Write yourself free.

{Photo taken from It's not always black and white. By Kate Knapp.}

It’s not yet 7am and I’m awake. The gym is beckoning, if nothing more than the allure of delicious distraction. Distraction. Distraction from writing and the incessant anxiety plaguing me. Yes, even at such an early hour. My imagination is working hard conjuring up a mixed pot of alternatives, suggesting that my anxiety will dissolve at the gym at about the same time when my muscles begin to beg for mercy.

I blame my imagination for this chunky slew of anxiety that's riddling my creative prospects. It’s my imagination who constantly toys with the idea of early rising for writing. Dipping the idea into a pool of glorious advantage, despite personal history pointing to the contrary. Honestly, early rising has never really been my style. I’m more of the just one more chapter, oh shit, it’s 2am kind of woman. 

Including writing in my daily routine is often fallible as I’m not particularly fond of regimentation. Some days I look over at my moleskin sitting lonely and expectant on my bedside drawer, sending taunting whispers my way and I desire nothing more than to pick her up, throw her violently across the room. Our shared relationship flirting in-between both raging and wonderful. For every page I spinelessly tear out at her seams, is a thread of words she has aggressively tore out of me. Together, we engage in a heartbreaking romance with one another. Typically though, all hate is forgotten, resentment instantly dissolved by my needy reliance. Accurately put, my desperate need to declutter my twisted insides across blank pages. 

I love writing simply for the sake of writing. Writing prevents me from tunneling into the depths of overwhelm when emotionally weighted thoughts fire at me with serrated edges. Take fear for instance, fear can take a stubborn hold over me, emanating strident cockiness. Despite the myriad occasions fear and I have acquainted ourselves with each other, I’m yet to understand fear. Therefore, I cannot tolerate its presence. Often, fear refuses to take leave, further assuring me that its only intention is to be a soul crushing, arrogant asshole.

Fear flings toxins my way hopeful of breaking me down. Each thought conjured up by fear is coated in it’s own illness inducing pesticide, possessing only a tiny cautionary label among its contents. I’m not always successful in fighting fear, nor am I always able to comprehend why fear chooses to niggle away at me. I devise my own theories, although most of them are futile without the confirmation of certainty, and you just can't replay these frightening scenes over and over in your mind without turning into a crazed lunatic.

And so I write, hopeful that writing will provide sufficient mental clarity. I write. I write for release. I write. My pen in hand, I write until my fingers beg for respite. I write myself free. 


Finding home.

Sydney, predominantly Surry Hills, has grabbed me by the crouch, satisfying her ceaseless appetite through making me her minion. Admittedly, this is not entirely a one sided story. I've willingly submitted myself. I’m guilty as charged. I blame her though, I do, she's wickedly attractive and I lack resistance to her charms.

There is an overwhelming plethora of opportunities waiting to be experienced at my doorstep. Myriad cafes, restaurants, bars, grocers, book stores, libraries even. Just walking down my street is pleasurable. The options combined with an absence of company, structure or scheduled responsibilities has provided me with ample opportunity to get out and discover. I too often get carried get lost conjuring up ways to fill the generous pockets of time bestowed upon me. 

Abundant  time used  to induce loneliness in me...

Discomforting, unwavering loneliness. Entirely separate from the beauty that is alone time, loneliness has always sent me running in all kinds of directions, escaping. In the past loneliness has had me packing up house, in order to fill the gaping hole inside. But this time, this home, is different. I've never felt so content in my life. I adore every little thing about where I live, with whom I live and the way I live. 

Now I fill my free hours sipping coffee, tea, cooking and simply wandering these city streets, as opposed to endlessly searching. I don't long for something better to come along. These days, I'm satisfied with the right now, it feels nice, really nice.


Ride the waves of anxiety.

It's Monday morning, again. You've woken up with familiar twangs of pain permeating your muscles. Your tireless brain has conjured up, multiplied and, thus inflicted a weighty burden over the span of your entire body. Upon waking, it instantly becomes impossible to deny that your brain is one manipulating power-hungry mother fucker.

You know the feeling, your anxiety is back again...

You so desire to fill your day with positivity. You already read inspirational manifestos, words peppered with positivity on a daily basis hoping that they will elevate your happiness. Alas life is not always a leisurely stroll in the park. 

After a mind-numbing, insomnia saturated evening, You've awoken into a full-fledged negative head-space. All would have been forgotten if you had have woken up renewed. Then you could have put it down to a weak moment or an over dramatic tantrum. But, you did not wake up with fresh resolve or fresh anything for that matter. You went to bed in a foul, anxiety riddled mood. You've woken up in a foul, anxiety riddled mood. 

Confusingly, you can’t seem to shake this painstakingly hefty feeling that you've rushed into things, or made the wrong decision. The chaotic speeding is ceasing to slow. Your mind runs rampant. Could you be suffering from a post decision making hangover? Didn't this decision at first glance gloat optimism? Then, why now does it reek of carelessness? For some incomprehensible reason, you cannot shake your internal frustration, everything has just happened way too quickly. 

Things were feeling good, amazing even. You were oozing confidence, which is why you tossed out your life jacket. Your harried pace lead you to assume that its bulkiness would only weigh you down. Pity nobody told you to hang onto it just in case. And now you're struggling to stay afloat. In hindsight the obviousness is blinding, you sold yourself short. You always do. In your conflicted mind there's never any room for compromise. You always pull the shortest straw out of handful of shortest straws. Self victimized, you willingly throw away your choices, your real voice, your confidence, leaving yourself fighting for breath. You're drowning now, of that you're sure. There's not even the slightest chance of you surviving this time around. It's fucking rough and you're feeling weak.


Soon enough, and seemingly out of the blue, your strength slowly returns and before you know it you're strong enough to hold your whole bodies weight. You're floating above the waves now, instead of being sucked under. 

Anxiety for many of us is temporary, typically it comes in bouts. It's both painful and infuriating, but trust me, it's comforting to accept this. Knowing that you can come out whole again on the other side is literally life saving.

With that being said, I propose we try to be genuinely grateful for our bouts of anxiety for without them we would never question our life. Of course whilst knees-deep involved in the riddles, we simply cant, yet usually a week or so later. It's afterwards that we can remember how good it feels to be self assured. Anxiety riddles morph us into the kinds of people who who can solve whatever rare, ridiculous situation comes our way. We discover resolve or get along without it. As time presses on we become okay with not knowing, confident that the uncertainty is the best part. 

It's not until that special Monday morning after you've jerked your bones out of bed that you can completely appreciate how prodigious it feels to wake up feather-light, neutral and accepting. And, darling, it was all you, nobody else. You saved yourself because you're the only one who can.



Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...