Tuesday, 3 July 2018

The Oil Slick, by Dorothy Donald

This is another guest post by Dorothy Donald.

The good news: the sertraline seems to have quieted The Voice In My Head That Hates Me. The bad news: instead of A Voice In My Head That Likes Me, what’s replaced The Voice In My Head That Hates Me is nothingness.

This means I haven’t been writing. I haven’t really been doing anything much. Mostly I’m in an endless Netflix/Twitter loop. I go to the shop sometimes because I’m told it’s important to leave the house. My kitchen cupboards are embarrassingly well stocked.

I miss writing. I miss the feeling I used to get when an idea rattled around inside my head – no – grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and marched me to my computer and wouldn’t let me leave until it had received some sort of words-in-the-right-order justice.

I miss feeling like I had something to write that people might want to read. I’ve got nothing.

If the inside of my mind had a colour, it would be grey. A texture, cheap scratchy cotton wool. A sound, somewhere between radio static and tinnitus. Smell and taste, a stale fucking rice cake.

I used to laugh and make other people laugh. I used to be capable of excitement, anger, desire – maybe all at once if it was a really interesting day. I used to make plans. I used to look forward to things.

I also used to worry a lot, so I guess it’s not all bad that I’m basically cardboard now.

“But do you think this is the medication, or the condition?” asks my GP.

How the fuck would I know? We have a sample size of one and a lot of uncontrolled –

I sigh and say “I suppose it could be the condition.” That’s what he wants, and it seems easiest to go that way.

But in my previous, unmedicated episodes, I still wrote. I don’t think I wrote especially well – please, nobody ever give me that ‘oh but doesn’t mental illness produce such great art?’ line – but the fact that I sat down and typed something gave me hope that there had been something inside me. Even if it was a twisted and miserable, self-loathing hot mess. There was something.

I’m not saying I regret choosing to take the meds. I just –

I miss writing, that’s all.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Comment policy:
We reserve the right to edit all comments. In particular, we will not tolerate phobic content (race, sex, gender, sexual orientation, nationality, religion, mental health status, etc.) nor personal attacks or threats toward another commenter, significantly off-topic, or is an obvious trolling attempt.