Her doctor lets her read her hospital notes and her psychiatric history which takes up an entire page. “Borderline personality disorder”, “autism”, “social anxiety”, “schizoaffective disorder”, “anorexia”, “schizoid personality disorder”… “She doesn’t often call psych triage out of fear of abandonment”? Does anyone have any fucking clue what is going on with her? It is almost midnight, she leaves her house and walks up the road into the storm, furious wind blowing her overgrown fringe, mattered hair and rain drops. She wonders if it’s going to pour, but the rain drops are strained like her tears, stuck inside angry clouds. She kicks debris off the road and picks up a stick which is now her walking stick. If one listens carefully, over the sound of the wind a steady clunk, clunk, clunk of her walking stick can be heard as she makes her way along the road, a lone, shadowy figure in the eye of the storm, the only person crazy enough to go out. She likes to walk and run at odd hours. She likes to be awake when the rest of the world is asleep. But this time her heart races and a familiar feeling of entrapment haunts her. It’s bad, but she fears the worst is yet to come: thunder and the lightening, just like in her nightmares, and she has strayed too far from home. She reaches the top of the hill, then turns around and makes her way back down again. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Everything feels like a dream. Suddenly there is a lul in the wind. She rejoices in the silence and stillness. This is what she imagines death to feel like. Terrifying at first, but once it takes us, we will finally be at peace.