Tag Archives: writing

Worse than I thought

Last night, I had an anxiety attack. My first, real, proper, self-preserving anxiety event. And it was absolutely horrible.

As soon as I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, it started. I felt very odd, as if nothing were real. I was smelling odd things, like wood chips, and the plastic from toys I had when I was young. Nothing generated by the real world.

I was convinced the vomit was coming and wouldn’t stop, then I wouldn’t be able to feed Ru, or make it through the day.

I thought writing a full, meandering, but distant account of the events from the beginning – the very beginning – would be therapeutic. I even went as far as to think I would enjoy the process, fictionalising aspects as I saw fit.

I did enjoy bashing out two thousand words of absolute drivel, letting my brain follow its thought processes and writing it all down.

What I was actually doing, without realising, was triggering myself, over and over again until I came to bed where I lie down, the last few bars of the psytrance going round and round in my head. Then the horror came.
I detached. But not in the way I used to during my teens while I self-harmed. That was controlled. This, this was far more scary.

I felt like my brain was going on some kind of journey without me and that everything felt odd. Even the skin on my body was odd. I had waves of nausea as I panicked about feeling so strange and thought that maybe I would never feel normal again.

I’ve had broken sleep plagued by dreams of drowning.

Is this what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder does? There were no flashbacks from the birth, or the few hours before and these were the images which kept jumping into my mind which had raised the concerns of a very gentle and loving health visitor. Feeling odd after writing about finding out I was pregnant and letting my mind explore a calm and factual way of storytelling wasn’t part of the deal.

Now I just feel jumpy and exhausted and a little frightened.

I need to write this, but as I become more ingrained in the story, I’m worried I might trigger myself into oblivion.


Looking backwards

2011 was overall a good year, despite my constant whining on here.

Here’s a run down.

I got to watch my little girl blossom from the last days of baby to a cheeky, stubborn yet gorgeous and hilarious toddler.

I became part of a community of very special people who I have never met but have provided more support than they’ll ever realise.

I rediscovered blogging/journalling which has helped keep me sane.

I gave birth to my son; an experience which has changed my life.

I began my massage course, and learned about becoming a doula and realised that I want to help other women have empowered positive birth experiences.

I completed NaNoWriMo.

I took the time to get to know OHs sister who has a huge heart and a chaotic life.  I have no idea how she does it.  Even on the tough days she gets up and runs about and still finds time to help others.

Wednesday club was formed. Madness with many children, knitting and cake.

So, as 2011 draws to a close, I plan to take the good things with me.

Ideas and dreams

This morning, after Os 5am feed, I went back to sleep.  I know – lazy right?  I could have started some washing or done the washing up or cleaned out shithole of a bedroom in that time.

Alas, I didn’t.  I drifted back into the safe haven of dreams.

I quite like it there.  It is yielding some good results, probably as a side-effect of the mess my head is during the day.

At night I have ideas.  I find storylines buried deep in my mind.  I’m allowed to be magical and beautiful and ride around on a unicorn. Or whatever.  

Yesterday I asked for help. Not with stories or fantasies but with life.  I reached breaking point with the sick anxiety.  I went to the Drs.  I told him tearfully about my shitty week.

“Counselling or pills?” He asked.

“Pills.”  Fuck it.  I get a free massage every week, I know what things I need to do to make myself feel better, but I am absolutely shite at following my own advice. I’ve never opted for pills before. They’ve always been thrust upon me. This time is different.  This time I can’t cease to function.  This time I cannot end up with threats of hospitalisation.

So now I have a prescription for Sertraline.  A new one on me. 

Apparently it will stop my premature ejaculation.

I have yet to acquire the pills.  Just knowing they are there seems to be enough. 

I don’t want them to take away the dreams.

So you won NaNoWriMo…

what now?

Well, I would love to say I’m dedicated to my story and I’m going to polish it until it is beautiful and shiney but I’m far too fickle for that.  I also don’t think there are enough hours in my lifetime to make it into something wonderful, which is a real shame because it potentially tackles some sensitive issues. 

However, the creative journey took me down some unexpected paths, some of which may need further investigation.

I might finish it.  I owe it to Julianne to at least finish the first draft I guess.

Being inspired also has a profound sideaffect of providing me with a gateway to more inspiration.  I’ve had ideas for at least two more “novels” this past month and started a jumper, and have ideas for my new big knitting project.  Not at all handy when I’m time-starved and trying to learn anatomy and physiology and massage routines.

Maybe I am just meant to live in a creative chaos.


About ten seconds ago I updated my word count.


I have done it.


Holy fucking shitballs.

And I’m celebrating by sitting in a dark room with two sleeping kids.

Now I have an issue though.  The story is not yet complete.  I waffled.  A lot.  Meaning I’m probably only about two thirds of the way through.

Do I put it to one side, chalk it down to experience and stop chasing the stort which has frankly turned a little sour, or plough on, try to finish and keep updating the NaNoWriMo site?

On breaking 40k

I did it.

Under 10k words left to go.

UNDER 10K!!!

This challenge was impossible, it was unattainable, unachievable and I’M FUCKING DOING IT!

Just under 10k left.

The difficult second album

…otherwise known as week 2 of NaNoWriMo.

It is hard.

It is hard to find time to write.

It is hard to keep the inspiration flowing.

It is hard to keep going when then the novel has mutated into a hairy monster who has kidnapped my plot.

My NaNoWriMo buddies are keeping me on track (keep going ladies!) And I’m getting the words in but the truth is, I am actually ready to scrap the lot.