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Since I am resting up today, I thought I would write you all a little story….

She stood looking out of the window at the world outside distorted through the raindrops which fell and clung to the glass.

They were but a simple sad reflection of the sorrow that seemed constantly to fall on her life and cling to her mind.

Sorrows that all too often distorted her view of life in the same way those raindrops distorted her view of the world outside.  Sorrows which kept everyone else out and which kept her in

As she stood; looking, thinking, falling, a lone butterfly fluttered near as if seeking refuge from the storm.

Without thinking she gently lifted her fingers towards it seeking to offer it a resting place, a safe haven from the world.

But the same rain drenched distorted barrier which kept it out, kept her in and so neither could touch or connect with the other.

“We want to be free!”  Her thoughts screamed in silence. “To run free, feel free, be free!”

“Once,” she called back, “we were free.  A long time ago, long before this madness began, long before…”

Her thoughts gave way to memories. Memories of a time long ago a time.  A time when even the rain that fell could bring happiness and fun.

“We want that again! We want to be free!”  Her thoughts screamed in silence once more.

Without word she turned suddenly and rushed to the nightstand by her bed silently opening the drawer and pulling from it a pad and pen.

Sitting down on her bed she put pen to paper and gave voice, gave freedom to the thoughts that no-one else seemed to want to hear.

The hurts and fears which the world had long since banished to the isolated captivity of a ‘troubled mind’.

How long she had sat there pouring out her heart, her mind, her hopes and her hurts in that letter she could not say.

But once she had finished she looked at it momentarily.  It had no beginning. No recipient’s name.  No intimate personal end greeting.  It was written to no-one and yet to everyone. It was written by someone who felt all to often like a no-one.

Tearing the letter from the pad and rising to her feet she discarded the pad and pen onto the bed.  Pausing momentarily and glancing down at the pad and pen now laying on the bed, she could not help but note how life had discarded her as easily as she had done so them.

Through tear stained eyes she looked once more at the letter she clutched in here hands before turning and rushing out the door into the rain without thought of coat or hat.

Once outside  she glanced both ways down the quiet early morning rain drenched street before moving on.

It was as abandoned of people as she was of cares.

Silently she ran down the street towards the river.  Her thoughts had so desperately wanted to be free, to run free, feel free, be free and she was going to give that to them.  Just this once she was going to give it to them.

As her soft bare feet splashed through puddles of rainfall so too did her mind through so many happy childhood memories and her heart through so many waves of release.

Finally reaching to the roadside which ran alongside and down to the old river she stopped.  Holding out her rain dampened letter before her she looked as all the words were beginning merge into a blue inky stains.  But it didn’t matter, they were there and she was there and that was all that mattered.

In reality she had run but a short distance from her home.  And yet in truth she had run years from the captivity of her now to the freedom of her childhood.

Taking the letter containing so many of thoughts, her hopes, and her hurts she carefully folded it desperately and yet freely trying to remember the way and make the shape she used to do so all those years ago when her daddy taught her.

Stooping down she gently took the little paper sailboat she had folded from her letter and laid it onto the fast flowing stream of rain which she knew would soon join with the river and eventually the sea.  Finally, her thoughts, her hopes, her hurts were free and finally, for that moment, perhaps for an hour, a morning, a day, even a week or two so would she be.

So there you have it – the short story I wanted to write you all.  Writing is a passion of mine, I think it comes from writing stories and books for my kids. 

Similarly, mental health is, as you know, also a passion of mine and I wanted to write a short story which demonstrated that even when our mental health is getting the better of us and we feel we have no one to talk to – there is still a way of getting those thoughts, those hopes, those hurts, out there and there is still a way we can find the release we so desperately need.

I hope you enjoyed it.