Creativity, depression and just about everything else

Day six or seven of not having citalopram, day three of not having quetiapine. These are the medications I’m on for manic depression. And yes, it’s my fault I didn’t have them ordered earlier, but hey, life happens, we get busy, we get forgetful, we get preoccupied with better things in our lives that popping pills. Yes, yes, I know ‘being in control’ i.e. taking your medication means you can be better preoccupied with the better things in life. But hey, you all know what I mean. So, as a result of being a tad thick and forgetful, I have these grim side effects. I’ve been feeling nauseous, light-headed and, well, not all here for the past day or whatever. Words are coming out wrong, I’m getting angry over the smallest thing, I’m fighting with my family for no apparent reason, and I’m feeling, no, not like I’m going to die, or develop cancer or a brain tumour or choke on a piece of apple, but paranoid about my body. Now, don’t get me wrong, these aren’t anorexic feelings, heck no, I’m over that (I ate onion rings, cheese and Christmas cake today), but I’ve been looking at myself and feeling inadequate, unfit, yeah, a bit too soft for my liking. Now, for a few hours, this was all consuming, but I sat down and gave myself a good talking too. (We all do it. Yes, I’m something of a crazy person, but I also know that talking to yourself can be a good motivator.) Anyway, I came to the sensible conclusion that I’m not inadequate, I’m not unfit…but the soft bit…well, a bit of that is good, it’s okay. When I was anorexic I was horrible to hug. Anyways, I’m going to start a gym routine again, not only to change my shape a little bit, but also because it boosts my confidence, it tires me out (hopefully it’ll help with the insomnia) and it gives me time to think. About things and stuff. Anyway, hopefully I’ll skip along to Boots tomorrow, pick up my meds and be right as rain in a couple of days.

So, me mate Chris and I have found a lovely little house in the ‘town of culture’ that is Stockton. It’s a cracking place with carpets and doors and everything. It’s close to the train station and the library, so I’m pretty much sorted. It hit me today though. Properly. I mean, I’m moving further away from Tom and that’s the hardest bloody thing right now, and it makes me, a bit pathetic and sad, I know, but I wince a little inside when I think about the day coming closer and closer when I’m further away than an hour’s bus ride. I’m leaving behind some amazing, amazing friends and even though I know Cumbria is more or less ‘up the road’ I can’t help but feeling mournful about not going down the pub or hanging out with everyone. I live with Jason and Lindsay, two incredible, inspiring people. I’ve never known a couple so driven and hardworking in my life, and I can guarantee they’re going to be making millions before they hit their 30’s. Then there is the gang who welcomed me into the fold last year. I don’t know where I’m going to get my proper, full on laughs from now. But thanks Josh, Dan and Chris. You’re fucking awesome and I love you guys. Vickie, just met you, but you are a lovely, beautiful human being. Claire and Jody. I love you both so damn much.  Heck. We haven’t spent nearly enough time together. Jack and Sarah. YOU GUYS I LOVE YOU AND RESPECT YOU SO FUCKING MUCH. And Jake. You know you’re grand, diverse and utterly unique. Vive la différence! Becca and Cal. What can I say? You are wonderful, wonderful people who I am honoured to call my friends.










I moved to Cumbria with the belief that I would be in the lakes every week. I had this vision of myself as this long, lean climber with enough strength and exuberance to climb any fucking mountain or abseil any fucking cliff. It hasn’t worked out that way. (Primarily because of the crippling public transport costs.) I’ve been to the lakes a meagre five or six times in the three and a half years I have lived here, and although I’m very disappointed in myself, I’m also aware that the times I have spent there have been some of the best times of my life. I had this belief too I’d be going to Scotland every other week, doing this, that and the other. I haven’t, but then again, when I have been, it’s been incredible. So, I haven’t taken full advantage of Cumbria, but what I have done here, I am exceptionally proud of and happy about.


Okay, if you are still here, to finish off this mammoth blog, I’m going to have something of a rant about employment. As you know, I am currently on the dole and am a regular visitor to the job centre. So, when job opportunities come up, like a long distance creative tutor I fucking snap them up like they’re a bar of Caramac or a half price Darkthrone album. I applied for this position and within a week, well this morning to be exact, I received a rejection email. Now, I take rejection well. Really I do. Come on, I’ve been sending out work to publishers since I was twelve or something, so I have come to know rejection well, and I have learnt to take it. But on this particular occasion, I felt really, really shit. I believe I have an excellent CV and I believe I deserved at least an interview. At least. I know I could have done this job, and I know I could have done it well.  Anyway, now the job centre wants to see me once a week instead of once a fortnight, because they are getting concerned that I’ve been rejected from Lakeland, the Body Shop, Shakaway, etc. Concerned…bullshit. They are pissed off because I’m still getting a whopping fifty quid a week and that doesn’t look good in their books. Anyway, I know fine well I’m going to go in there and, like before, I’ll just be offered more utterly depressing jobs like cleaning some bargain shop or selling fake ugg boots to tweens with six inch heels and a bun in the oven. And courses where I’m taught how to write a CV (That’s what I went to school and college for) and how to fucking spell or some shit. Please, believe me; I have had my fair share of really, really crap jobs. I worked in a KP Canteen for three years. A 4.45am start every Saturday and Sunday morning after a five day week at catering college. It doesn’t get much worse than that, believe you me it doesn’t. I know fine well that the majority of writers struggle to make a career from writing, teaching and performing but I want it so fucking badly and I’ve worked so damn hard for what seems like forever. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m something of a workaholic, I’m just saying). Please don’t sit back in your chair and think ‘moaning bitch.’ What I’m trying to get across really is that writing is my life and I know, I bloody know I can do this, it’s just right now, after the rejections for three poetry collections, countless rejections from poetry journals and however many rejections or simply no replies from creative jobs is quite wearing and disheartening. But, every minute is a chance to start again. I’m no giver upper. I just hope that this time next year, I’ll have people saying, ‘bloody hell, wish I’d given her the job. Bollocks.’