Just writing 1

There are nineteen thousand ideas floating around in my head in any one day. By the timeĀ I fix one down and pin it to a board and make a plan as to how to make it a real thing, I realise that I have spent at least half of that time figuring out reasons why this is a terrible idea, why it will never work, how I only half believe in it in the first place. Every decision I make is followed by this same timid train of nay sayers pushing brooms, quietly and rhythmically brushing off the page those things that aren’t fixed down. So at the end of a day I am left with hundreds of half formed thoughts, dozens of outlines, breakages and stitchings and tapings and re-tapings. Opened and closed. Useless pins pressed into a board that contains nothing. Semi scribbled notes below marker pen outlines. Still wet glue. Occasional faces and jacket buttons. Two or three lyrics and a ruined song sheet. Scratched records and mangled cassettes and melted CD’s and the last four digits of a badly coded mp3. A scrap of a tshirt from fifteen years ago that still fits where the holes hold the whole thing together. Pencilled margins and shattered rulers and broken prophets and destitute kings. Queens above all and Jack standing behind, winking and smirking at the chaos. Desk holds teeth marks, the arms of the chair are punctured and loose padding streams out of the wounds. Shattered lightbulb endlessly cascading glass onto tired hands. Blinking light on the laptop screen telling everyone that there are no more ideas to write down. This is the last one of the night. The last thought until tomorrow. Eyes closed and open at the same time. Letting in light and recognising shapes, but not seeing anything. Nose, intact. Ears, covered with music. Fingers, volatile but stable. Skin, disgusting. Hair, incompetent. Beard, unruly. Spectacles, unnecessary. Teeth, unionised. Tongue, drowsy and uncertain. Holding the hand of it’s next of kin. Odds of transplant success are a hundred to one. But anything is worth trying at this point. Kidneys, full. Liver, working out a declaration of intent to leave at the first sign of trouble. Heart, half empty. Clothes, depressed. Brain, ready to try again tomorrow.


The truth.

Before I begin I would just like say that this is not a cry for attention. This is just a man who is finding it increasingly difficult to cope getting out his words to whoever might read them. If you think that this me being an attention seeking crybaby then I don’t know what to tell you. If the only advice you have is “Lol kill yrself, fag” then I know exactly what to tell you, but I’m not going to waste my energy. With that said…

I don’t know what to do anymore. I have not been OK for a long, long time. There have been points and periods where it all seemed to lift and something amazing happened that made all the crap seem insignificant. But those points were fleeting and those people aren’t in my life anymore. Not right now anyway.

I have spent the last few years on a seesaw. Some days I feel anywhere on a scale of OK to amazing. This can last for just one day or a few months. Other times I can feel anywhere between OK and miserable leading right down to spending days in bed hoping that I die in my sleep. During these times (I’m in the middle of one at the moment) I contemplate suicide on a daily basis. I fight against my cravings to harm myself and instead smoke and drink a lot more than usual. When I can find the energy I make things. Collages and poems and songs. These lift the intense misery for a while but when I wake up the next day I am back to nothing again.

During these slumps I find that nothing I do in the ordinary, everyday outside world helps. Going outside at all makes me feel worse, in fact. I spend most of time sitting and stewing and hating myself for every little stupid thing I’ve ever done and every person I’ve ever upset and every mistake I’ve ever made. I don’t know why. It’s just where I end up in times like these.

It sucks. I hate it. Everything about it. I hate feeling as though this is how things will be for the rest of my life. I hate feeling as though I have nothing. I hate that this is the state in which I am the most inspired and creative. Because when I’m happy I don’t write nearly as much. I don’t create nearly as often. I’m just happy to be doing whatever. I hate that I don’t see a way out of this cycle. I hate that I feel as though I have to tell people like this. I hate that I care so much what people think of me that I am driven to putting this out in public instead of feeling able to share it with a close friend.

I grew up believing that asking for help or talking to someone about your problems meant that you couldn’t handle being a human being and you were worthless. Part of me still believes that asking for help means that I am telling that person that my life is worse than theirs. That I am somehow more in need than they are. So I don’t tell anyone anything. I do make work about it, but somehow that’s OK because in most cases it’s slightly cryptic and it’s up to the audience to decide what it says to them about themselves.

I am at a point where I feel as though I need to tell someone. But I don’t want to tell anyone in particular. So if I put it out here and tell everyone, then… I don’t know really. I’m not expecting any more attention or contact or anything at all really. I don’t even know that anyone will read it at all. But at least if it’s out then I can start being honest instead of pretending that I am fine. Even if only to myself. I can stop saying that I’m doing great and covering it all up and actually start dealing with it.

Actually…just forget I said anything.