Raaaah- I should be editing right about now.
I should be working on chapter 5, working out ways to reduce my word count, and present my ideas in ways which are accessible and vaguely interesting. I want to get this book edited, I want to prune it down into a shape which would be manageable for a person still suffering from symptoms of mental illness.
Unfortunately the author is currently still suffering symptoms of mental illness herself, and so the book has gone onto the back burner and I have retreated to wordpress, after sitting staring at the monitor for so long I feel like I’ve given my eyes a pleasant acid bath.
I can never work out, in moments such as these, how much of what I am experiencing is normal writers block, and how much of it is down to the fact that my head is scrambled like eggs. I feel like I want to punch the wall until my knuckle is bleeds, and then punch it a few more times for good measure, just to relieve the pressure that seems to build in my chest.
I would never actually do this- it’s very much a metaphor to express the deep frustration and rage that come on when my inability to write provokes symptoms, and I’m left feeling as though the steering wheel to my thoughts as been rigged to a constant hard right. I still suffer voices; they are well known (or well loathed), and nothing that I haven’t dealt with a million times before.
Unfortunately, when they come on, they still provoke these deep rooted, intense feelings which seem to blossom out of nowhere and then leave me feeling completely out of control of my own mind and body for a little while.
I cannot express the intensity; it is as if somebody has taken the volume dial to my emotional resonance and cranked it up to max- or a found a button on me which, once pressed, creates a black hole in my head where all the worst feelings I have ever experienced come on together, all at once, at the highest frequency.
I want to scream, or cry, or rant and rage- but there is generally never much of a reason for any of it, which makes it all the more blindly, manically frustrating.
Rationally, I know that this is simply a faulty neural pathway. There is a neutral pathway somewhere in my head that, when triggered, grasps at all the negative. I think fear fuels it, because the instance I start to feel it come on (it’s like a dark cloud slowly looming over my head), it freaks the f**k out of me, and then the process snowballs.
That pathway in my head takes me to the bad place.
I’ve got fear, that it won’t ever pass; self-loathing, because I feel like I’ve created this process myself; frustration, that I can’t just shake it off or alter it; more fear, that I’ll never be able to; and rage, because I have worked so frigging hard to get better, and don’t feel I deserve this; and then more self-loathing, because I know raging that “I don’t deserve this” is as futile and pointless as screaming into the wind.
My symptoms tell me that various people from the past who dislike me, are somehow caught up in this as well, that people leave imprints, and I’ve been affected negatively by people in the past who wanted to hurt me.
I hate the fact that these paranoid delusions still hold weight in my subconscious, and that the sheer intensity of the feelings still leads me to fear that this could be true- because if somebody doesn’t hate me somewhere then why the hell do I feel this bad, for absolutely no good reason at all. I know, I know- neutral pathways, faulty wiring, chemical imbalances..
Why can’t I learn to distinguish between the real justifiable reasons for frustration, and the psychotic delusions. Is my subconscious so mangled, that anything which pops into it can cause a chain reaction that leaves me wanting to punch the wall, or just cry until I haven’t any breath left. I know that I probably spend too much time on my own, but unfortunately I can’t do too much about that at the moment. Moreover, I feel like I should definitely be able to spend a few hours alone without freaking out to this ridiculous degree.
I want to get this book finished, I want to get it out of me. Writing it probably isn’t the best thing for my head, because I am ultimately re-living the last ten years each time I compose an anecdote.But I know I can do it, I’m closer to the finish line now. I just wish the frustration that comes on when I can’t write wouldn’t lead into this mind-numbingly intense, psychosis fuelled rage.
I sometimes feel as though I am exercising demons, as though the positive process of writing is drawing that negativity out of me like blood from a stone, and the process is so-f*****g painful. Like the stress and pain and rage is their screaming, and their shrieks as they are slowly and awkwardly dragged from my mind and body.
They may have been attracted to me because of the intensity of feeling and sensation that comes with this illness, they may have perceived me to be weak because I ended up in hospital. Or they may have put me in hospital.
They are only an impression of the negative experiences I have had over the last ten years, they are only fear and frustration – psychology which has been mashed, hauled through a blender and then remoulded into an impression of the mind that was there previously.
There are no demons, not really. They are just what leaves me when I try to write about the things I have experienced; when I try to express the sensations that send me spiralling off and away.
Every writer has gone through it; this blood freezing writers block. This sensation of needing to express something so badly- but the words refuse to come! The words remain irretrievable and elusive. I can almost taste them they are so dam close, but they refuse to budge and trickle down into my consciousness to be translated and expressed.
So I flap and flail like a fish on dry land, gasping for air, gasping for words! I need to be able to express this!!
I will give up now and leave it till tomorrow, everything feels better after a good nights sleep right?! In fact tomorrow my boyfriend and I are going to a wedding, which should hopefully be a good day, and a chance to let off some steam, celebrate with friends and have a few glasses of wine and a bit of a dance.
I know I’ll get this book out of me eventually; I guess parts of it are just still so lodged inside of me that I need a crow-bar and wrench to pry them out. It is as if I’m trying to remove bones and tissue, and smear them across the page in a way that makes sense.
This book is my Everest- days like today are inevitable. I just need to be able to take a step back when the black cloud descends, and have the sense to leave it for a while; not buy into any of the crap that makes me want to tear my hair out!
Writers block, demons or plain old mind boggling psychotic symptoms.. Whatever it is it makes my blood boil, and then freeze right over with each and every heart beat; it makes my desire to write a compulsion.