I wanted to say something

I sit on the step at the front of my house and smoke a cigarette, midday emptiness, peaceful. I sip my tea and flick through Facebook. On my newsfeed is a rash of Labour red, in my social media bubble I am squishy and warm with hope that all might be fixed.

I watch a man who staggers up the road with sticky fag rolling fingers. Fumbling curly tobacco.

In the window next to me, I have blue tacked my media bubble- ‘vote Labour.’

He stops and sways.

‘Are you voting Labour?’ Squinty, eyeballed, stutter.

‘Yes.’ I answer.

He rocks on roller-skate soles. Wriggly insides trying to be stabled.

‘What about the fucking immigrants?’ Gurgling mumble. I am silent. ‘That one at number ten’s a bitch.’

‘Yes, she’s not very nice.’ I try and reply.

‘David Cameron was alright. With that security he had.’

I sort of hum, because I don’t know what to say.

‘What do you think of it all?’ He asks.

‘I think, it’s really scary.’ He doesn’t think I mean what I really mean so his smile is met with my creased forehead.

Something invisible and solid falls between us.

He stops, I wait. I want him to leave, I don’t feel safe.

In his drunken eyes, I see mine from sometimes last year or the year before.

He sprinkles more tobacco on the floor.

‘You haven’t got a vape then?’

‘No.’ I say.

He mumbles, heavy haze and walks away.

I should have said more, something else, something stronger.

Behind my screen I can talk high and strong and brave and power. But face to face, when it really matters I crumble. And I think that is exactly where they want us to be.    

I wonder, has anyone been changed by a tweet or a poster, or is it just for our own self-righteous satisfaction? Aren’t we all so solid in our views?  

My sponsor arrives. When she leaves, I think of the man who past my step on the street, broken by a need that might kill him. In a world that won’t heal him. 

word hero

Do you get those moments, where you think- ‘how the fuck has that much time passed? Only yesterday I was playing Harry Potter on a beach in fancy pink cord flares and a Tammy Girl tee-shirt and now the worlds a mess I actually need to do something about it.’ Or ‘it wasn’t that long ago that I was broken?’ Sometimes life stacks up and you suddenly realise that chapters have filled pages so much faster than you thought possible. Memories that were seconds ago are oh so quickly years in the past. We know this. You know how time works. But it never fails to shock me that it hasn’t stopped. How does it all keep going, isn’t time tired yet? Then of course, I’d only want it to stop it in a Bernard’s Watch way, you know, so I could start it again, because I relish that kind of control.

I have been writing about my brain for almost two years now, and sometimes I worry* I’ve run out, dried out, exhausted those letters on my keyboard. Because all the talk of recovery and therapy and brains has become my normality. It can be so thick and so boring, like paying a gas bill or purchasing a bus ticket, but worst of all, it can feel like it defines me. It doesn’t. Each of us suffers are so much more than our troubles, some of us are really good at bowling, not me, I’m terrible at it. But you see my point. 

However, after all of that, I realised there is more to say, because you don’t go into recovery all shiny and new, sometimes it all fucks up, sometimes it doesn't. It is constant and ongoing. Sometimes being in recovery feels like I’ve found the secret. Like I and all the others, who stand with courage against the monsters in our brains, know something that no one else knows. I’m not even sure what it is, possibly that we can get better, or that we already are, I’m not sure. But it can feel like a super power. Going through the pain and learning how to feel it and not let it kill you. That’s heroic, fuck it, we are super heroes, we are the Batman’s and Wonder Woman’s of this sometimes seemingly post-apocalyptic world. Sometimes it’s not heroic at all though, sometimes the pain creeps in and we forget how to operate. Our capes and our tool box of brain fixing things are abandoned. But on the good days, we are Superman. We find hope in little tiny hidden places. We make the choice to be happy, it’s not as easy as waking up in the morning and saying, ‘I’m going to be happy,’ and putting on that ‘Friday feeling’ playlist on Spotify. It’s could be running away from day time TV into yoga studios, or coffee shops with friends, or (maybe possibly) the gym. Then of course, it’s talking, loud and strong and brave until stories that once made blood burn veins turn from The Shinning to Sharknado. Then it’s up to you, people or high powers, you can choice. Make your film a comedy; the only difference between Ghostbusters and Paranormal Activity is how the character’s deal with the ghosts, (sort of). Laugh, because time does that thing where it catches you, sneaks up behind you and makes you forget the child that still lives in you. They need listening to sometimes, when they need to be loved and looked after. Maybe not the times when they want to eat their body weight in Chewits or get upset because you dropped a 99 flake that cost two pounds twenty, (actually ice cream spillage is totally valued) but mostly listen when they are scared, hear them when they ask for help and courageously take them to it. You can, you’re a super hero. 

*(I also worry that there are so many more important things to write about, but I am writing about them, just in play form- http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/2917150 )

something like happiness

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.   

four

I drink milky sugared coffee. The way you would drink it. Too sweet and too bitter. Tastes that take me back to coffee cups that were ours. Days that were us. Untidy years sprawl together and meet today. They bunch up and pocket here. At number four. Tiny four years, an infant, just escaping toddler tantrums. But also far too long. I think that you control my Spotify. Think you put on songs that we shared. So I can curl into them safe and lost. I think you hold me when the pain starts, the familiar waves of crunching, tightening lungs that retch 'I miss you. I really fucking miss you and I can't, and I won't believe you're gone.' I am caught in years, the ones that are past and the ones that I count hopelessly and hatefully on fingers that desperately grasp for someone who cannot hold them back. Empty air. Too much space between now and when I saw you last, and it'll only stretch on. Only pull forward. And I only have those pictures that flash between memories that seem to creep into the distance, creep into the pages of a book that doesn’t exist, that I once read about someone else's life, not mine, not his, not ours. And now we wake up for coffee in the morning, chew cereal and kiss goodbye. Work days and return to each other. Lazy evenings filled with love. Long weekends stacked up high with creating and music and busy noisy happy people. Adventures in a playground world. If only it were my reality. If only. 

A relapse

 I am tight fisted in nerves. Clenched and furious. Sorry for my silence.

But I must write what I need to say.

Sometimes a relapse is big. I have heard about them. The chaotic fall and the fear.

Sometimes it is fast. Moving before you. Speeding past you.

This is what I had feared. This is what I had thought would happen.

But it didn’t happen like that at all.

For me it was tiny, small, slow, it built and built. It lied to me, I lied to myself and people around me. I was quick in my lies. Like I have been so many times before.

I have been silent because I have been ashamed. But in reality, I know I am allowed to fuck up and make mistakes. I didn’t let myself sink to the bottom again. I quit before I went far too far.

I am back and I am stronger. I didn’t know if I should post about this. Fear was there with the shame and the pain. But I started with honesty so will continue with it.

It started before it really started. Like I was told it would. It started with me denying my story and ignoring my needs. With my silence. Sometimes I believed with such power that I was okay. I was convinced that I could drink. I disbelieved that the simple sip would let me slip into that safe and warm oblivion I was seeking.

For that, I feel foolish.

After the minuets that lasted for months the truth spiked through my gut. The voice became loud again and was followed so quickly with all that regret.

Someone told me that I didn’t have to wait for the disaster to make a change. So his voice rang all too true. And it’s with relief I start sober again.

It’s been a while and sleeping is hard. Long nights are hard. Difficult, a problem that is too tricky to be solved so I sit with it. And ask it over and over ‘when will you leave?’

But I refuse to fall back into the deep. I refuse to wait till the change is a need. I am fierce and strong once more. I can and will walk into rooms where I know I will find help. Calling for it once more brings me relief and joy. It’s a joy to be fighting and fixing again.

A relapse is not worth it. I do not wish to play with fire by fucking up my world. I wish to be back and I am. 

And I am, once more, so sorry to all who stood with me in the tornado I ever so recklessly brought. 

THIS IS A POLYESTER BLOOD BATH

Sometimes I just can’t get dressed. I keep putting on clothes, but my lovely anxiety rips them off. Determined to keep me in the nude. Each layer I try to cover my skin in gets dissolved almost instantly. (I’m almost positive my anxiety fancies me; always wanting me to stay home with her, not letting me wear clothes… it’s all very dark and possessive). My anxiety whispers in my ear while I pull jeans and tops and shirts and onesies and poker dot dresses from draws, she says ‘you can’t wear that. Not with that belly.’ And ‘is that really you? You’re not that person, not loud enough or bright enough. Not generally enough at all.’ It’s all very chaotic as I scramble half naked in a Gollum like fashion around my room, muttering, and cursing, and tossing clothes around. Then along comes Mr OCD, furiously screaming at the top of his lungs ‘IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE! THIS IS A POLYESTER BLOOD BATH!’ He then faints on the bed while my anxiety laughs manically as she swings from my curtains. I crawl into a spoon next to my lifeless OCD, naked, and crying. I’m paralyzed while the room around me sings my horrors (the total opposite of singing someone’s praises) and I wonder how it is even possible for anyone to hate themselves this much.  

In this world I live in now, people are so constantly judging us on the outside or perhaps it’s just we judge ourselves on the outside too much. Either way, there’s too much pressure on the glitter on our faces. Our Instagram pages so full of the fake and the self-hatred. It all feeds the pets in our brains, fuels the eating disorders, the anxieties, the depressions, gives them so much power. So I think I’ll duck out for a while, head far away. Clear my brain, go on my “gap yah”, “find myself”, and all that shit. The fact that I can’t get dressed isn’t the only reason I’m running away. The main reason is that I just want one big fat adventure. And of course I need to bring all my buddies with me. The ones that scratch through my veins and around my brain. But perhaps India is the best place for them, I can’t imagine they’ll do well in the heat, unlike me and my ginger skin that will clearly turn beautifully golden… (I got sunburnt once in the Lake District… In April.) So it looks like it’ll be my greatest challenge yet. So for now, good bye England, hello Indian adventure. 

do what brings you joy.

Wearing a robe and cape is the most fun anyone can have on a day off, especially if it’s teamed with a square hat. (I know it’s not a robe or a cape but robe and cape is so much cooler than cap and gown and it makes the graduating thing a little bit Hogwarts and that’s the dream really, isn’t it?)

The dressing up, the hand shaking, the ceremony, the older wizards and witches inspiring us all with magical words. Collecting that beautiful slice of paper telling me I have a first class degree. All those things, everything, made today one of the best days so far in my little life. One of the happiest. One of the days where my brain gave me the most dopamine (if that is in fact the chemical of happiness. I'll google it… Googled it, it’s one of the “happiness” chemicals, damn it, I should have done science, not magic.) Wizardry aside, today has been one of those wonderful, remember forever, big fat brilliant days.

We get a couple of these days in our short lives. Just a few, a handful. Little sugar cube days of joy and pride and stars and moons and worlds and oysters and wands and magic. And there is nothing you can do with them but live them and love them.

For anyone who has lost someone you’ll know that on sunshine days there is a space, a gap, an ache and that missing that is so constant glows just that bit brighter, becomes just that bit tighter. I think possibly, for me, it’s because my lovely man gave me the stars without questions. We had small days in our flat that were the kind of best days that sneak up on you. The ones you only really notice after they've gone. Late in the night when your head hits the pillow and that tickling joy slips you to sleep. It was on our quiet, small days, that we talked of these big days. Planed our world around the big days. So perhaps that’s why the missing grows. It’s just very sad to do those plans without him. So despite my pride and joy today, I really miss my man. I know he would be proud, and I know he would agree with the wise wizard professor who said ‘do what brings you joy.’ So that is just what I shall do.