Diary: April 2024 (1) (2024)

Read: January 2024 / February 2024 / March 2024

Poems written: 19 (!)
Submissions sent: 6
Gym visits: 18
Kilometres: 196
Books read: 16
Prose book of the month: The Blazing World by Siri Hustvedt
Poetry book of the month: Aurora Town by Annie Katchinska

[text in italics = quotes taken directly from my diary]

x

NaPoWrimo has begun. Wrote 4 tanka + remembered how much I hate being restricted by short form + meter. Ofc it’s good to challenge myself to be contained within strict form but I am a maximalist poet so it is not fun. In yoga class the affirmation was ‘I am grateful for my health’ + I cried silently on the mat bc I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been + yet I feel so unwell + so terrible in my body. GP tomorrow. If he doesn’t give me something to stop this anxiety I actually don’t know what I’ll do.

I read ‘The Waste Land’ (i.e. The Ultimate April Poem) for the billionth time and, as always, the epigraph alone hits me hard (I prefer the ‘jar’ over ‘cage’ translation).

Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:Σίβυλλα τίθέλεις; respondebat illa:άποθανεîνθέλω.

“I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl of Cumae hanging in a jar, and when the boys said to her: Sibyl, what do you want? She replied:I want to die.”

I get paidHistory of Present Complaintroyalties and I’m so glad it’s still selling more than 3 years since its release.

Saw Dr H + fell to pieces. He was very kind, listening with eyes like a startled deer while I had my time-limited breakdown, + when I’d finished my outpouring I said ‘Sorry, I must look like a right state’ + he said ‘Yes.’ which made me laugh + then ‘Well, obviously you can’t live like this.’ NO. THANK YOU DOCTOR. I CANNOT. […] Pregabalin prescribed, 50mg, 3 times a day. Relief, gratitude, apprehension, hope, ANXIETY.

I can’t afford the full-size Charlotte Tilbury lipsticks I need to replace so I buy the cheaper mini ones and when they arrive I can’t stop laughing about how ‘mini’ they actually are. Just… impossibly smol lipsticks.Want to buy a vape. Embarrassing being such a slave to nicotine.I run my first non-stop 5k since injury and almost weep with joy. Bought a vape.

Went to get pregabalin + [pharmacy] had none in. Waiting… Keen to start but as always w/ starting a new med I am worried it’ll affect my ability a) to write + b) to org*sm, the two key facets of a joyful existence. So much HOPE in these tablets... Just praying pregabalin works + that it transforms me — a lot to ask, but I always demand this of drugs: ‘Change me in unimaginable ways or don’t waste my time.’

Got new meds. The battle to defeat phobos + deimos has officially begun.

I start pregabalin and immediately it’s a f*ckery of horrible side effects.

9 a.m. dose: felt DRUNK, room spinning, eyes rolling, head banging, was working feeling like I'd had 3 bottles of wine, pages swimming on the screen. SOMEHOW navigated bus + Tubes to meet [The Poet] + then felt buzzing, overly chatty, too hyper, as if on gear.

3 p.m. dose: felt hungover by 6 p.m. + by hungover I mean exactly how I’d feel after a 2-day wine, vodka + gear sesh. Heavy head, brain, eyelids, going to vom at any second, difficult to speak, opening my mouth at all feels like a bad idea.

9 p.m. dose: just f*cking spinning. Headf*ck allllll day. Don’t know how to verbalise it other than ‘I can feel my brain in my skull’. Still hopeful, just have to get through these initial horrors. But f*ck me, this is hideous. Far worse than I expected. But [The Poet] is here now + he bought me an Easter egg which made me happy.

After muddling through an upper body session while feeling drunk, I complete Gymshark 66. Needless to say I am shattered. So proud of myself for showing up every day even when — especially when — I couldn’t be arsed or didn’t want to. DISCIPLINE.I suspect that a client has ghosted me and that I’ve done over 100 hours of work and won’t get paid for it, which stresses me out.

Feel absolutely horrible. Never had side effects this bad before. Never.

The Poet and I traipse around town (Jeff Koons @ the Skarstedt, Green Park > Buckingham Palace > Wellington Arch) while I feel low-key f*cked up from the pregabalin, hungover despite still not drinking alcohol. Feel terrible but rest day tomorrow!!! My first rest day since January.

We go to the Sky Garden; being on the 43rd floor of the Walkie Talkie building, in the literal sky, doesn't help my nausea, but the views are magnificent and I feel very, very small, a speck on the beautiful face of this city. We watch ‘Dogtooth’ and feel all kinds of strange afterwards:I have so many unanswered questions…

I can FEEL my BRAIN in my SKULL.

Thinking about old lives, old habits, old loves. I just think/worry about money too much + I hate to feel deprived, though I constantly feel lack in this area. Growing up in poverty really f*cks up your way of being in the world forever — CONSTANT fear of being unable to afford basics like food + leccy, even when you ARE earning. But when we [working-class] are earning, we always splash cash about like it’s nothing, as if proving that we ARE working hard + are therefore ALLOWED to spend freely, on whatever the f*ck we need + want, like middle- + upper-class people do without worrying. We know ‘having money’ hasn’t + won’t always be the case so we always want to ENJOY money while we have it + we’ll spend it frivolously: big nights out, meals in fancy restaurants, designer clothes, new motors, holidays abroad, bc we never had these things growing up. This was how my life had always been, surrounded by people who are either very poor + don’t have a pot to piss in or who are grafting SO hard + showing off, flush, flash as f*ck + always very generous with it. As we’d all say frequently, ‘You can’t take it with ya!’ + then proceed to spend 80 quid getting a round in. Strange to not to be surrounded by people with this mindset anymore after 30 years, so it feels like it’s just me that has this eternal struggle, this perpetual fear of not having money, but I only have to go back to [old town] to be right back in with all the people who live this way too.

I spend ages looking for a dress to wear to The Poet’s sister’s wedding; I trawl Vinted for hours and feel bitter and depressed having to type ‘long sleeved’ in the search bar; all of the beautiful dresses are sleeveless.

Can still write + can still org*sm, so in this regard, all is well.

I book a consultation at a skin clinic that specialises in self-harm scar removal. It’s expensive, but the potential-ghost client finally pays me, and this feels like a massive step forward in my recovery. A healing act and also a preventative measure, to deter me from causing future harm. And imagine me in short sleeves?! Being able to wear whatever the f*ck I want!?!I deserve this.

Freelance work has taken a lot out of me mentally, so I decide to set my business status as ‘unavailable’ to clients to give my pregabalin-addled brain a break. But in a single day, in one sitting, I write 8 prose poems, collectively titled ‘Memoir (after Sean Bonney)’. The titles:

1. On descending

2. On sickness

3. On desire

4. On crisis

5. On disappointment

6. On memory

7. Our death

8. On ascending

The poems poured out of me in a way that was shocking and thrilling — as if they’ve been incubating in my brain for years and chose this one random Monday to be born, all together, all at once.

It’s wild that 2300 words of poetry just came out of me, the poems all fully formed, in the right order sequentially as well. Funny that if this had happened 10 yrs ago when I still had bipolar diagnosis it would've been considered a manic episode + I’d probably have been locked up.

Though the poems came easily, writing this series took so much out of me today in a way that feels physical — I feel depleted, exhausted, like I did after the last blood donation, a deep sense of loss in my body. Is the empty space I feel in myself where all these memories, stories, images were held all this time? What will I fill this fresh abyss with?

I spend all of my waking hours editing the Bonney series, forgoing my gym routine, not stopping to eat, ignoring all of my other tasks, ignoring everyone. And it’ssoworth it. The poems feel like my most accomplished work in terms of voice and style, and first readers agree.It’s SO reassuring when people are as hyped about your insane projects as you are — validating.

I’m so obsessed with the Bonney series, I decide to keep writing it, see where it takes me. More topics, more sections, more prose poems. I write ‘On rationality’ and ‘On wanting’ and I’m pleased with them. 8 has become 10.

I am never happier than when I’ve spent all day hyper focused on poetry, when I look out the window + see that it is apparently dark + hours have passed + there, in front of me, is new writing. It is the realest form of magic.

I want to push the series further still. I spend an evening writing ‘On self-destruction.’ It’s 39 lines detailing an incredibly risky self-harm method I used when I was ~26 and very unwell. The poem comes out fully formed, the words arriving in a frenzied rush, just like the blood described.

I read it back the following day and it’s shocking. Very graphic, upsetting, gory. This is the first time I’ve ever thought of my own work:

‘This poem is Too Much. And it’s also too dangerous.’

Iwantto challenge people and Iwantto expose them to the true horrors of mental illness, but this poem feels too insane to be read by anyone other than myself.

I actually don’t even want to send this to [the people I usually send drafts to] bc it’s too much. But is that bc I don’t want to hear them say ‘yeah this is unpublishable bc the content is too alarming’ or ‘this is irresponsible + not safe for readers’? Bc I want to put it in the book anyway, bc it’s my real life + the reality of thousands of ill people, + I don’t want them to tell me it’s a bad idea? But I have a feeling any publisher would remove it from the book bc THEY don’t want any trouble or responsibility... But I wouldn’t want a publisher who edits my life down into a more palatable one. Ahhh. Why the f*ck did I write this!!

This internal debate leads me to question our responsibility to our readers. If we have any responsibility at all. Which I’ve always thought we don’t. We can’t control who reads our words and can’t control their individual reading experiences. We can only control the words, but never how they’re received.

It’s not that I’m anticipating many readers (this is poetry, after all) but I’m worried this poem will find one (1) vulnerable reader who will copy my act with fatal consequences.Just becauseIdidn’t die habitually opening a major artery, doesn’t mean that someone else won’t die on their first go. I don’t want to cause harm to anyone.

I resolve to edit the poem to make it less instructional, less detailed, more abstract, but removing the shocking minutiae removes the lifeblood (pun sort-of-intended) of the poem, the authenticity, the point. Then I think I’m just self-censoring and being too cautious and worrying about hypotheticals that will never occur. WHAT AM I DOING WITH THIS f*ckING POEM.

I leave ‘On self-destruction’ and start writing another section, ‘On trouble’, but it morphs into a poem that doesn’t fit the series. Which is absolutely fine because it’s an 11/10 standalone banger. I’m so hyped about it, I decide that it’ll be my delulu Bridport Prize 2024 entry.£12 for 1 poem though… in THIS climate??

Bayern 2-2 — full of drama + OF COURSE a Kane pen. Textbook, gospel. We go again in Munich.

Reading ‘Reality Hunger’ again, thinking a lot about the “truth” in literature + how all memories are deceptive, even lies, esp re. memoir-writing. What if I just reimagine all the traumatic memories as good? Or tell myself I’m remembering them wrong, made them up, convince myself those memories are lies? Can I gaslight myself? Is that possible? No, it’s not, not with violence, the memory that immediately sprung to mind just now cannot be rewritten as “positive” nor a fiction, I cannot erase the fist to my face + again + again + again + again + again + again. Never mind. I spent too much money today but I HAD to immediately preorder MLH’s new book, her first in 7 years (£18). Need to rest but won’t.

Brother moves in with me.So nice to have him in the next room; I feel his presence on the other side of the wall + it’s so comforting. Arsenal lose 1-0 away at Bayern and we’re knocked out of the Champions League but I amstill so proud of them. Now to 100% focus on winning the league. Curse of April needs breaking. I think they [the players] are all so tired though. [Manchester] City also out of CL which boosted my mood significantly.I catch a nasty cold that still hasn’t gone away at the time of writing (02/05).

Reading Nietzsche again. Told S I’ll come to [old town] on my birthday. Praying for no ghosts in the pub, no exes, none of the dickhe*ds, no one who will offer me drugs. Dyed my hair ‘frozen brunette’. The weather is miserable but I am not, so the rain isn’t bothering me at all.

I tell my siblings I want to get my scars treated and ask them if they want to chip in for it as a birthday present, which they are very happy to do —overwhelming love for them but shame attached to this whole thing too. I've never talked about SH to them, it's always been this unspoken thing btwn us all. This is the first time I've ever acknowledged it in language. It took a lot for me to send that text. I said ‘I know it’s my fault for hurting myself in the first place’ + they were like ‘NO it’s not your fault’, ‘not a fault at all’. But they know whose ‘fault’ it really is.

I see a clairvoyant and my dad has A LOT to say from beyond the grave, an experience which both heals me and f*cks me up immeasurably.Still feel SO affected by yesterday’s reading, can’t stop thinking about the things he said, so much of it repeating on a constant loop. Just too much to process that I need to be alone to be able to write out + work through.

The Poet and I see the Francesca Woodman and Julia Margaret Cameron's side-by-side photography exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. Francesca Woodman is my all-time favourite photographer so it’s a huge deal for me to see her work in real life for the first time, an experienced charged with emotion and meaning.Saw ‘House #3’ + audibly gasped. Ofc the Angels series was phenomenal, as were her caryatids. I also saw 3 photos set in a forest that I’d never seen before. I’m sad that my favourite photograph wasn’t there, only a torn fragment of a photo from the same shoot, but it was a brilliant selection nonetheless + very surreal to finally see her work in the flesh, this work that has haunted me for most of my life. Cameron’s ‘Il Penseroso’ was also deeply affecting… those hands...

To celebrate my birthday, we have dinner at the restaurant we went to on our first date and I eat far too much.Just so many thoughts in my head about so many things. Overstimulated intellectually, visually, emotionally, spiritually. Please, no more stimuli. Might explode.

We go to Maria Sledmere’s ‘Cinders’ launch at the Peckham Pelican. Always an incredible thing, the generosity of artists sharing their work, reading to total strangers.

Arsenal finally f*ck up. AFC v Emery = disaster. My heart actually broke when their second goal went in. Gutted is an understatement. Our 2024 unbeaten run is over. But Xhaka FC won the Bundesliga — a consolation to gooners everywhere. Not a single day goes by where I don’t think of Granit.

I am ending 30 feeling very reflective, shaken by the clairvoyant meeting still, knowing I have to make some big decisions about my life going forward. S is in hosp w/ leg infection so I’m not going to [old town] tomorrow — a relief. Looking forward to a quiet birthday. Hope loneliness doesn’t get to me. I want to be alone but don’t want to feel lonely…

Part (2) of ‘Diary: April 2024’ will be posted 3rd May.