This morning, a girl that has become one of my closest friends from afar, introduced me to a beautiful poem by Nikita Gill that moved me to tears immediately. It's been a long time since I've cried from something other than my own thoughts so it was nice to read this and cry because of it's beauty.
What You Are, What You're Not
You are:
A walking, breathing universe
of thoughts, ideas, stories as your stars
supernovas full of adventure in your veins
galaxies of emotion.
An untamed, powerful ocean
of every experience that made you
into a journey full of storms
and quiet starry nights.
A sky that has held
the worst of storms
but never forgotten
to let the sun shine through
But you are not and never have been
an apology, a mistake
or a thing to be forgotten.
Remember that in the way
you wear your skin every morning.
And I read this over and over until I couldn't actually see anymore because my vision had blurred with either tears or from being tired. As someone prone to apologising for anything and everything, my fault or otherwise, the last verse struck me deep enough to stick. I adore poetry but it becomes slippery in my mind no matter how much I love it. But that last verse spoke to me. I am not to be forgotten. I am not to be an apology. Where I'm at in my life right now, this was important for me to read.
I debated over writing this blog post. I wanted it to be honest and me as opposed to a cry for help because I don't want that. This is not that.
In my life right now, I'm struggling. It's been months since I've gone out with friends or even seen a couple of close friends at a time. It's been a few weeks since I've been able to dredge up some excitement at that prospect. Talking to my friends via social media is comfortable for me because there's no requirement to go out when I don't want to. I have very little desire to leave my house because there's no comfort out there for me, a person struggling with numerous health issues, including fainting. As someone who has that worry hanging over them constantly, it's hard to pull up excitement and to look forward to going out. All that remains is dread and anxious anticipation. From this, anxiety has stemmed cripplingly so for me. That, in turn, has pushed me further into a place that I don't want to leave.
My mind is a maze of wonder and creativity. Somehow, despite not going out very much unless it's with the anchors that are my mum or sister (and even then, I won't dare go far), my creativity has not left me. It's all that's left. So whilst my mind flourishes and builds other worlds for me to get out and live through and explore, my body fails me and I lack the strength now to push it to overcome these fears. Because I don't want to. There's something in me that cowers and snarls at the thought of that. Some days, I can go walking and think, "I am capable of coming back from this. I am capable of finding friends again rather than relying on my friendships from afar because there's no physical demand of seeing them. I am capable of finding love without wanting to back away because I know there's no way I can go out on dates with my current state of health."
I've always depended on stories to help me escape. Now my bedroom has become a comfortable prison in which I've locked myself up in to protect myself from my fears in the world. Dramatic, right? I'm a writer, I blow things up. But reading that poem, I can recognise that I've survived storms and self-destruction in my past but that I'm walking through the biggest storm I've ever had to endure. Some days, my legs don't even keep me up in order for me to walk on. So there's no end in sight for me right now. But perhaps nothing is a mistake. I go onto Pinterest every day, hoping for inspiration, and I find it. I just can't take it and apply it to myself anymore in the way that matters.
Yesterday, I wrote over 4,000 words on my current novel, bringing my goal closer to achieving. Great, amazing, go me. But it's no physical effort or fight to sit at my own desk, in my own bedroom, forgetting to eat breakfast because I've fallen into the world inside my own head. I think to myself I should go to a coffee shop near me and write there. I should compromise: take what I love and what I find comfort in and situate myself some place that I need to develop comfort in.
I made a move that I thought I'd never make this morning. It was a thing I've only confided to one person and she's incredible (Marian, I love you, and thank you because I finally sent that thing). Then I got the poem sent to me in way of my friend, Sara, needing a caption for a picture. She sent three poems; two were short and powerful, but the longer one stuck with me and I needed to share it. I needed to share me because I don't think some people who have put pressure on me to be the old me they once knew can understand just how big that storm in my head is right now and why that hinders me in being who I should be.
Anxiety and depression is part of mental health and a major part at that. They're very real and valid and they shouldn't be forced to go away from someone. I'm around some people who think that they can force these problems out of me rather than softly encourage me to take small steps at a time. The problem is that the wonderful people (virtually) holding my hand and taking small steps with me are the people far away, who I can't see but spend all day talking to. But they're there and it doesn't matter that they're not nearer to me because they're doing the most for me right now. I've had to cut off friendships that were suffocating me or adding mental strain to my already crumbling wellbeing and they were steps I'd struggled to take and put off. But I did it and I've been chided for that, for trying to look after a part of my mind, because they were still friends but they weren't good or understanding friends for my current state. In a fragile place, a person needs friends to understand them, not pressure them or be argued with when they can't do something.
It's not all doom-and-gloom, don't get me wrong. Some days, I'll wake up smiling, having slept well, even if I don't quite feel like I have. I'll still get up, get dressed and make an effort to go walking for a while. I leave my house alone occasionally and just get lost in thoughts, which all go right to a novel I'm planning because that will be my recovery and survival book. I'll be passing my problems onto someone who will carry them better and do something to overcome them, someone with support around him, someone who gives himself a chance. And through that, I may inspire myself with my own character. That'll be called EVERYTHING AROUND US, referring to the beauty of everything around, whether it's seen or not.
Right now, I have 12,000 words left to write of my 50,000 word goal for July and I know I can do that. Give me writing to do and I can smash it in the way I feel able. Writing is the only thing I have left and I'll be damned if I let it slip away too. It may give me some strain headaches but it's my forte and what I can surround myself with in positivity because I know that I'm good at it. I can finally hold up my hand and admit that I'm a talented writer and that took me years to be able to do.
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