The Woolf is back

Like a long lost friend her diaries have slotted back into my life with the comfort of a blanket. Concentration had lapsed, motivation disappeared, tears re appeared and a sense of overwhelming fatigue hit over the last two weeks. The crash had landed. After the high, there must always be a fall. And what a high it was. Which meant, what a bloody fall. Bruised and bloodied I hit the deck with a wail of 'But WHY?!' The morning nerves started, they turned into all day nerves. The doctor beckoned and an increase in meds was prescribed. I was expecting a hit like last time, one small tablet and all my troubles would simply melt away. I took the first of the stronger tablets with a smug grimmace. Screw you depression, I will win this war. And. Then. Nothing. And the next day. And the next. And then anxiety. And then tears. And then exhaustion. And still nothing. Shit. No, actually, double shit.

A wave of writing ideas were bubbling underneath this all but the very thought of lifting a pen or typing a word and my body would overwhelm itself with nervous energy. Rest was all I had left in this fight. But how does one successfully rest when filled with nervous energy and a restless impatience to get back to normal? If I'm not being creative, I'm not happy. But when I'm not happy, I can't be creative. Urgh. My brain just exploded.

So I turned to books and documentaries. They stimulate but I can sit in a comatose state and let the ideas wash into my pores. But which book? In one afternoon I had read the first page of four books. But as soon as I started reading one I wanted to read another and another and another...and what about if I read some Shakespeare? That will be both work and rest? Surely...

On and on it went until my brain was aching and my insides felt like they were on a treadmill that was going faster and faster and may actually at any moment explode from my body leaving my flat mates with a very pretty mess to clean up. There was only one thing for it. The Woolf. Not her novels...one of those was one of the books I'd been attempting to read but they require such concentration there is no way a mental person can read them. It's no wonder she went mental after writing them. No, the diaries. Small entries of intrigue and literary life and country living and snobbery and dinners and break downs and dogs. I sat down, I opened the first page and read the summary of the year, then read the entries. Page after page was turned and I got to that happy place where you want to keep reading but it's been a few hours and your eyes hurt. And I felt like a sane person again.

And then this morning I woke and there were no butterflies in my stomach, no crushing need to hide my head from everyone, no unspilt tears at the back of my throat. Just a normal, uneventful morning. And so I turn here. And I write. Because today I can.