annanotbob's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Yesterday has gone, departed Yes, it's me and I'm still writing straight onto diaryland. I can't be arsed to do it in word first, it just doesn't feel right. Anyway, most of yesterday's entry was a big moan about Sara, who had behaved quite unnecessarily. I felt very upset and was considering how to move forward. But when we woke up this morning, she was just lovely without me having to say anything. We did half an hour with both of us tidying up, which made a huge difference. We're gonna try half an hour a day for a while, but then we should be able to knock it down to 15 minutes. We don't have high standards. I'm feeling a bit despondent about writing, having just read a new entry by boombasticat, which I cannot recommend highly enough. I've completely lost touch with the writerly side of me. I mean, I know I sit here and spew words out for an hour or so of an evening, but it's not writing, not in the way I used to write. The writing group at the hospital is such a mixed blessing. On the plus side - it gets me out of the house on a Wednesday afternoon, come rain or shine; I like the writing then reading round that we do; I like the fact that there's always something I genuinely admire in everybody's stuff; I like the sense of community and I like the funny chats we have on our fag break. BUT, I've been used to thinking of myself as A Writer. I've been to many different groups over the last 25 years and I know that all I need is a prompt and something will pop into my head - a whole scenario that I can see and hear, with characters that reveal themselves. I know I have the ability to bring what I imagine to life in words, with varying degrees of success. But not now - all of that is gone. I've been going to this group since April and not once have I been able to imagine anything, no matter what starter they use. Just memories - sometimes a choice of memory, but always something, and once it's arrived, there's no room to imagine anything else. The writing I come out with is often leaden. Just dull and uninteresting. This is a huge loss and I can only hope it doesn't continue. During my last breakdown I couldn't read, which was also fucking awful. I've read fiction every day of my life since I first learned, apart from all of 2001 and most of 2002. So scary. I couldn't get the words past my eyes and into my brain. I've considered writing here less often and putting a bit of effort into crafting it, but I don't want to lose what I have and do here as it is. Bah humbug just about covers it, I think. Anyway, I went over to see Marcus this evening as we've realised that now he's working there he hasn't got time to get here on public transport. So nice to lie on my old round-the-corner sofa while he cooked for me and brought me coffee and smoked all my grass. Except I've learned and left half at home. We're not going to Jan's do in Germany - I can't manage it this summer and that's all there is to it. He's cool about that - he's got that week booked off work and we can either go somewhere else together or not, whatever. He's given me a table to practice my Bloomsbury-style decoration before I attack the book cases. At the moment I'm not getting much past the planning stage with anything, but I can manage that. I got a letter today, the report on my case review, which included a diagnosis of 'bipolar affective disorder, current episode severe depression without psychotic symptoms'. Well. Nobody's mentioned bipolar before, so I'm not sure what I think of that. If I'm bipolar, where are the highs? I've bin robbed. I will speak to H about it tomorrow. Night night xx |11:59 p.m. - 09/07/2008 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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