from Rita (NOTE: I'm actually surprised that it took me this long before talking about my diary... you know, given the fact that this 30-day blog challenge is all for an event called Dear Diary. You'd think it would be a bit obvious.) I have a diary. It's a familiar sight to people who know me. It's like an extra appendage. I carry it around wherever I go. I take it out every morning and leaf through it. I scribble things on it, scratch things out, react to its contents as I would react to a human being telling me things I like (... or things I don't). And no, sadly it is not the same kind I kept as a teenager. I've become boring in my old age. Instead of having a lock and key, this diary has an elastic band to keep it closed (and to keep its contents from spilling out.) Instead of my personal rants and thoughts, it contains my appointments and commitments like meeting up with people, cleaning my room. Yeah... that kind of diary. Now, I can guess what you're thinking. If this event is all about mental health, about personal experiences and owning them, then why am I talking about this diary and not the lock and key kind? Surely that's a better representation of my mental health? Well, not really. I'd always tried keeping those kinds of diaries. Get all of my thoughts out of my head and into paper, just so I can get a bit of perspective and clarity. But I would write one or two entries then stop. It never really felt natural to me. And, in the process of reading those entries back, they never felt honest. I started keeping this diary around the middle of last year. Without going into specifics (since I'm not necessarily sure how to talk about that yet), I was progressively feeling overwhelmed. Things in my head, things in my life, things just around me that didn't even affect me. Emotionally and physically, everything felt crushing... stifling... suffocating. Everything spun and whirled, jarred and jabbed – it made me dizzy, nauseous, lethargic, and, at its worst, catatonic. I felt absolutely out of control. Helpless. I don't remember the exact moment getting a diary occurred to me. And looking back, it feels like I should. The diary was when the ritual began. Every morning, I took the diary out of my bag. I would set it down on the table, open it, flip to the date, look at the day and the week ahead of me. Pencil in things that I wanted to do, things that I had to do. I formed little legends for myself. Little ways of knowing what were priorities and what were just things that could fade away without notice. The diary helped me gain some sense of agency over my life. I decided what went in it. I decided what to scratch out. If I wanted to move something to another day, I could. If a page was empty, I could decide whether or not to leave it like that or find something to fill it up with. I could put exciting breadcrumbs, notes and treats for myself every now and then to give myself things to look forward to or to work towards. It gave my life structure and constancy. The diary also became a great way to keep parts of my anxiety in check. Things didn't just live in my head anymore. With everything poured into it, if the pages themselves looked chaotic or out of control, then I knew that things would get too much for me to handle. Today, I feel calmer about things. The week feels exciting challenging and exciting (... but, most importantly, manageable.) Tomorrow, I'm working on an exciting project for my job, then off to a decompressing dinner with some new friends. Wednesday, I'm making dinner and watching Bake-Off with some of my oldest ones in Edinburgh. Thursday I'm watching the Hamlet Encore screening with NT Live (been looking forward to this for MONTHS! Needs me my Cumberfix!). Friday, meeting the young people at Saheliya, talking to Out of the Blueprint for a shhhh shhhh secret project, and then off to get some drinks with my flatmate. Weekend... well that part is a surprise but I'm looking forward to it. I'm not saying everyone should get a diary like mine. I'm saying everyone should find their own version of their diary.
Something personal, something yours.
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from Kirstyn Jogging, because I’m not a teenager and my metabolism is unforgiving. This wildlife, steaming dirt path, glowgreen grass, leaves me childlike, remembering nature club and sausage sizzlers. A scent-of-rain-on-wild-garlic way of living. Huff on, the winter-bellied swifts fly perilously close, perhaps my sweat is low-rent nectar. I dare you: feast on my unhealthiness. But beware of this malnourished, low-iron, husk of womanhood. Dance on. Swing by and let me smile for the first time since they told me I wasn’t ill enough to take seriously. You’re not dead yet. So shut up and sort yourself out, you are a rebut. Your scrambled brain not quite mangled enough. The sunset calls time on jogging. The swifts won’t forget the taste of me. From Eris Young
The last year has been a funny one for me. I’ve never really been a very outgoing person, and it’s only since I’ve found what I think of as my ‘calling’ (writing) and begun to work towards that as a career, that I’ve had reason to push myself into unfamiliar situations: workshops, talks, live readings, socials. When I was younger, I realise now that I also used money as an excuse. It’s not that I was in the wrong to say, no, that concert or this exhibition or even just going out is too expensive, but that now I’ve got a stable income and can no longer use that excuse that I realise what I was doing. That I felt a tiny bit of relief if my friend didn’t offer to pay for me or suggest a cheaper alternative. from Daley Nixon Earthquakes in my frail elbows Weather the fiery tempests of my brain Cats amongst startled pigeons Wrap my battered heart in a velvet blanket The future walks a tightrope Hammerhead sharks lurking in a peaceful lagoon Sirens to the shipwrecked Masked strangers at a welcome party The gilded shoreline beckons A maritime mirage of yearning The tempest is at death's door I am home from Rita
Half blog, half TV recap, today I'm going to talk to you about the greatest plotline that ever existed in comedy TV. You know what I'm talking about... |
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