makeup. in And The Rest.

So apparently I wake at 3am these days, that’s just super.

Sitting in the doorway, backlit by they honeyed glow of the living-room lights, staring blank into a sky of such pure black it meets the silhouettes of the trees and merges, ink on wet paper. Exhaling plumes of pale ghost-white smoke, curling ribbons against the domed sky, trying not to think and just to be.

I can’t do it, of course, I can’t empty my mind, for a stupid shelf-stacker my brain is far too irritatingly active. Be quiet, snapping synapses, I’m sick of you, I want peace and you never stop popping, snap crackle pop like puffed rice in milk. You’re radio static, spiked white noise in needle sharpness, you set my teeth against each other, you sink your pointed little barbs into the twitching nerves of my flesh.

Recently I was away for four days; at the end of the last one I call my husband, ask him to pick me up when he finishes work. He replies, I’ll put a note to myself in the car, so I don’t forget.

Once, just once, I wish I could be the kind of person that someone, anyone, just one person, thinks about when I’m not there.

Often, I’m the loudest person in the room, drawn bright in primary colours and too much makeup. Arriving late and half-cut to a house party, the sloppily-drawn drunk kids at the table stand wobbly, raise their mugs of shitmix punch and cheer. Hey! The Life Of The Party!

This infuriating overactive mind finds its one useless calling in quick comebacks, I’m fairly funny (although admittedly one need not be a prizewinning wit to get laughter from intoxicated youths), I’m sarcastic and opinionated and quick to mock myself. I am a fizzing ball of physical energy, always the first to dance, always the last one standing. I’m Fun.

I’m Fun. A great little toy on a night out. Throw me back in the toy box after, Hangover Barbie in smudged makeup and a mutton/lamb dress. I’ll still be there next time, dig me out, wind me up and watch me dance, I’m a joke.

The problem, of course, with my plastic public face is that people take it at face value; shiny, superficial, shallow as a teaspoon.

Sometimes I can’t help but wish someone could see the bleeding hole in my hollow polyurethane soul, just notice me and be there. I’d never ask much from them, just the soft human comfort of a brief embrace, gentle arms to wrap me for a moment, to take the strain off my own. Just a line, a text, a message, a word.

Anything to remind me that I still exist to someone, when I’m not there.