The most consistent thing I can remember since I was fifteen is that I often forget things. When I was reading the series novel of Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle wrote that Sherlock didn’t know the earth revolved around the sun to save space in his mind for classifying cigarette ash. The brain’s space is limited. Yet despite forgetting constantly, I still can’t remember anything.
Today was my last meeting with the crisis team. Since I’ve gained one kilogram after taking mirtazapine, I decided to walk there to maintain my weight. Google Maps showed two routes, and I distinctly remember choosing the one along the streets, but somehow, I ended up walking into a forest.
A real forest. At first, I walked across the grass, feeling the snowmelt dripping onto my shoes, sinking into the ground with every step. Then, the space around me began to deepen. It was like the scene in Spirited Away when Chihiro’s family discovers the temple. Bushes started appearing around me, and twilight blurred into dusk. I began to see illusions. I often mistake black trash bins for people, while real passersby become parts of public infrastructure in my eyes. Wearing headphones, I felt like I was starring in a self-directed music video.
I passed two lakes, though I wasn’t sure if they were the same one. When I saw the first, I thought of Virginia Woolf and her drowning. The second time, I didn’t see the lake directly but glimpsed it through the trees. It reminded me of the Lady of the Lake in Arthurian legend, her hand emerging from the mirror-like water to deliver Excalibur—a sword both drawn and returned. The lake, a mirror, foretells everything. What is taken will be returned; everything is balanced. Such exquisite yet cruel geometry.
The last stretch of the path was completely covered by trees, meaning that if someone wanted to kill me, I would collapse like a deer, silent and unnoticed.
But I didn’t look back, because it was too late.
If I turned back, it would all be over. I took off my headphones. Once sound joined my sensory world, the forest felt so tender, so quiet, like the hair of a goddess falling around me. It was as if every crisis was a delusion. I felt like Hansel and Gretel, lured by the candy-like chirps of insects and birds. The fallen leaves beneath my feet still bore the marks of their frozen state. My palms grew warm from constant movement. I couldn’t remember when I had removed my gloves, which now lay in my hands like a wounded white bird. My legs moved on their own, as if I held Ariadne’s thread. Everything was receding, as though the forest were a rolling carpet, unraveling behind me, swallowed by a void of white nothingness. My steps marked the coastline of the forest’s tide.
When I finally reached the forest’s edge, I didn’t look back. I held onto my gloves tightly, as if the magical thread’s beginning and end were in my hands. I thought I was holding onto someone else, but in truth, I was holding onto myself.
In this final meeting with the crisis team, there were two people. Unlike before, they didn’t ask, “Do you still have thoughts of harming yourself?” Instead, we talked about the passion for life. They asked me what I wanted to do in the future. I said I wanted to write a book, a book of my own. They told me to send them a copy when it was published. I smiled and said, “Alright.” One of the staff, half-Scottish, showed me how to spell his name. I have dyslexia in English, so I watched the letters float and tried to memorize them with my lips.
We talked about Scotland, about Edinburgh, about football, Fernando Torres, Steven Gerrard, and Carragher. We said goodbye. He told me there were 15 people in this team, who had worked over the past two weeks not just to keep me alive but to help me truly live. I had only met a third of them, but my memories of them were already fading. I remember last time, a patient holding a cup of water ran after me, saying, “You’re so pretty.” I remember meeting the first staff member of the crisis team while I was with my roommate’s dog. Afterward, all the staff remembered, saying, “You like dogs, right?”
I walked out the door, knowing I might never return. As soon as I left, I started running, like Shinichi Izumi in Parasyte. I didn’t know why I was running. I didn’t care. Everyone in this city runs. I was running and praying crazily, as if running could make me shine like a meteor burning across the sky. “All I can do is write. Please, I beg you, if my brain can’t remember, let my writer’s intuition remember it all. Please, let me remember this.”
There were two boys my age who brought me to the emergency center that eventually sent me to the mental health hospital. The first NHS staff member I met had red hair and a soft voice like mine. He noted every detail of my trauma, softly telling others, “This girl wants to kill herself.” I remember the two meals I had there, the Japanese boy with auditory hallucinations I met who was celebrating his birthday the next day. I remember the Romanian doctor who told me, “The UK is a lonely country,” the Colombian doctor who told me to love myself, the nurse who knew I loved dogs and wrote me a note with places where I could volunteer.
“You like dogs, right?”
I know I will inevitably forget. I have already started forgetting. There’s a word in the Bible—“new creation.” I don’t know if I count as one. I’m just trying to let my consciousness and body separate, They I was sent into a system to help people do so. After causing a flood, I was sent an olive branch by an indifferent dove. Every NHS staff I met did their best to help me. I remember Adam Kay’s speech at the end of This Is Going to Hurt, where he says they do it simply because they care. I can’t deconstruct it philosophically. I’m just grateful, clumsy with shame, as if I’ve returned to the oral stage of infancy, unable to use words to express myself.
There’s a flood in Greek mythology, too. Deucalion and Pyrrha survive and follow an oracle’s command to throw the “bones of their mother” behind them without looking back. In a sense, I am also a part of my mother’s bones. The new creation walks in old shells. They must walk; they cannot stop. I know I must do the same. Those who look back in Greek myth are met with disaster. I know it will be the same for me.
Today was the first snow of the season, but I missed it in my sleep. The snow had already melted, and walking on it felt precarious, like walking on eggshells. The trees, like brides, lifted their white veils. They only wished to glance at the vast shade of people one last time before walking toward the altar, to live on from then among the normal. I was like a precocious child standing at the edge of a path of flowers, accidentally receiving a fleeting glimpse of the bride, which is like a meteor streaking across the sky. I only know the bitterness of separation, not realizing that sometimes, separation is a blessing in disguise.
我从十五岁的时候开始，记得最连贯的事情就是我经常忘记事情。我在读《福尔摩斯探案集》的时候，柯南道尔写道，夏洛克不知道地球绕太阳旋转，是为了给烟灰的分类留下空间。脑子的空间是有限的。但我即便不停忘记，我依旧记不住任何事。
今天是我最后一次和crisis team会面，因为我吃米氮平后已经增重了一千克，为了保持体重，我决定走着去。谷歌地图上有两条路可以选择，我记得我明明选的是靠着街区的路线，但是我走进了一座森林。
是真的森林，开始我在草地上走，我可以感到雪水滴在我的鞋面上，深一脚浅一脚，接着空间开始出现了纵深。就像《千与千寻》里面千寻一家发现了神庙一样。四周开始出现树丛。暮色将夜未夜，我开始不断地幻视。我经常把黑色垃圾桶认成人，而把偶尔路过的人认成里面的公共设施。我戴着耳机，我就像走在我自导自演的音乐电影里一样。
我见过了两次湖泊，我不确定是不是同一片。在第一次见到的时候，我想得是投水而死的伍尔夫。第二次见到的时候，我没有直接见到湖泊，而是在树丛掩映间，我想那是给亚瑟王送剑的湖中仙女，从如镜中的水面中伸出一只手，Excalibur从湖中被取出，最后被还回湖中。镜子预示了一切，剑被取出，就会被送还，一切都是对等，平衡的。如此精美又残忍的几何美学。
我在森林中走得最后一段路完全是被树木遮盖。这就意味着如果有人想杀掉我，我会像鹿一样悄无声息地倒地。
但是我没有回头，因为已经来不及了。
如果我回头，一切都太晚了。我取下了耳机，在听觉加入了我的感官世界后，森林如此温柔，安静，像母神垂下的头发。好像所有的一切危机都是妄想。我就像汉赛尔和格雷塔，被糖果般的虫鸣和鸟叫引诱。脚下的落叶还处于他们被冰封时的状态。我的手掌发热，因为一刻不停地走动。我记不清什么时候取下了我的手套，在我手中像一只折翼的白鸟。我的双腿自觉地行走，就好像我的手中握着阿里阿德涅的绳线。一切都在消退，好像森林是一卷随着我走动而不断卷起的地毯，被身后白色的空无不断地吞没。我的脚指示着树林浪潮的海岸线。
当我终于走到树林边缘的时候，我没有回头。我依旧仅仅握着我的手套。仿佛魔法线绳的开端和末尾都在我的手里，我以为自己牵着什么人，实际上我自己牵着自己。
最后一次和crisis team会面是两个人，没有像之前的人那样问，“你还有没有伤害自己的念头”，我们聊到了生活的热情，他们问我以后要做什么，我说写书，写一本属于我的书。他们说，记得寄一本到这里。我笑了，说好。那个有一半苏格兰血统的工作人员给我展示了他的名字怎么拼。我有英语读写障碍，我看着漂浮的字母试图用嘴唇记住他。
我们聊着苏格兰，我们聊着爱丁堡，我们聊着足球和费尔南多托雷斯，斯蒂文杰拉德和卡拉格。我们说了再见。他告诉我这个team里面有15个人。在过去两周里，在为了我活着不止于我活下去而努力。我只见过三分之一，但是我的记忆已经开始消退。我记得上次来的时候，一个患者端着水杯追着我说，你好漂亮。第一次我见crisis team的员工的时候，我和舍友的狗在一起。后来所有的员工都记住了，他们说，“你喜欢狗，对吧？”
我走出了门，或许我以后再也不会来这里。我出了门之后，我忽然开始跑步。就像《寄生兽》里的染谷将太。我不知道为什么要跑步，我不在乎，这个城市到处都是跑步的人。我只是一边跑步一边疯狂的祈求上天，好像跑步可以让我像一颗疯狂的流星那样发光。“我唯一能做的就是写字了，求求你，如果我的大脑不能记住，那就让我的作家的直觉来记住这一切。求求你，让我记住这一切。”
在我去急救中心两个把我送到mental health hospital的同龄男孩，第一个接见我的NHS员工，他有红色头发和和我一样轻的嗓音。像记笔记一样事无巨细地记录我的创伤，轻轻地和别人说，“这女孩想杀了她自己”，我在那里吃的两顿饭，我遇到了一个有幻听问题的日本男孩，我和他遇到的时候，他第二天就要过生日。和我说“英国是个孤单的国家”的罗马尼亚医生，告诉我要爱我自己的哥伦比亚的医生，知道我喜欢狗给我写了便条告诉我可以去哪里当志愿者的护士。
“你喜欢狗，对吧？”
我知道我终究会忘记，我已经开始忘记了。圣经里有个词叫“新人”。我不知道我算不算。我只是在试图让我的意识和身体分离后，接着被送进了一个系统。我在引发了一场洪水后，被鸽子不管不顾地送来了橄榄叶。我被每一个接手地尽其所能地照护，我想起来在This is going to hurt的结尾，本威士肖发表的演讲。他们这么做只是因为他们在乎。我无法去做任何的哲学解构，因为我感激，羞耻地口齿笨拙，仿佛回到了无法用唇齿创造语言的口唇期。
希腊神话也有一场洪水，幸存下来的丢卡利翁和皮拉要依照神谕，头也不回地丢弃“母亲的骸骨”。是的，某种意义上，我也是母亲的骸骨的一部分。沿用旧的躯壳的新人依旧要行走，他们无法不行走。我知道我也一样。希腊神话中的人回头要遭遇灾厄，我知道我也一样。
今日初雪，于眠中错过。雪早已霁，行走其上危如累卵。树若新妇，摘起白纱，只愿在走向圣坛前最后渺一眼万里层云，从此后芸芸莘莘活下去。我如在花路边的早熟稚童，不经意领受这如抛坠流星的神性的一眼。只知别离苦，却不知道，别离有时也是歆享的祝福。
Noraeverland 