Seriously. I’m not an idiot. I don’t need some know-all surgeon, poking his trained nose where it’s not wanted. Charity? No thanks. No-one knows my body better than me. If it’s broke, I’ll fix it. I’ve seen the films. Heart: somewhere between kidney and intestine, right? How hard can it be?
So. Close the door – to the doctor and the helpers and the experts and the other patients. Take a knife and hack at your own body. Stagger round the garden with a scalpel, aiming for the right bit.
Laughable, of course. An act of madness.
Yes. And yet.
When it comes to soul care, I reckon I’m the expert. Scrub myself up with good intentions. Bind my own wounds with excuses and lies. Close the door to the real doctor, then stick in the knife and wonder why I’m bleeding.
There’s some things you can’t fix yourself. Don’t die trying.