The sound of 'This Means War' by Nickelback fills the room. How I've grown to loathe that song. I pull the pillow over my head and press down in the hope that it’ll drown out Chad Kroeger's voice. Don’t get me wrong, I love Nickelback, but having them wake me up every damn morning I don’t like so much. I don’t like it at all in fact.
I’ve given up trying to drown out the music. I reach down onto the floor and pick up my iPhone. I slide my finger from left to right. The music stops. I breathe a sigh of relief and lay my head back onto the pillow. I know I have ten more minutes until the electric guitar of the introduction to ‘This Means War’ starts again, telling me that I really do need to get up or I will be late.
The sun is streaming in through the windows. I don't close the curtains. Although I prefer it, being in the dark too long plays havoc with my migraines.
I sigh again and pull my covers over my head, closing my eyes. I begin to slowly drift off into a world that contains all of my dreams and nightmares. I wonder which one I'll have today… a dream or a nightmare.
I question myself why I’m bothering to wonder that when I already know the answer. Sure, with the pills I have I have a better chance of having plain weird dreams than anything else. But I’d say around 90-95% of the dreams I have are nightmares.
As I slip deeper and deeper into unconsciousness I am relaxed. The dream seems to have started off pleasantly. I’m walking through a field. Grass all around me as far as the eye can see. No trees or flowers. Just lush green grass. I look up and the sky is bright blue. I close my eyes and smile. Maybe I was wrong after all.
A series of loud bangs prove me wrong. Gunfire. I open my eyes and look down to the floor to see the lush green grass melt away into hot dry sand. I slowly raise my head to see there's no grass anymore. Just sand. Sand and bodies. Gunshots and screams fill the air.
I look back to see I’m wearing boots and camo pants. I look at my chest to see I’m in full combat uniform with my weapon in my hands. I raise my head and look dead ahead of me. My eyes lock onto a child’s. Shit. Not this again.
I find myself wishing I could hear Nickelback again. In this moment I don’t believe I've appreciated them anywhere near enough. The guitar riff is nowhere to be heard.
Fuck! Eyes still on the boy, I see him edge forward towards me. I know exactly where this is going and what is going to happen. I’ve had this dream way too many times before for me to think I can change the outcome. But, for some reason, it never stops me from trying. The boy is bleeding. He begins to fall forward…
Just as I find my feet I take off running towards him. I pass bodies strewn over the sand, pools of red surrounding them. I hear my comrades covering me with suppressive fire. Dropping my weapon as I fall onto my knees I check his heart rate. It’s slow and weak. His t-shirt is soaked in blood at the front in a long line. He must have been shot. He’s just a kid.
I rip his t-shirt open to see if I can use it to compress the wound in the hope to stop the blood but what I see stops me in my tracks. Small horizontal metal lines untidily placed from the top of his sternum to his belly button. Industrial staples. My hand comes up to the back of my head and grips my hair. Grab. Pull. Release. Grab. Pull. Release. Grab. Pull. Release.
My other hand is trying to stop the blood flow. I shake myself out of my shock and put both my hands to work on stopping the blood flow. I hear him desperately mumbling but I don't understand the language too well. The only words I manage to make out are ‘Please’ and ‘Help’.
I nod to him and reply “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. We’ll have you up and about in no time”. I smile, even though I know I’m lying through my teeth. I could have told him I was David Beckham and it wouldn’t have mattered. He has no idea what I was saying but I keep my tone soft, and I try to smile and reassure him. Part of me realises that I’m more telling him it’ll be okay to reassure myself rather than him. I know he’s going to die. I know I can’t stop it. There’s too much blood. But have to try.
He’s starting to go really pale, almost grey in colour. He’s bleeding out, and he’s not doing it slowly either. “No, no, stay with me” I look into his deep brown eyes and realise he’s no longer looking back at me. He’s gone.
“Shit!” I close my eyes and look down at my hands covered in blood. I open my eyes again and see that his hand on top of mine and he’s holding something. It’s a small fabric Union Jack patch and an American Cent.
I take one last look in the boy’s eyes and shake my head as I place my hand over his forehead. Bringing it down to the bottom of his nose, closing his eyelids at the same time. “I hope you find Peace buddy”. The words come as barely a whisper.
There is a rip of Velcro as I open my pocket and take out a small pair of wire cutters. I start to cut each stable from top to bottom. As I part the skin I am met by a truly horrific sight. A device. A bomb.
Who could do this to a child?
Just as both my hands reach my hair and grab, the guitar riff to ‘This Means War’ meets my ears. How fitting. I wake up with a start and sit up in bed. “Thank God” I say between breaths, wiping my brow of sweat. I swipe my finger from left to right on my iPhone. As soon as I see the time, I know I'm already running late. Somehow find the energy to get up and walk into the bathroom, start the shower, strip off and climb in.
Ironically, this happens most days. Some people believe I’m lazy. Trust me, I’m not. My depression makes it incredibly difficult for me to function on a day to day basis like other people do. I find it hard to wake up and find the energy to get out of bed. I have almost no motivation to do absolutely anything.
When I manage to get to sleep I never want to wake up. Even though I love it, sometimes I don’t even have the motivation to pick up a pen and put it to paper. But when inspiration hits? That’s when nothing is stopping me. With anything else? I’m screwed.
Unless I force myself to eat, I go days without eating. Even when I’m thirsty, I don’t drink anything. To the point where I had bad headaches due to dehydration. Eventually,I force myself to eat and drink. I force myself to eat or drink. I force myself to do other regular things that ‘regular’ people do.
Unless you suffer from depression, you can never understand just how difficult it is for me to do normal things like hold down a job or maintain any kind of relationship, whether it be with family, friends, or more.
Twenty-four minutes or so after getting into the shower, and I’m already dried off and dressed. I grab my stuff and start the journey through the snow to my appointment.
A few doors down the sound of a car door slamming is mistaken by my brain to be a gunshot. I crouch down and look around me to see a familiar face. She smiles a broad smile and lifts her hand to wave at me. I wave back, pretend for a second that I’m tying my shoelaces, then stand up and begin my journey again.
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