PhiNoWriMo Update #2
Or: How I Learned I Have To Get Better In Order To Write Better
Fair warning: this newsletter deals with some pretty serious mental health stuff, and I won’t be upset if anyone decides to skip it.
PhiNoWriMo — my attempt to write as much of a novel as I could over the month of November — has reached its end. As it turns out, the “no” part of the title was more literal than I intended this year.
In the last two weeks, I haven’t written a single word.
But as I sit here writing this, and take a moment to stare at the meagre handful of sentences I managed to get down over the last 30 days, I can honestly say I’ve never been prouder of myself. I might not have been writing a novel, but I’ve been doing a hell of a lot of character development.
I’ve struggled with my mental health for most of my adult life. Depression and anxiety are woven into the very fabric of my being. Most of the time, the black dog feels like a moderately-sized beast; more a spaniel than a Great Dane. But for the last six months or so, almost every day has been a struggle to keep my head above water. On the worst days, I’ve found myself wondering whether it would be better if I just let myself slip beneath the waves and be done with it.
None of this is particularly conducive to writing a novel. Even though I tend to write silly pieces of fantasy and science-fiction, about taxi-driving psychopomps and journeys to parallel universes, they still deal with a lot of the stuff that sits heaviest in my mind: fear, doubt, regret, self-loathing. They say that every novel is an autobiography, and when you’re feeling suicidal (or at the very least nihilistic) the last thing you should do is try and open a vein all over the page.
It’s been disheartening, to say the least. I spent many a (literally and figuratively) dark evening last month staring at a blank page on my computer, watching the cursor blink placidly at me and feeling increasingly helpless as the words failed to come to me.
“Something’s wrong with you,” a voice in my head would tell me. “You need help.”
Then, one day a couple of weeks ago, I finally listened to it.
I wish I could tell you that I had some grand epiphany, some glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel that pushed me to make a change. But the truth is much simpler; I was just sick and tired of feeling the way I felt. I wanted to feel better.
So I talked. I talked to my family and friends, and let them know exactly how bad I was feeling. I spoke to my therapist about my ideation, and nearly burst into tears when she looked at me and said: “That must be exhausting for you.” I spoke to my doctor, who listened intently to me describe my mental state, and nearly wept again when he offered to write me a prescription for antidepressants. I’ve been on them for a week now, and the best way I can describe it is to say that I feel like a football in a swimming pool: now, there’s only so far down I can sink before my natural buoyancy will force me to the surface again.
I know that I’m not ‘cured.’ Likely my depression and anxiety will be with me for the rest of my natural life. The difference is that now they simply feel like things I have, rather than things I am. I’m still in the water: there are days when it’s cold and wet and that’s miserable. But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
As for the novel, it’s still no closer to completion. It may be a while yet before I feel ready to go back to it. Still, I’m trying to reframe that as something other than a failing on my part. Recently my wonderful writer friend Harley introduced me to the concept of “pre-writing”, which is her term for all the things she does in a day that aren’t writing. Reading, taking a slow break with a coffee, going for a walk in the park — all of them are ways of opening your mind so that ideas can get in, and relaxing the muscles so that the words can get out again.
Even if I don’t start writing straightaway, this feels like the start of a brand-new chapter for me. I look forward to seeing where it goes.
And now… a poem.
I find myself looking after my daughter’s dolly as much as I look after her these days. Just one of the many delightful curveballs that parenting throws at you.
Bundle of Joy
I never thought
that I’d become a grandfather
at the ripe old age
of thirty-one.
But here I am
pushing your little bundle of joy in the pram
after we drop you off at the childminder.
Feeding her bottles
and changing her nappies
while you’re stuck at the table
because Mummy says
you have to eat one more bite of fish finger.
Cradling her in my arms
when you get bored
and want another go on the slide
(before letting her drop to the side
when I think you’re not looking —
one chubby ankle
gripped between my thumb and forefinger.
I know
they’re only made of glass and resin
but I swear
she’s got your eyes.