Clause

I rearranged my room

to reach the desk, keyboard, drum kit and hifi all at once

but efficiency dropped me

I’m anxious.

I think I have been for the most part of the day.

Beginning with my remembering of the memory I hear you have,

That I remember being relayed to me quite differently in the first instance.

Yes, it’s cryptic, but basically

I’m anticipating bad things, because that is often the nature of this illness

I’m freezing

struggling over the words because I’m too busy in my brain

hunting for the end results, but they don’t exist yet.

 

It’s claustrophobia that’s found me today.

cluttered thoughts, a cluttered room,

I rearranged

and reiterated

and laid bare the articles

And found new ways

but then I found myself tense, and tiptoeing,

knowing that one wrong move could bring such neat piles crashing down.

 

Boxed in.

 

This is something I used to think about a lot. A computer analogy works for me.

If you have lots of tabs open, for lots of different tasks, naturally the computer goes slower. The may even come a point, sooner on some,

where the computer stops,

and you have to restart it

or turn it off

You can’t turn off the human brain

can’t turn it off and on again

You have slog through,

sort the tasks,

and remove the tabs one by one as each is done

But the more tabs you have open, the harder it is to distinguish their headings

And the further you are from the initial reasoning for the very first tab.

 

This, I do a lot.

I begin countless tasks, trying to take on everything the world will offer me

Some tasks only go as far as opening the info page

Or even just searching related terms.

Others, I get stuck deep into.

 

 

Many never get completed. Some tabs are closed, with task abandoned,

others lie open for weeks,

and never fully close.

And slowly my brain puts all power into processing the many things at once, and all else struggles to continue.

 

This has happened too much today.

By which I mean, too much to finish this satisfyingly

Anyway, I have pictures to edit.

 

I guess this is just another unfinished task

 

Not Barriers

It didn’t get me.

I don’t feel like it’s repressed,

or beyond

I don’t feel unrelated to the message

the meanings

the understandings

the angle

the change

the lighting

the tight stage

The awkward interchange

as the person whose seat became vacant

that I moved to, to avoid blocking

that I sat so comfortably in, on the outside of the crowd

that I’ve placed myself in, titled, and tattooed

rhinestones and embroidery

netting,

harness,

and sword in sheath,

salute and swearing

spit and sweat

shape and system

shot and sights

safety and saviour

song and surface

stem and soil

sun and space

and somehow

still find my brain

flying

above clouds

ungoverned

unattended

unattached

untouched

untethered

untold

Lost

not losing

loose

not looking

not labelled

not called

anything

 

just floating

until it’s time to fall.

Further

I’ve just cried.

My lashes still hold droplets.

The bags under my eyes are dry. That kind of crisp dry when something has just been wet.

I was making a list of things I’ve got to do.

Little things.

Like taking out the pizza boxes from last night,

because I don’t want to be a part of the chaos.

Like emailing the tutor I forgot to meet today.

Or rather, emailing the tutor I forgot to CONFIRM to meet today.

Or even just deciding NOT to email the tutor I forgot to confirm to meet today, because I will be seeing them tomorrow anyway.

Like tidying my desk of all the things that I’ve pushed to one side because they were in the way.

Like tidying the keyboard next to my desk of all the things I’ve taken off my desk after having constantly pushed them aside because they were in the way.

Like eating something.

Because I want to fill my time with simple rewards before I make my actual dinner in a couple of hours, when my girlfriend returns from her rehearsal for the play I still need to arrange to book tickets for, because she’s been on the go since 10, and I’ve been sat in the back seat of my own life.

I’m the one contemplating the blurring of trees as we freefall into

this.

Albeit a much healthier state to end in than I have previously found.

 

I wrote the list and played a game for a bit. Earned simple rewards, upgraded a car, raced, and won. Raced, and won. Raced, and won. Raced

And lost momentum.

I found the wherewithal to quit when the energy bar ran out, and I knew I had to wait or pay if I wanted to carry on pissing into the void.

Straight away I went to facebook. Scrolled a while. Watched a video on anxiety.

Thank you Mental Health Awareness Week, for breaking my cycle.

I found myself wanting to cry,

unable.

I spent the span of the video debating my place in it.

Whether ‘high functioning anxiety’ was what I experienced.

Looking for a label, so I could get on google and research more and discover myself in a term

on a website I’ll never find again.

So I noticed a few features I had in common with what was being described.

I noticed a load of features I couldn’t relate to.

I felt distanced. Within arms length,

but the arms belong to Mr Tickle

or Gonzo after he caught the cannonball.

 

I followed myself to google

and typed “different types of anxiety”

looking for buzzwords

terms I could stand behind,

boxes that would fit closer and cosier than the ones I keep myself in

when I’m ready enough to tidy up.

 

I found GAD, which I think I had merely convinced myself I had been formally diagnosed with

And I caught the cannonball, but it stretched my arms

till I couldn’t bring them round

to twist my hair

and wipe my eyes

 

And I looked on another site and took to doing a quiz

The result would be a box I wouldn’t have to place myself in so seriously.

But who tidies up as a joke?

 

And now I’m here. I’ve only done the first thing on my list – put my phone on charge.

The smallest of victories.

Wait.

I hate that ‘victories’ has ‘tories’ in it.

A simple distraction from the train of thought

which leaves me here,

with the kitten wrestling my foot

and the beads gone from the lashes

 

and the thought of how best to tell her

that I love her, and that I’m not okay,

despite the time and energy that took her day

and that I’ve forgotten once again

to take my pills

for the past few days.

 

Crying’s over, water boy.

Boo-urrrrrr

I’m still depressed.

It’s so easy to say I’m better. Because better is good. And it’s true.

But it’s easier still to believe that better MEANS good.

I’m not fixed.

I’m not stitched back together

pat on the back

goodbye

good luck.

Having this public blog forces me to be open, and honest

That’s good.

But this is so indirect. How can this be honest?

Reality isn’t quite as clear as labels suggest.

Nothing is that practical.

I’m not looking for deeper meaning. I’m looking for simplicity.

I’m looking for call and response.

Not drone. Not free jazz.

I’ve experienced too much of both.

I’m looking for my solo to be met by yours.

Not beat. Not solved.

Not matched.

We

We are happy.

We

We are.

So this is my meditation

In spite of illness.

In spite of bleakness.

Regardless of the kitten gnawing on the corner of my laptop,

but not disregarding.

In charge of what we create,

while we’re recharging,

but without need for control,

or controlling the labels it stamps out

Holding

and not withholding

Standing, in spite of all the falling that is happening in the periphery

all that makes up the colour in our irises.

The reasons we are nerds.

The reasons we care too much.

Or too little.

The reasons we worry,

And bicker

and complain.

The reasons we drain out the pipes and take a peak

at the remains of all we ate

and drank

and dreamed

a restless sleep

a point.

I’m not making a statement.

This is a load of empty pop philosophy.

To make me dig a little deeper.

Because I feel low. And I’m not ready to say goodnight,

and sleep. Though the kitten has found a place upon my lap

to rest.

I love you.

And I hate to claim so strong a thing and not then reel back.

The ghosts of counsellors’ passed and past will cheer and moan,

And the many faces of me

will grin and groan.

And I will still love you.

And I will still be sat here.

Holding on.

Buying time before I sleep.

Perhaps I just need to breathe.

Or is this my last chance

to plan dreams unthinkable

and warm my hands

before I hold you.

I’m tired now that I’ve expressed the inexpressible

I’ve guessed the unguessable

I guess

and your cough reminds me of myself as a child

and I don’t deal with metaphor.

I don’t over-think poetry.

Though I guess there’s meaning, and it’s not really honest if I don’t admit that honesty

Is just saying

“yes, I wrote a poem about you, and how I was feeling after tonight. I’m not sure just yet what I meant by any of it, but together we could work it out, because despite our petty disputes, we solve a lot of problems when we trust each other.”

And crying when the answers aren’t found. Or laughing. Or smiling.

Is honesty equal to emotion?

Is analysis or creativity equal to dishonesty?

Neither are the case.

These are just buzzwords collated from my everyday,

to find reason

in half rhyme

And find value in life,

when I already have it.

And all I need to realise is that

I just need to open my eyes

with the morning light

and close them tight

with the night.

 

– For what it’s worth, this has helped me find comfort, and rediscover that lunging tiredness I felt just a couple of hours ago. Don’t seek meaning here. And don’t ask. Because this isn’t my void. This is my well. And I just want to mix the water with squash and get to bed already.

 

Goodnight

 

Drained. Shattered. Brain Chatter.

Having soup, for not wanting to put knife to veg

For not wanting to have to fill my head 

With any more than stirring

Because you filled it with the spill

Preprogrammed

And I care, you better believe

But I’ve not learnt to

Say

Or stop you there

Or talk directly

And I needed you as much as you needed me, 

so that I wouldn’t linger 

on thoughts of nothing 

Cutting

Chopping vegetables 

To check their brains

For life

While my mum waits in a hospital bed to find

The next step

And even now I’m just stepping back

Behind the red

Pencil scratch seams

Soup, beans, and lentils.

My skin clean

but stencilled.

For Nothing Is Not Enough

I’ve not posted on here in quite a long time. It seems I’ve run out of things to say. For now, at least. I’ve find a relative stability. I’m not fixed. Not cured. Better, but still ill. Disabled, even.

I’m still taking medication

Missed so many doses that I have a stockpile. Hanging onto them in case I forget to collect the meds again and I’m left without. Though that is unlikely now. I get them preordered.

I haven’t seen the counsellor or the doctor in a while. For all I know the counsellor could be scared. She did say once before that she was scared I’d walk out of there and never come back. She was scared I’d be dead. I’m not, though. I’m still here. I’m just different. I have new focusses.

I notice things that I accept. Mental boundaries that I don’t challenge. I’m safe, and that’s very appealing. Challenging my brain means risking everything.

I imagine I’ll have to return to counselling when uni starts again.

I’m not sure I should leave these things unchallenged.

 

I got a postcard sent to me from the head of the course. Congratulating me on good grades. He said he hopes I keep it up. He specialises in poetry.

I haven’t found poetry in my head for a while

I tried writing lyrics again.

It doesn’t happen much now.

I don’t think of writing. I think of ideas, but not phrases.

Ideas are less common now too.

I guess, in a way, when I was alone with just my brain, I was forced to find creative ways of expressing everything.

Now I’m doing a little better, I follow logic processes and practical solutions.

But losing the artist isn’t something I want to do.

The artist is the passion.

 

I don’t know what I’m doing now.

I don’t know if it’s positive. I tell myself, of course, that I’m doing good.

 

I just hope I find direction

and a way to direct these thoughts into something more than overcorrection

more than uncertainty

to productivity

creatively

Scene 2: Nowhere Near

IMG_5556I think Writer’s Block isn’t such an alien concept to me now. But I have to take it less simplistically. People say it like it’s obvious. Like when people say you have to read to write, or say they’ve had a panic attack. I don’t know how the fuck to recognise a panic attack. Maybe I’ve had one before. I don’t even know. If you can help me with that one, please do.

Writer’s block, to me, isn’t specific to writing. It’s a creative block. And even then I have issues with the term ‘block’. I have an issue with a lot of things.

I’m distant. Not like I used to be. I used to call myself empty.

I’m distant. Like everything is far away and I don’t have the energy to reach them.

Like everything is being dangled in front of me,

But when I reach for it, it retracts.

I feel like this ‘block’ I’m experiencing is biological.

It feels like parts of my brain are paralysed.

Not broken, though they were for a long time,

but now it doesn’t hurt so much

it just

there’s something distant about it

maybe it’s not me that’s distant

I’m here, able to write this, to consider it all

but it feels like these things can’t be properly named.

Like they’re somehow beyond therapy

beyond comprehension.

 

I can try and explain as best I can

and often I find some kind of release from the attempt

but the problems, though they stop bothering me as much,

perhaps,

seem to remain.

 

Like I’m still ill

Very much so

but I’m just not as upset about it now

 

But without knowing what is that is going on

I can’t come to terms with it properly

I can’t get on with living.

 

Suicide

Sorry (NB: no idea why I went on to this)

it seems like such a practical thing now

and I don’t mean that I’m considering it

I’m unburdened of the weight of that

I think

(NB: considered writing ‘I hope’ or even ‘mostly’ or ‘maybe’. Not sure if that was just embellishing or if I’ve actually not improved, but just distanced myself from the realities…)

 

It seems like almost an attempt of mine

to cut corners

to not challenge the climb

by opting to remove the challenge altogether.

 

If you don’t play the game,

you can’t lose.

Cowardice, some would say.

But I fool myself into whole heartedly believing

that I’m being crafty

cheating

without shame

like I’m somehow winning

I don’t know.

Besides, as I said,

I’m unburdened of the weight of that

Hopefully.

 

So I have two assignments in next week.

I am very much behind on them both.

And I sit here with blank page and no thought.

Almost like a loss of inspiration

or motivation

or both

A loss of creativity, perhaps

or not a loss of any

but instead, a shift

to other places.

 

Which again, are beyond me.

 

It’s all out there somewhere, and I have enough hope in my head to not break down

 

but still I am reaching the tiredness, as early as this,

with nothing to show for it.

 

It’s all well and good being okay

but I have to get something done

some day

I’m not sad. I’m not NOT okay,

in any way

But I used to run on something I didn’t recognise

something I’ve come to realise

was related to fear

it would drive me to the right lengths

at the right time

to focus

and make things clear

but now I’m getting close

to being too late

and still I’m nowhere near.

Big Me

I’ve just realised that this blog is basically a way back into writing.

It’s also therapy,

expression in ways beyond my normal mentality

But all it ever comes out as is poetry

Ha,

It’s not like me to call it that.

 

Space exists for this in other places

Awkward Boyfriends makes safety nets

for the words of the others

But I couldn’t approach this appropriately

for it to be defined as any more than diary

 

So I needed my space.

 

I feel a little wired

Tired, sure

but I went a weekend without my phone

and it was no Into The Wild

it was just a series of moments where I felt awkward

because I didn’t have the scroll

 

scroll

 

 

scroll

 

 

 

scroll

 

 

Like I’m after a white whale

but I’m just trying not to fail myself

by forcing rhymes

that contradict my own

lies I tell myself

 

I speak like I’m waiting for divine intervention

and I’ve called it such.

 

It doesn’t matter much

right now

but I’m being pushed

by this wave of false

responsibility

I have put upon

me.

 

I’m anxious

Sat in a corner worrying about not being coherent enough to make a post

when all I want to do

is ‘give up the ghost’ and look up what that means before I say it

but I had better not.

I don’t have time to waste on perfectionism

I’m too busy wasting it on therapy

and not getting to the point of what this is

or what it ever could be

 

I am in a corner, anxious

watching all the people work

 

my word counts are standing over me

like creativity

is driven by a whip

Ha,

I’m a hypocrite

 

I’m anxious,

I want to get a drink from the vending machines

I cant see from where my body sits

I hope they still exist

 

I’m scared about leaving my laptop while I go

not because I think someone could get at it

but because people don’t leave valuable things unattended

and I might find it weird of me

to not conform to fear

 

The easy word here

to bring in would be ‘beer’

because alcohol is so heavily plastered around the sculpture

of sadness.

But sadness is no fixed thing

Like the word sculpture

which I learnt

is ‘ure’ because it’s a process

the etymology going back so far through the sculpting

that you may as well call a rock

‘art’

but we call rock nature

as if to separate it from ourselves

like man-made is not also

a natural process

like the world is not created by the world

 

I guess that could be religious

 

but if literature is ‘ure’ then it too is in the process

and I could come back and edit this to get some kind of perspective

 

They did tell me that art is never finished

 

I’m calling it art now

I should end.

 

scroll

 

scroll

 

 

My brain is facebook, it seems

made for me to just flick through

observe

like

and every comment is a cry for

response

which I suppose is why I keep a blog

get counselling and

preach ‘honesty’ like its all really

really

helping me.

 

I’m just not content with having a brain that is my own

a train of thought that never leaves the station

unless I get someone else to help me push it

but two can’t move a train that way

the blog allows the world to get their say and

put all their wrinkled

sweaty scrolling fingers

on the back of the train and all push together

with a

 

 

 

 

scroll

 

 

 

 

 

scroll

 

 

 

 

I suppose I’m also looking

for someone to tell me I’m not whole.

Give me labels that let me shut down

Put me down as faulty so I don’t have to function

like you do

 

Last night I spent a good few hours feeling low

and spaced out

and under pressure

without a single word entering my brain

that I could translate into a cry

for help

 

I got to bed and found myself held

with wet cheeks

and pipes so clogged with slime

that I couldn’t breathe,

laugh,

cry or kiss

without feeling like I was just dislodging it

and risking ugliness

 

I say I ‘found myself’ but I’m not here yet

She found me, maybe

and she was a perfect safety net

but I’m still without answers

just a little cut less

I guess

 

I don’t really know

 

I think my counselling is on hold

but I’m not in control enough to say what happened to it

I guess I said in many words as I do

something about HAPPINESS

 

But who am I to talk of that

when I can’t even comprehend

this split end

that I have dared to pretend

is art

is poetry

because it rhymes occasionally

and is split into easy lines

because I empathise with those who aren’t up for reading this much

at a time.

 

I only write like this to make it manageable

this is still just free-writing

but I’m a little less free here

because I’m fighting

context and

formatting issues

and the question of why

 

why do I

 

 

 

 

 

 

scroll

 

 

 

scroll

 

 

 

I’m so conscious of the word count in the corner.

870.

I wouldn’t have read this far.

What good is the writer that doesn’t read?

Well, let me tell you

 

Writing isn’t built for scrutiny

Its base state is communication

expression of something innate

 

So when I don’t read

all I’m trying to prove is that

I’m still hung up on me

stuck on hold listening to the ‘easy’ beats

that I enjoy more than the conversation

because the talking scares me

And I can’t process your words right now, not because I’m not listening

not because I don’t want to listen

but because I’m not translating.

 

I want to partake in the rat king

I want to hold your hand

and

and

 

I’d like to teach the world to sing

in perfect harmony

I’d like to hold it in my arms

 

 

But I’m too lost in me

 

So

I’ll see you later

Hopefully

when the storm has passed

and the waves have crashed

somewhere high

up above me

Our Love Is Gonna Live Forever

I wrote a note last night:

“Clingy

Desperate attachment

– born into a grieving family – their presentation of love for him being one of strong, or even desperate, connection with someone they can’t have back. Someone they have lost.

Not fear of failure, fear of loss”
This happens a lot.
Notes
quick concepts
story ideas
angry club poems
shopping lists
theories on my mental health
theories on life
on reasons to be
on ways to not be
But maybe this one makes some sense,
After all it was written right after I voiced it
right after she turned to me and said
you should write that one down
I mean it, write that down
I look for reassurance all the time
seek out affection, too, but only from those
I have such a strong connection with.
I fear so much that I’ll be too overbearing
that like the water itself
I’ll envelope you
And you might find yourself drowning too
I fear also that if I don’t show affection
I will never receive it.
That if people don’t tell me I’m doing right
they must therefore think I’m doing wrong
I feel selfish sometimes, because I feel a need
to make myself a part of all your victories
So that I can say I did good for once,
without the responsibility
or risk of failure.
but not failure.
Loss.
I fear so much that I will lose
That I actively play to lose
I stay at the bottom
so that I can’t fall down
I hold the ropes and hoist those I can
so that I can say I got people to the top
and have an excuse to stay at the base
But perhaps it can’t be that plain any more.
What if there’s no more climbing?
I’m swimming, treading water
floating
sinking
because of all that time ago
when I took that fall
or just walked in,
thinking I could swim
before I could even walk
So now there is no top,
there is no climb,
there is just the surface,
or the depths.
So perhaps
to my mind
there is no up, and that the middle ground
is the highest I expect to achieve
so all I aim for is to stay on the surface
where I, and all the dolphins
breathe
But still
if I can only find the ropes amongst the waves
I’ll bear your weight
with bubbled breath
so that you might reach the next cave
and rest.

Instrumental

I’m not floating now.

I can hear the music but the beat is missing.

Maybe my lungs are too full

of water

or my ears have begun to rust

but I have no energy to check them.

 

So I wake up tired

I’m a zombie in the day.

Minor successes

I catch my breath just long enough to observe me losing it again.

Maybe I’m still in the blue

But I’m not floating.

Maybe I’m treading water,

perhaps preparing to swim again.

Fighting the aimlessness.

 

But I get tired quick

the creatures below grip me

pull me lower

with tentacles

as I take another breath of air

and try and separate it

from the saltwater.

I can hear the music,

see the coming lights,

but when I close my eyes, and listen

I fade

to white.