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on the radar

Doctor I'm not myself anymore.

He asked me about my sex life, all of them, and prescribed a course of antidepressants.
I went to the library and borrowed books from the philosophy and psychology sections, terrified in case I should be spotted by someone who knew me. I read Jung who urged me to make myself whole. I read Lachan who wants me to accept that I'm not.

None of this helped me. All the time I thought crazily, If this isn't me I must be somewhere else.

I know that even though I've now left the Air Force, if I fly for long enough, for wide enough, for far enough, I'll catch a signal on the radar that tells me there's another aircraft on my wing. I'll stare out of the Perspex, and it won't be a friendly pilot that I'll see, all long red hair up under her helmet and freckles and green eyes.

It will be me. Me in the cockpit of that other plane.

If I call her on the radio and ask her: Are you a romantic, over:

She'll crackle back:

That's not flying.
That's following the road.

Out.

++++++++

:adapted from Jeanette Winterson, 'The World And Other Places', (c) 1998

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