I created this collage recently in response to the idea of comfort zones.
Part of mental health recovery rhetoric is being told by some psychiatric professionals we need to step out of our comfort zones. What comfort zones? Comfort zones are a middle-class idea for people who haven’t been brutualised, abused, humiliated, or deeply hurt in life.
I have no comfort zones. My hell might have cushions but it is still hell. I have a memory foam mattress on top of my bed of nails. My dreams haunt me rather than entertain.
So what can society offer me if I step out of my so called comfort zone? The soul-numbing, exploitative 9-5? A world where we get angry at people escaping war but not at the people who profit from war? The amount of people who have a seething hate towards refugees that I have directed to the arms fair in London to point the hate in the right direction but won’t do a thing about it makes me want to return to my hell.
There is so much pain in the world and I try to change it for the better but I feel like I am pouring thimblefuls of water on an apocalypse. There is no comfort zone inside or outside me, there is just choices in torture, with love and laughter dancing with the horror. Yet I accept life is beautiful.