I write more when I’m depressed. It’s easier. Something in
my gut takes over my finger tips and I mind vomit words of sadness till I’m
better. I’m sure the writing’s not better, but there’s more of it.
I’m not sure when it began or how long it’s been going on,
but it’s been going on for longer than it’s ever gone on before and- I’m almost
afraid to silently release these words from brain to screen- I’ve been, better. I’m not sure what to do with
that. I know depression, I know it well, we’re old friends. I don’t, however
understand this, this *shakes hands in the air frantically* this, this… happiness? (I was also recently ill with
a stomach bug, couldn’t cope with that either. Being mentally unwell I totally
understand, but physically, it was a mind fuck; so to speak). Anyhow, I’m
enjoying this life thing, (maybe I’ve become one of them, those people, who
wear colour and smile because they actually want to, not out of being polite or
because some preachy song told them to). I have often felt that happiness doesn’t
feel very news worthy, I have often been wrong. It’s really worth writing about,
because when you’re mentally ill, you can get sucked in believing that this is
your brain. You are stuck with it and this is how you will feel forever. I have
believed that in the past, but it is not always true. It’s not been true for
me. So, to help me process this happiness,
I thought I’d write about the things (people) that make me happy-
My happiness is; friends in studios making theatre. Coffee
shops and talks of the world, and silly laughter after. Working with children. Drinking
tea. The women and men all around who inspire me, who are understanding, who I
feel strong with. The chatter of my family of memories and plans somewhere in
the future, to happen or not it doesn’t matter. Long walks where it’s only my
feet and music in headphones and long black power coat and Dr Martens. Trainers
on feet and running and more than free and speeding so fast on wheels that my
legs might just fall off. Tea. Between pages of adventure and stories and the
gritty realities that help me face my own. Cinema trips and coffee sips, on
trains, on trips. Films. The future and the unknown and the known, the projects
that are growing and all the bubbles with possibility. Waking up at the right
time on a weekend. Saturday morning. Did I mention tea? My cats when they are
sleepy. And scribbling in note books and speedy fingers on keyboards (of course
not the piano kind, I can’t play so it wouldn’t sound very nice). People being
passionate, compassionate and brave despite a world that seems to cave around
us. Old photos of people that have changed but remain the same in my world
because it wouldn’t be the world without them. Coming home afterwards. Finishing
a blog post or a play or a poem or a story, even though I hate the word blog
and even if it’s shit, I finished it.
I only get this happiness because I work out my brain just
like I work out my body; there are many workouts available, I think the best
one is talking, the second best is running, but people are different so do what
works for you (run). I maintain my
mental health because it is just my health. (Seriously.) In the past I neglected it, and didn’t seek help when I
could and when I wanted help I couldn’t ask, and then I had the luxury of being
saved by a bunch of beautiful hero’s, so my vigilance, my work outs are for me,
but they are also for them. Mental illness is NOT a choice, but how you cope
with it is, it’s not easy, mostly it’s fucking shit, but sometimes or sometime,
now or tomorrow or years from now, you might just feel that, happiness thing (happiness is the wrong
word, it’s too fleeting, it’s more about being content I think, but ‘content’
isn’t a very good word, not powerful enough at all). My mind will never be “fixed”
or “normal” (what the fuck is normal?) but I can feel joy and power and
strength and hope and happiness. In fact, I think, for people like me and you
and us, we can feel those things so much more. Maybe. Anyhow, I’m off to, you
know, dance or play in the forest or something. Fuck knows.
