I’ve been absent from this blog and from myself.
Busy work over at The Shake has kept me busy.
And busy is good. And in my biggest hopes for how our first would go I couldn’t have imagined it being as fantastic as it has. And I have our community to thank for that. It has really blown me away. The level of support has been just incredible. And there’s something about watching a vision you’ve had grow into this living, breathing thing all of its own.
And between medication and time, I have found myself inhabiting my carefully constructed imaginary world a little bit less. When I first started writing I was writing a fantasy novel. And I remember my mum asking me if I was writing fantasy because I wanted to escape from the real world. At the time I probably rolled my eyes at her. But more and more I’ve been thinking she was probably right. That I always had a highly detailed, highly believable imaginary place to be. Somewhere where I could be not here. Somewhere where I wasn’t bound to my body, or my awkwardness, or my anxiety, or my bone deep fucking sadness. Somewhere so completely outside of myself. And I have a good enough imagination that I could do it. And convince even myself of it.
But more I’ve been thinking that if I’m going to write a story, I have to write my own story first. The one in the real world. That I should pay just as much attention to those details, those bits of wonderment. But in reality, I’ll probably always be writing both. My real story and my imaginary one. Because when I was crying my heart out on the kitchen floor it was the imaginary one that was there stroking my hair when I couldn’t look the real one in the eye.
I’ve always prided myself on will power. But this time, the disease of my mind was too great for my will, or my imagination to save me as it had so many times before. And when it abandoned me, well then I was really lost. And all I could do was look at my bright, joyful children who seem to light up the world and wonder how someone so sad had helped create two people who were so happy. And hope, that there are some things that they never get from me. Hope that they never have cause to understand it. Hope there is this one thing that we never have to share. And hope that they are never that lost. And when people say they are like me, I smile. But I think, I hope not.
I’ve stopped crying. I’m not afraid to leave the house. I’m starting to sleep again. And eat because I want to, not because I want to avoid getting sick. And that might be the beginning of my story.