Scream Recovery

Looking for a signal fire, a red alert is always a justifiable way for me to keep going. I know there will be no sign from a god in a white robe or angels circling the proximity of my emotions, but I always look on, observing the sky and its blue-tinged textures and soft clouds. Looking for a miracle is complex and time-consuming, and truth be told, I don’t think I’ll ever be ‘fixed’. Although, there are times when I feel defended by my own mind and strong enough to stave off drama. This drama unpacks itself in the middle of my day to day troubles. I often don’t venture beyond the walls, I often isolate myself from interactions. And then at points, I’m walking through Glasgow’s cultural hubs, pursuing magical spots, diamonds in the rough.

These glints of hope aid me in my ‘recovery’. Visiting libraries and book shops, attending gigs and talking to people with similar mental health problems, leads me through therapeutic motions. I’m a pessimist at the most pivotal moments, those instances when love burns bright when optimism tries to flood through in vibrant strains of colour. Obstacles also appear to control me. I stand under rainstorms to cool off, they soothe me when my world seems like it’s going to cascade.

Rain is a form of therapy. Love is also a great brand of satisfaction. I appear to distance myself away from love, even when my partner shows affection. I love the bones of her, but I can’t seem to burst open my emotions to showcase affection as much as I should. My mental health has left me limited, it has taken me from one side to the other, controlling me, closing me into a circle of irrelevance and despair.

I feel irrelevant. A cog that doesn’t work. I feel silenced, drawn up in string, my mouth taped. I can write, but I can’t fully verbalise my thoughts. These thoughts, challenge me, they rule my day, and every little particle of their existence hinders my ‘recovery’. I scream recovery from the top of my lungs, they’re strained, but I keep on bellowing in a fashion that is somewhat contrasting to my usual repose.

Waking up in the morning is a struggle for relevance in a world on edge. A world consuming itself. A globe twisted by hopelessness and static noise. The room often looks dark and ugly, the bed covers are my only armour. Getting dressed takes energy that I must muster. Dreaming of a smooth day keeps me alive. A day fulfilled. A day of writing enough to satisfy my manic brain. Rigid writing annoys me. And at points, I’ll not write a single word. It has to come to me freely without compromise. Finding that feeling of ease is rare. Easy writing usually results in bad writing.

Promise and inspiration fondle with my mind on occasion. Steamrolling through bad writing and uncovering honest, cohesive sentences is the most rewarding achievement. I am a self-taught music journalist, who has written for a plethora of online and print publications. I have written about music for some time, orchestrating my ability through describing instruments, composition, heartfelt lyrics. I have also written a few fiction pieces darted around the web. Fiction, I find the hardest to write because my creativity can be stemmed by my medication. I take 3 pills in the morning. They numb my spark somewhat.

I don’t blame doctors or medical professionals or psychologists. I know I need them to function. I know I need them to abort the demons which scratch and tell me their most heinous of crimes, their war stories, their fantasies. Creativity is ingrained in me, embedded inside my cognition, although it is overshadowed by vagueness. And walking through supermarkets and talking to people can exert my mental health. I used to turn to alcohol as a crutch of poison. My hangovers created paranoia and anxiety, so much so, I felt the rush of fear shooting bullets at my inner being. Day to day tasks can be too difficult also, as my mind becomes misty.

My friend and I run a writing group on a Friday. Talent exudes at these times, poetry shudders the tear ducts and inspiration is captured in a humble space. Going there and relieving myself of the darkness of my room, gives me hope.

Knocking down hardships will take me a considerable amount of time. But, I am ready to withstand the tests, I am ready to cancel out overlapping noises. Visions of me being mended will never flash in my dreams or my eyes, I know this, but learning to cope with depression and anxiety, will make me feel like I am going down the right avenues and not a long road to ruin.

Trapping thoughts can be debilitating. If I could sift through them and dispose of the ones that cause me anguish then I’d be free. Free like a bird, free as an animal not judged as prey.

Losing my parents when I was 14 sanctioned me off from the crowd. I stood behind the curtain, I locked myself in my room, counting the days, playing videogames, and teetering on the brink. Many hearts were hurt, not only mine, and after their departure from the world, my creativity flourished.

I wrote and wrote, I cried and cried, embracing the written word and the structure of a sentence and paragraph. I was in my element. I knew how to form pieces of writing that may have been raw, but they had relevance. Nowadays, writing is not only an act of spreading thoughts and feelings, it is therapy.

I don’t dwell on my past or torn up letters revealing depressive anecdotes. My optimism shatters like chandeliers colliding with marble floors, but I always seek dreams, I always try to thwart nightmares, and I always embrace the NOW.