Writing in The Muck

A tragicomic study

I’m writing this piece in my joggers, which I haven’t taken off for more than a couple of hours this week, under the duvet in my bedroom. I smell quite bad and the joggers in question have oil stains on them that make me want to cry because they’ve been there for months and somehow I’ve never managed to get them out. 

Allow that to be a rather clumsy metaphor for this piece. I’m doing it with my joggers on, telling the unwashed, shame-feeling truth about what’s going on right now. Because I know some of you will be having bad times too, and feeling as alone as I am.

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My thoughts this morning: Oh god, not again. Another mental health episode, triggered by a cluster of life problems, undeniable now. I’m working, functioning, but only just. Then a few more minor bad things happen. I attempt a short run at lunchtime, trying in desperation to rid myself of the teeming thoughts and feelings, disease-ridden swarm of them; perhaps I can shake it off. At the end of my run which has been more of a walk I realise I’ve forgotten to breathe. I try, but I can’t. At first I think I’m having an asthma attack. Noises dying people make coming from my throat. I take a moment to marvel at the sounds. But I don’t have asthma. Blackness closes in from the sides. I’m crouching behind a hedge because I don’t want the embarrassment of people seeing me. Concerned eyes looking at me. All unwashed, unclean, mad-eyed me, having a panic attack in the park while the sun shines. 

Afterwards, I want to reach out to someone, but the question of who becomes another swirling worry. There are only a few people I feel known enough by, and they all come with a warning. My sister? She must be tired of supporting me after another recent SOS. My best friend? She too has had her fair share of crisis calls from me, and I think I sense a little frustration seeping into her responses. My new romance? But that sends me spinning even further, because how can I share this part of me when we’re so new? Nobody should have to hold this great, diseased lump of me. 

Underneath it all, a refusal to admit: I am here again.

You see, the story goes that I had my breakdown, and now I’m better. I do self-care, so now I’m better. I run, I do yoga, I eat healthily, I don’t drink much; and now I’m better. I work far less, and in less stressful situations, so surely now I should be better? The power of the narratives we tell ourselves and others. They free us and they trap us. 

We long so much for the silver lining, for the meaning in things. The end of the story where all the bad times make sense. But I think about the books that have helped me most in my bad times over the last two decades, and realise they all dwell in the muck of it, the sordid detail of falling apart. David Sedaris’ Me Talk Pretty One Day, Mary Karr’s The Liar’s Club, Maya Angelou’s Mom & Me & Mom, Maggie O’Farrell’s I am, I am, I am, Fern Brady’s Strong Female Character. All gave me a slice of their sadness, and so alleviated some of the shame of my own. 

So here is a new narrative, a truer one. Tragedy and comedy inelegantly cobbled together. I was better, but now I’m not. Even though life is less stressful, I still struggle, particularly at this time of year. Even though I disliked working in an office, I miss people. Even though I’ve chosen an independent life, I am lonely. I haven’t washed for three days now. My cat peed on the floor and I haven’t yet wiped it up. I don’t know if I’ve made the right decisions in life. I don’t know anything right now. This piece is probably something I’ll regret in a few days time when something lifts and I try once again to stick to the more positive version of events. 

That’s why I’m pressing post – because the unwashed truth deserves to be heard as much as the scrubbed-clean version. Because life feels like a tragedy sometimes, even when, objectively, it isn’t. Because all we really have is the subjective. Our curse and our blessing. It gifts us the ability to spin compelling falsehoods, but it also allows us to tell our story as we see it in that moment. It is innately human. So here’s the most positive story I can tell you right now: I am being a human. 

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When I wrote this piece yesterday I knew it would be read, and that was scary, but it was also helpful. Probably the most helpful thing I did. I can tell you that today is a little better than yesterday. Tomorrow might be worse. But I’m trying to sit in the now, to do one thing at a time. If you think having your voice heard will help you, then you could consider posting below, or simply writing it down for yourself. I am sorry that I can’t respond to everyone’s comments, especially right now, but I would like this to be a place where you can share. 

If you are struggling at the moment, I am sending you hope for a better future, which sometimes, is all we have. If you are at a crisis point, and have no one to speak to, then Samaritans are a good organisation. I have called them myself in the past, and while there was no instant solution to my problems, it got me through the night. Sometimes we simply need another human to be there, even if they can’t make it better.  

Photo by Julia Joppien on Unsplash