Some days I don’t want to write, some days it feels like the hardest thing I could ever do IN THIS WORLD. The words don’t come. I don’t feel there. I feel so sad, I feel like my whole body is ripping itself apart inside of me. I can’t read one word of a book without my attention veering off. And yet, when I do WRITE, I feel a little spark of joy flare up inside of Me.
Today, I walked around the park pretty aimlessly for a handful of hours before returning home. I had to meet a friend, but my phone was dying. All I could think of was, ‘I don’t want to go back to the flat.’ Still, I went, charged and met her, outside Sloane Square Tube. I went, even though my tummy was fluttering, and I felt so sick inside. I went even though I didn’t want to. Because I know, social contact is good for me, so I should just grit my teeth and do it. She drinks a water, I drink a green juice at one of the thriving cafes on Pavilion Road. I try to stay present, to stay interested, but the voices in my head are beating me down again. “You’re not there,” they’re saying. “Be careful,” they’re saying. “You should be scared,” they’re saying. Unfortunately, I don’t ignore them, so I can’t concentrate on the conversation. She looks at me, concerned, as I open up my skin and tell her a little of what lies there on the inside because I can’t hide it now, now that she has witnessed my glistening eyes. She listens, but still, I am not warmed. As we walk back to her car, she tells me I can call her anytime. I am grateful for that, still, will never actually do it. Because when I feel low, I feel like I can’t do anything, least of all, call.
As I watch her drive off, I feel sad inside so I dial my Dad, and have a career conversation with him, which makes me feel even worse, and results in my frantically googling and nervously applying for whatever hotel reception roles in the local area I can type my fingers on, a search which is not at all fruitful. Indeed, only gives me more panic than I had before.
Back home, I order a salad, and eat it, while the panic continues to run through me like illness would. Does. As usual, my tastebuds are off, as usual all I can think of is, “What will I do next…”
“I will write,” I say to Myself, even though the voices in my head are still playing, still telling me I’m not good enough, still telling me to chicken out. “What will be the use of that?” they say, “after all, you are confused, you are mad, you won’t make any sense.” Unlike with my friend though, I choose to ignore them now. I take a deep breathe, throw away the eaten salad, head over to my desk.
Once fairly comfortably installed, I look up at the sky. She’s bright and smoky and blue. Just like Me, my swirling insides.
“You have to keep believing in Yourself,” I say whilst still looking up at Her as She smiles down at Me, making me feel less alone, making me feel more with Me.
“Keep going,” She says. Makes me recall G’s words I always hold close to Me.
“Keep going. That’s all you have to do, ever. You really don’t have to be amazing, or fierce or beautiful or successful or good. Just keep going, please. Slowly is fine. Crawling is fine. No feeling is final. Except hope.”
I Am Alice 