The Bitch Twitch.

The head snaps sharply to the side. An arm goes with it. Both knees leap upwards from their cross-legged position. Neck cranes backwards. Sometimes the whole body goes.

The noise that come from the mouth is the acoustical lovechild of a guttural scream and a petrified yelp. It is words. Not that anyone listening could tell most of the time. It is an abhorrent sound. It makes nails down a blackboard sound pleasant.

The words so high-pitched as to be almost unintelligible.

But I know what they say.

“BITCH”.

“I WANT HER DEAD”.

“DEAD BITCH”.

“CUNT”.

They echo round my flat. Filling the air with pain.

I can’t control them.  This Twitch, this shudder, this thing. I’m Broken. I lose my hands, can’t hold my pencil properly. Constant Twitch. Shouty twitch.

I went to the supermarket Thursday, Twitching all the way. Worst of all an extremely loud squeal of  “DEAD” slips out, luckily there is no-one nearby to notice. With friends, in shops, at Mind, I twitch, a quiet cry of “bitch” sneaks out. But I’m fighting, holding in the gargantuan screaming sentences which only escape when I am alone. I’m struggling to hold it in. I am scared to go anywhere or see anybody lest I explode in a bout of this weirdness.

I’m scared to go outside. Scared to interact.

Lest I do a weird in front of someone and they overreact.

Lest they decide I’m crazier than I actually am.

I look like the stereotypical madwoman. Unwashed. Matted hair not brushed for a week. Barely fed. Having arguments with myself. Twitching. And randomly shouting at thin air.