Dead Husband In Head

Afternoon Siesta - Arifa Asariah

I lay resting, eyes closed, when he stepped into the daylight of my frontal lobe, swinging his left foot over my brow and sitting on my forehead; nonchalantly singing a short refrain from The Sound Of Music.

Eidelweiss, eidelweiss, la la la la la la....

It was tuneful, I'll give him that, but he had forgotten most of the words, so it lacked professionalism.  

But, I suddenly thought, why worry about that?  What really gets up my nose is his gross misappropriation of my head for his lounging area.  Who does he think he is?

My dead husband!  Well that was easy, he is, or was.

Hi, I begin tentatively.

Hi, back.  He says with a grin.

So, what's this all about?  What are you doing here?

Just loafing... Well, actually, I came to give you hope.

Hope?

It's been dark for sometime in our head.  Your senses are dim, your spirit lacklustre.  In fact you could say depression... but I won't.

Depression?  I thought I was...

... coping?

Yes.

Well, actually, you haven't been.  Surviving, yes.  Coping, hmmm, dubious.

Oh, that's news to me.

That's why I'm here.

News?

Yes.

Hope?

Exactly.

So give it to me... please.

Not quite yet.  First we need to tidy up your head a little more.  I've sent for the head-shrink and a couple of vodkas.

Head-shrink I understand, but I don't drink.

I do.

I laugh, you have to when your dead husband has a worse sense of humour dead than alive.  But it doesn't stop me thinking about what just went down.  Me - depressed?  I wouldn't have put it like that but, as I look around at my life and the energy it takes me to do half the things or less than I used to... and I guess I have to agree.

Good, he says in my head, honest appraisal is the first step to recovery.

He rubs his hands together, wipes a grin off his mouth, and, as I watch, two glasses of vodka, in rather beautiful v shaped glasses, hover in front of him.  He grabs one, downs it and repeats the process with the other one.  They disappear by bursting like bubbles into nothing.

...nothing like a good vodka and a fag. He says as if continuing a conversation. Immediately one appears, already lit in his mouth and he inhales deeply.

And it can't kill me.  He laughs gleefully, adding unnecessarily: Because I'm already dead.

I sigh.

I'm off for the mo.  But work on it.

what?

The head-shrink of course. I'll be back with hope.

With that he disappeared from view.

                                                     ..........

And that is what brought me here today.  I felt you, as a Jungian therapist, would perhaps understand.