For a variety of reasons my literary output has diminished of late; as a consequence of this tardiness my mental health has tumbled like a latter-day Humpty Dumpty. With the art of penmanship acting as my goto anti-depressant, it’s proved a foolish self-care strategy if ever there was one!
As a result, from today I’ve set myself a project of producing three blogs a week, with a minimum count of 500 words. Essays which will hopefully drag me from the depressive ditch where I currently reside. A domain where, on rare occasions, I inexplicably adopt a self-destructive persona; a destructive personality seemingly determined to trash all I hold dear.
From experience, return to the laptop keyboard ordinarily drags me from mental health moats by my boot straps; in the process imparting yours truly much needed spiritual catharsis… Unlike poor old Humpty who, despite their valiant efforts, all the king’s horses and king’s men couldn’t put together again.
I’ve written on numerous occasions about my struggles with mental health issues. Through fear of the stigma surrounding depressive disorders, demons I hid for many years which at their zenith drove me into incredibly dark areas…. And I’m not talking about my 2019 journey to Hull!!
However, for the last few years, as previously recorded on this website, I find being open about a depression diagnosis and it’s associated symptoms a key ally in purging those starker occasions. Hence today’s trip down Abasement Avenue.
Now regular visitors to my various social media timelines, who are frequently subjected to photos of me enjoying myself in various locations, maybe scratching their heads at today’s revelations of GJ Strachan’s current bleak mood…. Or you might just be scratching your head for other reasons, such as a nit affliction… If it is the latter, don’t come blaming me for your lax hair cleaning regime!
My announcement may even elicit accusations of “You speak with fork tongue, Monsieur Strachan!”… A slight to which I’d retort “Have you not heard the lyrics of Smokie Robinson’s song Tears of a Clown?… Oh, and what with the French pronunciation you pretentious so and so?!”
Hopefully, the fact I’ve labelled myself as a clown doesn’t appear overly vain. I included it as I’d like to think I’ve got a reasonable sense of humour…. Anyhow, I held back from utilising the much more hubristic query of “Have you not heard the lyrics of the song Tears of a Really F***ing Funny Bloke?!”… Actually the reason I didn’t include the latter was more down to the fact a lament of that name doesn’t exist… Oh, and that I’m not really f***ing funny!
I guess possessing a mind which indulges in a never ending pursuit of a verbal or written witty quip is a big part of the root cause. I’m no scholar of brain behaviour; however, it seems to me that the whirring grey matter daemon which retrieves whimsy response can sadly just as easily return with starker notions.
The latter a capricious imposter who spreads doubt where previously laid surety and uncertainty where calmness once lodged. These relatively infrequent incidents manifesting when (like recently) I’m lax with my meds and/or neglect the purging qualities borne from indulging in creative practises.
In another move to improve my mood I’ve booked a break away next week to Fuerteventura. A vacation to a sunnier clime which I’m hoping will afford me exposure to recuperative vitamin D, along with catharsis from time spent metaphorically quilling on parchment.
I intend to utilise the daytime penning a novel your truly started at the end of 2022…. Incidentally, that’s the year, not that I commenced writing as 8.22pm clicked to 8.23pm yesterday evening.
This a tale of the life and times of an emotional support team (similar to The Samaritans). Like life itself, the storyline a heady mix of humour and turmoil, laughter and tears, Richard and Judy… Well, maybe not the latter!
To be honest, just writing this has made me feel slightly better already.