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[text in italics = quotes taken directly from my diary]
NOVEMBER
Poems written: 23
Gym visits: 13
Kilometres run: 58
I decide to (try to) write a poem a day throughout November. The idea is to focus on my WIP so that I may have some semblance of a first draft written by the end of the year, but also to write some new poems that are worthy of submitting to journals next year. But instead of writing the poems I should be writing, I write a poem about Diet Coke that is actually about depression. Then I write a poem about Diet Coke that is actually about being in love. Then I write a poem about Diet Coke that is actually about fear of abandonment. It appears I am writing a series entirely “about” Diet Coke that neither fits my WIP nor is publication-worthy, but it’s still fun to write. I reread The Secret History purely so I can cackle when I get to the line: ‘Asparagus is in season,’ said Francis helpfully. I make ungodly amounts of soup. I alternate between making red soups and green soups. A neighbour makes a noise complaint about me to the council and the situation escalates, becomes A Massive Fucking Deal. I feel suddenly unsafe in my own home and I spiral into acute paranoia. I subsist on cauldrons of blended vegetables and fear.
In my third SCM appointment with C I break down about feeling ugly — I cry talking about my acne, my weight gain, my scars, and the way my brain terrorises me about how I look. I feel stupid and vain for being this upset about how bad my skin is because there are far worse things happening in the world than a few spots and stubble rash/beard burn from my boyfriend’s kisses, but it really knocks my confidence so badly that I don’t want to leave the house or see anyone. I refuse her suggestion of seeking ED treatment and refute her BDD diagnosis. I tell her, “I have too many things wrong with me already. We’re not adding anything else to the list. And of course I’m concerned about my appearance! I’m a woman who grew up with toxic diet culture and unachievable beauty standards!” She says, “So am I, but I don’t have dangerous emotional reactions to what I see when I look in the mirror.” Stalemate. My October identity crisis continues. Battling massive confusion about my self, I write several poems about it but come no closer to solution or revelation. Bad day, bad thoughts, bad feelings, bad fucking everything. But it’s not a bad life. I have to remember that.
I feel lazy because my knee/IT band is still fucked so I can’t exercise and I feel exhausted because I’m working too hard. I think about sharing writing on Substack, starting my own newsletter (while also remaining patron saint of Anthropocene’s newsletter, of course). Hid in bed all day editing pure shite and spent all night writing and ignoring everyone. Only left my bed to feed Ludo. I am such a good mother. Since I was a teenager I’ve always associated the smell of gunpowder with romance and this year is no different. I take The Poet to his first Ally Pally fireworks display — an important event in the lives of North Londoners, it means a lot to me to share this with him. It makes me emotional to think of all the special people I’ve watched the AP display with since I was a baby and I’m glad he’s forever going to be counted among those special people. We watch ‘Saltburn’ and though I find the visuals/vibes incredibly pleasing, the plot is a mess and the film is forgettable. I miss Brother and worry about him on his travels.
I write a poem ‘after Charlie Baylis and Vincent Van Gogh’ about orange being the colour of insanity. I can’t take it anymore. I buy new Asics (Gel-Kayano 29s, obv) as a treat for running over 1000kms and tentatively get back on the treadmill. My knee holds out for an easy 5k and I am so relieved. I begin typing up my 2023 diary entries for my blog and realise this year has been pretty fucking wild. Feel anxious about posting my diaries… Why am I even doing it? As a record. As a writing exercise, as a way of curating my mess. As proof of life. And I LOVE reading people’s diaries, especially the journals of poets, writers, artists… Where are all the great diarists of today?! It’s a dying (or already deceased?) art and I want to bring it back in my own small-and-surely-insignificant way. I thought that my years of diaries consisted mainly of me writing variations of ‘so anxious’ ‘so sad’ ‘so tired’ every day but actually they’re so much more than that. There’s real life in these pages, I’ve done and am doing so much LIVING in spite of my illnesses that want me dead. I do and feel and experience and achieve way more than I think I do. I’ve sent so few submissions out this year so I haven’t had much new writing to share publicly. But I have been writing every day. So I might as well make the most of all this raw material I’m sitting on. Fuck it. What’s the worst that could happen. No one will probably even read them so it’s fine!
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I buy a new Fitbit in the Black Friday sale. I try to start going to bed before midnight to lower my cortisol but continually fail to be asleep before 1 a.m. My Fitbit is fuming at me for averaging 5 hours light sleep with very little REM and deep sleep. The REM sleep I do have is filled with hyperrealistic trauma flashbacks. So it appears that I am scared to be properly asleep as well as scared to be awake — brilliant!! The TV Licence people catch me watching Louis Theroux’s interviews on iplayer so I have to pay for a TV licence for the first time in my life. I’ve never ever even owned an actual television so I’m livid at this stupid expense. Very worried about my finances. I am haemorrhaging money lately. Need some big private jobs asap. I go to Nottingham for Date #15. The Poet and I watch Planet Earth III in bed and go for a long walk around Attenborough Nature Reserve (though, sadly, Sir David is nowhere to be found). We go to a panel talk (free wine) at the gallery and I meet one of The Poet’s lovely sisters. I’m so glad to be out of London. I get three big private jobs and believe in Lucky Girl Syndrome. I feel a sense of distance that unnerves me. I never learn.
In a bid to heal my skin and balance my hormones, I start taking Evening Primrose Oil and stop taking creatine. I down ginger and turmeric shots, morning, noon and night. Thanks to my Fitbit, I constantly obsess about my heart rate. I track my anxiety in real time. What does this bad thought do to my heart? What does this surge of fear do to my heart? And this sick feeling? And this one? And this one? What about this fat fuck-off wave of dread? A phone conversation hurts my heart. I do very well not to cry during it, but I cry immediately after. Feel vaguely heartbroken, like my heart is actually coming apart, splitting chamber from chamber. I need to fix this. The Poet and I see Opheliaand Thomas at the Tate Britain. When I see Ophelia I do not feel the very heavy haunted feeling I usually do when I’m in the same room as her, which alarms me. Am I even human? We go to the National Poetry Library so I can read all of Diane Seuss’ frank: sonnets in one sitting and we go to a secret beach. The Poet gifts me The Dizziness of Freedom, a book I’ve always wanted but never got round to buying, and it’s the best anthology I’ve ever read. 293 politicians vote NO to a ceasefire. Horrified. Beyond evil. Beyond comprehension. I miss my girlfriends but we’re all too busy to see each other. A sachet of HP sauce explodes in my handbag and I miss The Poet when I’m not with him.
My fourth SCM appointment is an unexpected disaster. I went there hopeful of resolving my identity crisis and finding practical ways to manage my anxiety. Instead I find myself running out of the PDU after 10 minutes and walking the streets of N15 in a suicidal stupor. In my last session I told C something about my neighbour, in confidence. C betrayed my confidence without informing me that she was going to make my precarious living situation even worse for me. C’s actions put me in direct danger and I now feel completely terrified to be in my flat — my flat that I love, my flat that I work so hard to pay for, my flat that was my fresh start, my flat that was my only real safe space. C and the PDU team completely broke my trust in a way that was so sneaky, so thoughtless, so unnecessary, I know I won’t be trusting any mental health ‘professional’ ever again and I know I’ll never talk freely in a therapy session ever again. This devastates me. I wanted to heal. I wanted to be helped. But no more. I find myself in the worst mental headspace I’ve been in since my last attempt in 2021. I am in utter despair. I’m also furious that the people who were meant to help me recover, the people in charge of my “care”, have just made me a rapidly-spiralling stressed and frightened mess — unsafe in my mind, unsafe in my body, unsafe in my own home. Can’t stop thinking about [this situation]. It’s all I think about. Just so so scared.
I do an online masterclass with Caroline Bird. I do not write any poems because I’m so distracted by the situation with my neighbour and so distraught by the PDU’s betrayal, but I do learn 8 different ‘ways into’ writing poems. Exhausted anxious wreck. Every noise terrifies me. Every sound sends me. I go to AJ’s house and she makes me feel safe and sane. I return home and feel unsafe and insane. I need escapism so I start reading The Shards but I can’t concentrate on it properly. K and I spend an evening obsessing over the Hidden Books Game which is a welcome distraction from my anxiety, though it feels like fighting stress with stress (the Morris dancer with the paramedic??? IYKYK. And we do not know).
The Poet and I go to Mayfair to visit the Ever After Garden and dedicate roses to our fathers. We go to Govinda’s for thali and make strangers laugh on the Tube home. The city is undeniably magical with all the Christmas lights. We walk in Queen’s Wood and The Poet steals a fancy spoon for me. We become addicted to Freddos. We go to see some fabulous Broken Sleep authors read at Burley Fisher Books and have a fun night out in Haggerston with our poet friends. The Poet goes out while I work and he comes home with the best gifts (a Diet Coke <3 and a Crystal vape <3) and this small act of kindness makes me feel so in love. I start posting my monthly diary entries on Substack and my blog; I am surprised when readers say I’m funny because I’m convinced I’m just tragic. I don’t tell anyone that I am relying too heavily on benzos to get through each day. I don’t tell anyone that I am relying too heavily on wine to get through each night. But it’s all I can do to partially numb the fear I feel being alone in my home. My friends are worried about me. My Fitbit is worried about me. I’m worried about me. Fear pervades everything. I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do.
Treacle Heart 