Right now, I’m writing a piece about my overdose with the hope to get it published and seen. As I write it, I’ve been swinging between concise, conscious writing, and just allowing myself to free-write all over the page, because I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s a bit fucking annoying, but I also feel like it’s part of the process. Talking with a friend last night she said to just let it happen – let the words spill out if they need to. This Is Writing. I realise that hours and hours can so often go into writing just one thing, but I just want it to be concise and easier! I just want to have my words all neatly packed in paragraphs so I don’t have to fucking sort through them afterwards to edit and filter what I want.
But I think I realise this isn’t me, nor will it ever be me. I’m not entirely sure why I thought it would be any different this time round. When I think back to uni, and any other piece I’ve written, I’ve exploded thousands of words onto the page and only used half of them, or less. Part of me does neat and tidy, concise and ‘together’, but the other parts of me Do. Not. And that’s creativity.
Anyway, as I was writing just a moment ago, I was in a phase of spilling the words out onto the screen – them hitting the blank page before I realise what they say – and I found myself writing this:
“It’s a place that I think I needed to visit to know it wasn’t for me. I think it’s a place I needed to visit to know it wasn’t for me.”
I had to write it twice because it blew my mind. I was referring to my overdose, and I was referring to that time in my life. I spend so much in time in total fear and terror that it’s going to happen again. Not because I want it, but because it’s trauma. And trauma can make you feel deluded to the truth, and make you feel terrified that it’s going to happen again. It’s not a case of rationality or reason, it’s a case of terror and a lack of sense of freedom. So when I wrote that just now, it almost made me cry. Instead I found myself sat with a gaping mouth at the screen… maybe this is really true. Maybe it won’t happen again, maybe it was somewhere I needed to go to know that it wasn’t me.
To know that time in my life was perhaps a place I needed to go to find the deepest, darkest medicine that I could ever get. To know suicide is not for me. To know that following the path of my mother wasn’t, and isn’t, for me either. To know that I am who I am today because of what happened, and everything else too. To know that my fear of it happening again, is just a fear. It really was just a stage, a time, a chapter, a nugget of sea salt in this entire ocean of my life blows me away. But I think I really knew that. I think I always have. I think I’ve always known that I won’t go back there again, but the fear of really giving myself that feels greater than living with the fear and the hypervigilance that it might…because that’s known ground – the confidence is wayyyyy foreign territory.
As I heal though, and as I type this, I find myself frowning at the screen…do I really feel that? I really do… and that shows me I’m healing because these norms and these levels of thinking or ways I’ve believed I need to live in, aren’t truth anymore. I’m discovering newer and healthier ways of being that are relevant and are real. Like living with trust – for myself and for my life, and for the universe around me.
That’s nice. I’m off to eat some food and – temporarily – drag me out of this writing stuper I’m in. It’s not a bad one, but sometimes I feel like I realise things that literally blow my mind out of my room and into next door’s garden…I think that just happened with what I wrote about, so I best go find it and celebrate.