Writers Block.

Writing. Writing about writing. I feel belittled by myself. Deprecated. I’m finding it too arduous to summon the words I once would with so much ease. Powerful language flowing out from within me. Words that bled from me. Words I bled into. Red-brown smears across the paper.

I lost the words, somewhere once upon a time. Alongside prams and potty training, ABC songs hurt, and Old McDonald wouldn’t have helped me. A most magical moment in time, by anybody’s standards, left me bereft of my release. Desperate, paramount release. Betrayed by life, by life and biology. Words, stolen from me on that magic night.

I don’t need anyone to read what I’ve written. But I NEED to be able to write. Imperative to my soul, I beg for the words to return to me. For as long as I can remember, words healed me, writing them stroked my heart. And now they have gone.

Haunted by formidable dreams, a sign of creativity seeping up through any cracks in my spirit. There are so many many cracks. Biomorphic shapes of shadow creatures creep up from within them, taunting me, prickling my spine. They smile, disgusting smiles.

Maybe my heart isn’t broken enough anymore? The bleeding, my blood the ink, has dried. Is broken love the only inspiration I can use? Has broken love dried my emotional river? Desperate, grieving, tears come easily over the haughty remains, spiteful remains that dance and jeer where words once were. Ridiculing my failure.

On a dark dark night, on a dark dark street…

I have been without a mobile phone now, for what seems like an eternity but is probably just a couple of weeks and I have actually done very well, even if I do say so myself! As I’m sure most people can imagine already, when my phone first broke I panicked! How would I let anyone know anything, how would I check Twitter, how would I receive the important emails I was surely suddenly going to start getting?! However, once I resigned myself to the fact that my phone had passed on, I have to say, the grieving process was pretty short. The freedom is glorious! I never conceived just how much I’m annoyed by phone calls and texts all day! I mean, I did used to leave my phone at home frequently because of low battery, and always enjoyed the break – yet I never realised I would be this happy to be free of my old little electronic buddy.

Apart from all of that, I received my laptop (A million thank you’s to Sarah for getting this for me – I can’t thank you enough!), so I haven’t been totally Internet starved. I have been working on the plot outline for the book I’m writing, and researching bits and pieces connected to it. I expected to find all of that enjoyable, however I’m suffering from “The White Dragon”, a phrase I picked up from Vivien Reis in her YouTube video “How To Permanently Defeat Writers Block“, which describes writers block. I watched quite a few of Vivien’s video’s and found them inspirational and helpful, I feel ready to begin again. One of my problems is that I used to write every day, even if it was rubbish, I wrote. This helped me because as I was writing all the time, I wrote all of the crap that I hated, but I also wrote all of the things that I really wanted to get out onto paper… or, er, the screen.

The most crazy thing that happened to me this week was that I found a dead body. Okay, so he turned out not to be dead, but up until the point where I found that he was a sleeping drunk person, I really did believe I’d found a dead body. I knew it in my heart. And I was terrified. I’m actually pretty ashamed of how I reacted at first, if I’m being honest. I’d like to say that I rushed to the mans side, heroically ready to administer (my limited knowledge of) CPR with intrepid poise. This did not happen. This really did not happen.

I was leaving the house, so that I could go to the cash-point for my mother. It was particularly cold that night, so I had my huge fluffy animal print coat on. The collar on the coat is quite big, and it kind of obscured my vision as I closed the front door and noticed something in the street to my right… Next to a car, was what looked like a pile of bags… I thought that was strange and continued on to the cash point. As I was walking home, I could see down the street to the “pile of bags” next to the car, and as I got nearer I realised with more and more certainty that it was, in fact, a person. By the time I got to the front door I knew for sure it was a person. The worst part is, that from where I was stood, it looked like a man on the floor, with a bicycle tire sort of around his neck and head. The second I knew it was a person, I froze.

I tried to see if the man was breathing, but couldn’t tell. I stepped closer, my hand on my phone in my pocket… then realised I had no phone. At that point, I was sure he was dead and there was a gory sight awaiting me should I step any closer. Instead of going to help him, I went back inside and got my mums phone, telling her quickly, “I need your phone… I think there’s a dead body outside.” I heard her questioning me, “WHAT??” as I walked calmly back outside. I tried to walk up to him a few times, each time coming back to the front door, thinking about what I should have been doing. My mum had made her way to the front door, and I jumped out of my skin when I turned and saw her the first time, I was so on edge. Eventually, it must have taken me about 5 minutes to make the 3-second walk, to where he was lying… It was like something out of a horror film. A cold, silent, night… Woman on her own, in a dark street and next to a dark, spooky, ancient grave yard! I slowly approached his body, calling out “Hello? Are you okay?” My heart thumping loudly in my ears, holding my breath, the suspense building… I was about a foot away from where he lay, when the loudest snort I have ever heard, jumped out of his body. Snoring. He was fast asleep on the pavement, snoring.

Relieved, I gently tried to wake him up, having to become considerably less gentle to finally actually wake him. He was mumbling and seemed surprised to see me. I took his arm and gently pulled, helping him up off the ground, the sickly smell of alcohol emanating from him as he staggered to his feet. We joked a little about how he had been having such a peaceful sleep, and it was a shame to wake him. I picked up his phone and cigarettes from the floor, handed them back to him, and walked with him a little down the street… He stopped for a conversation with my mum before eventually making his way off into the night.

I was just so ashamed of myself for not going to help him the second I saw him, though. At first I was convinced that there would be a gory scene and I was overwhelmed with the fear of the sight I might be haunted with afterwards. How selfish is that? Even once I realised he wasn’t physically hurt, I was worried he might attack me once awake, so that also held me back! I feel bad I didn’t rush to help him, once I realised he was a person instead of a pile of bags. What if he had been physically hurt? I would have been useless! Hopefully if something like this happens again, I’ll react a little faster!

Anyway, I’m tired, I’m coming down with a head cold, and I need to sleep. Hopefully tomorrow I will get some writing done. I need to lock the first chapter down, really. Maybe my dreams will give me some inspiration! Goodnight!

Darker days, getting darker.

In a few days I will be the very happy owner of a new laptop! New to me, the laptop itself is actually second hand. I don’t care! This new present to myself is EXACTLY what I need right now, to get my writing back on track. At the moment I’m using my phone and my sons tablet to write on, and I just can’t get into the zone using them.

From a really young age I realised I enjoyed writing and knew it was something I wanted to do as an adult… yet I also realised, again from a really young age, that in order to write anything that I felt had any substance – I needed to be in emotional pain. I needed to feel the pain. Live inside it. As soon as the antidepressants I take daily now, started working, my writing started taking a nose dive, quality wise, and then eventually petered out totally. I’ve always had to made a conscious choice between staying mentally healthy, or at least on the edge of sanity – as healthy as I can be, between staying mentally safe and wallowing and disappearing into the depths of dispair. I know that sounds like a cliche, but it’s my reality.

It’s a daily fight to stay on top of the depression. A constant conscious effort to get up every morning, get washed and dressed, to eat, to breathe. Half of the depression is uncontrollable, no matter how much positive thinking I drum into my brain, there’s still chemicals painting black clouds on the walls of my mental interior. The darkest days come and go without warning and I just plod through them, doing my best to come out of them as quickly as possible. I have a child now, I cannot give up. I can’t stay in bed, I have to get on with life.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s great that I’m able to have some good days now. It’s a good thing that sadness and pain isn’t the only thing I feel any more. But it is still always there, it is still always a part of me, and I do still always feel the need to write. Writing about the pain always eases it somewhat, it makes it feel like it isn’t all for nothing. Like something good can come from it. But in order to really release it, to really get any benefit from it… I have to fully feel it. There is no running away from it any more, if I want to actually fix it. It’s the same reason I’m not seeing a therapist. It will have to get worse before it can get better, and I just don’t think I can afford that. I can’t.

All of that being said, I’m going to try. I’m going to try and write something worthwhile, something that might even help someone, somehow produce something without falling into the void. Without the darkness eating me and swallowing me whole. And I hope that having this new laptop will give me some inspiration! It’ll be here at the latest on Thursday, if I’m really lucky I might get it the day after tomorrow (Wednesday)!! So roll on the next few days! I’ve got a lot to do this week so this little present to myself is just the reward I need, I think!

999 What’s Your Emergency.

I’m watching the TV program 999 What’s Your Emergency, and someone was just arrested for breaking into someone’s house. It was revealed that the items he was in the process of stealing were all food items, fresh and frozen. Of course I absolutely and primarily feel for the resident, no doubt it will take a long time for her to feel safe again, if ever. Theft is still theft.

However, I do also actually feel sorry for the man who was stealing the food. The amount of food he was stealing, I think, suggests he was stealing it for more than just himself. Which means he risked prison time because his family were hungry. Are hungry. I really am not condoning his actions – there are horrible consequences for what he’s done. I just almost wish he’d been stealing jewellery or electronics so that I couldn’t feel sorry for him.

Before this show, I watched another Police documentary: The Brighton Police. They busted and arrested a “drug gang”, consisting of about 8 people. The policemen were so happy they’d arrested these people and “taken the drugs off the streets”. I’m just shocked that they really believe they’d made a huge difference. For starters I’m sure the people they arrested were very low down on the ladder of people of importance, in the drug world. This small operation of people might be gone, but what about the people who supplied the drugs to that operation? Aren’t they just going to be supplying to more groups, if they’re not already? What do I know? I know little of the drug kingdom, but surely that’s the way it works, no?

Anyway, I’m sorry I watched these shows. I feel sad 🙁