The Stigma

A thought provoking and beautiful piece of writing by a wonderful young lady in our community PLEASE READ!

I opened my eyes. Everything looked normal. I could see the red numbers on my radio alarm clock, beyond that the familiar floral wallpaper. I tried to throw the duvet off and step out of bed, just like I did every day, but this day was different, something was pulling me back. Was I still sleeping? I squeezed my arm. I was definitely awake. Why couldn’t I move? What was the huge force pulling me back to the bed? A creeping terror came over me and I was afraid to look around to see what was holding me. I lay still, petrified with fear, the vast weight anchoring me to the bed. Minutes passed, then hours. I had to find the courage to see what was behind me. I decided to count to 10, or maybe 20, and turn my head. Something told me that whatever was holding me wasn’t going to go away unless I faced it. Here goes, I began to count, already dreading reaching 20. The Stigma (for that’s what I later learned it was called) was like nothing I’d ever seen. A hideous dark writhing mass easily as big as a person but twice as heavy. I forced myself to take the image in. My eyes moved from its disgusting body and followed the tendril like arms. It was then that the full horror of my situation became clear. There were no hands on the end of the arms. Instead, the Stigma’s arms molded almost seamlessly into my side. An overwhelming nausea came over me. Where had it come from? What did it want with me? I must have passed out because when I next looked the red numbers showed hours had passed. The Stigma had moved around and was now crushing my chest. I could hardly breathe. I knew I had to find the strength to get up if I wanted to live. I tentatively put my hands on the Stigma and tried to push it off me, but it was completely imbedded in my side, its fingers gripping inside my stomach and no amount of pushing and pulling was shifting it. It was as if the Stigma was part of me. It took all the strength I could muster to shift my body, together with the Stigma, to the edge of the bed. I put my feet to the floor and sat my body up, the Stigma raised up too. Over the next hours I pushed, pulled and dragged myself and the Stigma around the house. I was now sat on the sofa in my dressing gown with the Stigma beside me. I rang my husband. He would know what to do. I could see him in my mind’s eye charging through the door, sword in hand, deftly slicing the stigma from my body and killing it dead. The thought calmed me, but my husband did not answer my phone call. What now? It was then that I noticed the government leaflet on the table. I glanced through the leaflet. I couldn’t see anything in it that was of use to me. I was puzzled as to why it was there. I read through it again and this time noticed a tiny phone number scribbled on the back page in red biro. It said ‘Stigma Helpline’. I’d seen a Netflix film years ago about Stigmas. I was fairly sure that they only affected men, and a certain type of man at that. If the hideous thing stuck to me was a Stigma, then it must be a terrible mistake. I’d never rung a helpline in my life, but these were exceptional circumstances. I phoned the number praying that whoever answered could help me. After what must have been a dozen unanswered calls, finally a stern voice picked up and so began my crash course in Stigmas. The voice told me that the Stigma was definitely mine and had been placed on me by my husband. No, I didn’t believe it, but the voice insisted that it was the truth and that my husband now had a stigma too. The voice said that the Stigma was now likely to be with me for life. I could try and cut the Stigma from my body, but the voice warned that this would be extremely painful and not necessarily successful. Some women had died from wounds left behind from Stigma removal. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong’ I stammered. ‘Guilty by association’ said the voice ‘The government advice is that you should learn to live with the

Stigma. Call back any time’ and with that the phone went dead. The voice had hung up. I sat back on the sofa and cried. ********************************************************************************** Eventually my husband answered his phone. He didn’t sound like my husband, but I knew it was him. His voice was tiny and I could barely hear him. He was crying and repeating ‘I’m so sorry’ over and over. Now I knew - He was not going to slay my stigma, I had to deal with the thing by myself ********************************************************************************** Over the next days I gradually learned to walk in step with the Stigma. I tried not to look at it, instead preferring to drag it behind me. This seemed an adequate arrangement to get me from my bed to the sofa and back. I even managed to get dressed some days. Showering and eating had to take a back seat. After a night of disturbed sleep with the stigma, I didn’t have the strength to shower and its grip on my stomach meant I could only manage tiny amounts of food. As the days turned in to weeks there were moments when I almost forgot the stigma was there, but there was one problem that I’d yet to face. I couldn’t stay inside forever. How was I going to leave the house? I dialed the helpline number again. This time it was answered straight away. ‘I need help in leaving my house’ I told the voice. ‘The government can give you medication to shrink the Stigma while you learn to live with it. The pills will be ready for collection in an hour. Call back any time.’ Pills! Why hadn’t I thought of them earlier? Shrinking the Stigma, even temporarily, was a wonderful thought. Maybe I could get a friend to go to the pharmacy for me, but who? I scrolled through the message app on my phone. There were lots of unread messages from my friends. I’d been so preoccupied with the Stigma that I hadn’t even noticed them. They all seemed to be saying the same thing. ‘Are you ok?’ I closed the message app. An hour later I was stood behind my front door. I’d strapped the Stigma tightly around my waist. It was painful but it meant I could get my big winter coat on over us both. I didn’t want to leave the prison that my home had become, but I needed those pills. I pulled the hood up over my head, took a deep breath and opened the door. The brightness was blinding, it took my breath away. I steadied myself and concentrated hard on putting one foot in front of the other, pulling the Stigma along with me just as I’d been doing for weeks at home. I didn’t look up. It felt strange to be outside. The thought of other people seeing my Stigma was terrifying, but it felt surprisingly good to breathe fresh air. I turned the corner of my street and started along the main road into town. I jumped as each car drove past me. I glanced up and saw a clear pavement ahead. Not a soul! I can do this! It was tiring walking with the Stigma, but the thought of the medication kept me going. I turned into the High Street. The pharmacy was a couple of shops along. I’d managed to get through the heavy shop door and along to the counter where a white coated assistant stood with her back to me. She turned and smiled at me. She didn’t appear to notice the Stigma. ‘Can I help you?’ I opened my mouth but no words came out. ‘Is it pills you’re here for? What’s your name? Address’

I leaned in and whispered my name to the assistant. She ducked under the counter and when she reappeared, she had a white paper bag in her hand. ‘Address?’ A woman came up behind me. I jumped. The assistant gave me a sympathetic look. I whispered my address, grabbed the bag and headed out of the pharmacy as fast as the Stigma would let me. Outside the street now seemed to be full of people. The Stigma tightened its grip on my stomach. I tried to concentrate on my steps like I did on the way there, but now I was forced to look up to avoid walking into people. I could see them looking at my Stigma. A woman with a buggy almost ran into me. She gave me a disgusted look and hurried past. A man on the street opposite shouted and pointed over in my direction. I could feel the Stigma growing bigger. Panic set in. What if I wasn’t strong enough to get back home? My breathing was getting faster and louder. I had to get off this street. I rounded the corner and started back towards home, gripping tightly on to the white paper bag. As the busy High Street faded behind me. I felt my breathing slowing. The relief was immense. I’d walked this way thousands of times before without so much as a thought, but that was before the Stigma. I somehow reached my street and could see my house in the near distance. I’d made it! A few steps more and I was home. I’d never felt so happy to put my key in the lock. In a flash I was inside, door locked behind me and the white paper bag still in my hand. I loosened the ties around my waist and the Stigma slid down to the floor. The next couple of weeks passed by in a haze. The pills from the government didn’t shrink the Stigma as promised, but they made it feel less heavy and loosened its grip on my stomach enough to allow me to eat normal meals again. I started to wonder about the future. Where was my husband? How was he dealing with his Stigma? Why had he put this thing on me? Could I tell my friends and family what had happened? Did they already know? I unlocked my phone and started to read through the messages. Most dated from the day the Stigma had appeared, but there were a few more recent. A couple of my friends has sent messages every day. They must know. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. I started to type a reply. ‘Yes, I’m ok. Thanks for asking. I’ll be round to see you soon.’ But I had no intention of seeing anyone. My ‘I’m ok’ messages had largely worked. However, one friend was particularly persistent. Not content with messaging, she began phoning me. Of course, I didn’t answer, but it bothered me just the same. Her missed call notifications popped up regularly as I was googling things like ‘Stigmas and Women’ (zero results), ‘How to remove a Stigma’ (zero results) or ‘Living with Stigmas’ (you guessed it – nothing). I knew I was going to have to speak to her, but I was not going to do it on the phone and I didn’t like the idea of anyone entering my prison. I opened messages and typed. ‘Hiya, I’m ok thanks. I’ll come and see you tomorrow’ I pressed SEND before I could talk myself out of it. Actions have consequences. That was something the voice had said to me on the day my Stigma appeared. The consequence of my particular action in sending that message was that I was now once again out on the street, Stigma strapped around my waist, on my way to my persistent friend’s house. It was just a 15-minute walk away. I put my head down and powered forwards. I’d almost made it to the end of my street when something that I’d been dreading happened. As I walked past the end house the front door opened and one of my neighbours appeared. I had no time to dodge her. If she didn’t already know about the Stigma, she was bound to see it now. She was coming in my

direction. We were going to come face to face. I braced myself and looked up. Our eyes met and the most beautiful, radiant smile lit up her face. That was it. She didn’t speak, there was no need to. For a brief moment my stigma was weightless. I almost cried with relief. Maybe I could live with this thing after all. The rest of the journey was thankfully uneventful and I was feeling relatively optimistic as I knocked on my persistent friend’s door. It would be nice to see her. She was bound to hug me. Maybe we’d both cry. I was pretty sure I would. It dawned on me that I wanted to talk about my Stigma. I needed to spill all the horrific details that I’d kept so closely to myself for weeks. That is not what happened. The door opened. I didn’t even see the face of my persistent friend. No beautiful smile lit up her face. No sooner had she opened the door than her back was to me as she shuffled inside ‘Come in, come in. I’ll get your coffee.’ I’d have preferred tea. I dragged my stigma into the house and sat it down beside me on persistent friend’s sofa. Three cups of coffee later persistent friend got up to go to the loo and I grabbed my chance to leave. I’d been in the house just over 2 hours. In that time, she had barely paused to draw breath as she’d talked and talked about herself. It was as though she feared if she stopped for more than a second my stigma might rear up and attack her. The effort of trying to keep that from happening was draining. I wasn’t even sure that I didn’t want it to attack her. As the door closed behind me, I was relieved to be back in the street. I opened my phone and blocked persistent friend’s number. My Stigma and I didn’t leave the house for a while after that. I didn’t really see the point. My other friends had more or less given up trying to contact me and I had arranged to get my groceries delivered. As long as I stayed inside, my Stigma was manageable. The visit to persistent friend’s house had taught me one thing though. I needed to talk about my Stigma. It dawned on me that there must be others like me. I couldn’t be the only wife with a Stigma, could I? But how would I find the others? The very nature of a Stigma meant people would be, at best reluctant and at worst, genuinely frightened to talk about them. I dialled the Stigma Helpline again. ‘Are there others?’ The voice informed me that there were indeed others, but I was not allowed to contact them directly. ‘The government advice is that people with Stigmas must not gather in groups.’ This made me angry. I said something to the effect of ‘What did the government know about dragging a Stigma around with you 24 hours a day? ‘ The voice was not pleased with me and reiterated that it was my husband who had put the Stigma on me and if I didn’t like it maybe I should take it up with him. I was about to hang up but decided to give it one more try. ‘Please’ I said ‘I just want to know I’m not alone.’ Something about how I spoke must have shown how desperate I felt and the Voice suddenly took on a gentler tone. ‘Look, I’m not really supposed to tell you this, but there is a place.’ ******************************************************************************* I’d walked past the building dozens of times, but I’d never noticed anyone going in or out. As I stood outside and looked at it closely for the first time, I realised why it looked so odd. There were no

windows and no doors. The only indication that this was anything other than a tall brick wall was a small sign close to the ground. It looked like it was aimed at fairies or maybe leprechauns. It said ‘Families with Stigmas Welcome’ Welcome! That was a word I hadn’t heard much lately. But how do you get in a building without a door? I dragged my reluctant Stigma around the side of the building looking for an opening. I’d almost completed a full circuit of the place when I spotted a small round window. I peered into the glass and was amazed by what I saw. Inside seemed to be just one very large room and it was rammed full of people. Mostly but not exclusively women, and a dazzling array of types. Some were old, some were young. They were tall, short, fat, thin. Hundreds, if not thousands of them. Some were crying. A few were laughing. They all seemed to be talking. And what did they all have in common? Every single one of them had their very own Stigma. I spent what seemed like hours studying the room, drinking in every detail. I needed to hear what they were saying. I pushed hard at the window and very slowly it opened just enough for me to hear the voices from within. The women were advising one another. They were consoling one another. Occasionally one would fall down with the weight of her Stigma, but there was always someone to pick her up and give a hug when required. Most of the talk was about Stigmas, but they also talked about their husbands, their children, their friends. Some talked about work. Some argued. Many cried. After that, I came back to the window every day. I listened. I learnt. I got to know their names. Some had common names like mine, Jennifer, Sally, Lee. Some had beautiful names they’d chosen for themselves from nature, flowers, rainbows, joyous things. Some had names that had been chosen for them by their Stigmas, these names were painful to hear. Some had been in the room for years and seemed much more concerned with other peoples’ Stigmas than their own. Some were new arrivals. These had a particularly haunted appearance and dragged their Stigmas with a great deal of difficulty. One group stood out from the rest. Their Stigmas seemed heavier than mine, but they carried them most skilfully. Something about this group made them look extra beautiful to me. These women called themselves Mothers. Their Stigmas had come from their sons. For every minute I listened at that window I felt less alone, despite the fact that those wonderful women didn’t even know I was there. This was the day! I’d been rummaging in the shed all morning and grabbed anything I thought might help prise that damned window open wide enough to allow me and my Stigma to climb inside. As I walked past the now familiar welcome sign, I felt nervous, but for the first time in months, I had hope. I reached the window and looked in. The usual emotion-filled scene met my gaze. I could see Lee and Daffodil advising some new arrivals in the middle of the room. I picked a particularly long and strong looking screwdriver from my bag and began to force the window to open wider. When I

judged that I could probably squeeze through the gap I pulled my Stigma up and shoved it hard through the window. The women moved quickly out of the way as my Stigma crashed down into their room. I was just about to congratulate myself when I remembered that its arms were still firmly embedded in my side. I felt a strong tug and promptly followed my Stigma through the window, both of us ending up in a dishevell

ed heap on the floor. A hand stretched out to me. It belonged to Lee. ‘Welcome to the club no-one wants to join’ she said as she pulled me back onto my feet. I looked up at her and the most beautiful radiant smile lit up her face. The End (and the Beginning)