When life drags me under, when memories liquify my heart, when emotions submerge the tiny raft that is my body, I grab a pen and let it run on paper.
As far as I can remember, I have drawn, painted, written, sung as a way to detach from my emotions. And as far as I can remember, I have been through moments of utter darkness, when I felt like I was hanging from a ledge and could slip and die in an instant.
I wasn’t suicidal, strangely I have tried imagining what it would be like to end my life, but I would realise that it wasn’t really life that I feared, but rather the people who were part of mine at those times.
So I found ways to let the darkness seep through pencils, pens, brushes and notes.
I have dozens of notebooks, I buy them faster than I can fill them, but having them nearby feels cosy. I keep all of my old ones, I try not to read them, because I don’t want to be tempted to throw them away. And every now and then, I will browse through one and will travel back to different times in my life.
Sometimes what I read is dark and scary, and it helps me realise how far I’ve come and how strong I must have been to come out the other side. Other times, it lifts up my heart, because I go back to happy times and visit places that I loved, hug people that are gone since, and it feels like they are close by…