"Writers, especially poets, are particularly prone to madness. There exists a striking association between creativity and manic depression.
Why are more creative people prone to madness? They have more than average amounts of energies and abilities to see things in a fresh and original way - then because they also have depression, I think they're more in touch with human suffering."I could not have put it into words any better than Nick Flynn, a fellow writer, playwright and poet, had here.
For about four years I was writing in the dark, cramming incomprehensible sorrow in to my mind that had no room for reasoning, descending into insanity which led me to a certain unspeakable act that grew in to a habitual coping mechanism just so I get by; like a drug. With truth in the pen I held, the exploitations of my heart had no boundaries, as I delve deeper, every emotion amplified. The good, the bad, the ugly. The ugly mostly, for they were abundant; and like cancer they spread to every fibre of my being, robbing me of any sense of hope then filling every crevice with despair.
Those who made the revelation, all drawn to every word, were either equally creatively stimulated or terribly concerned in regards to the welfare of my mind, for if there were measure for darkness it would be abyssal. I made no effort to justify myself, I'd rather be tied up in the asylum than tell anyone why.
Scars so hideous I've tried to hide but I grew weary underneath the overwhelming mask and gave way to the exposure of my shame, the very predicament which toyed with my conscience.
Like any recovering addict, I can finally say this is one battle I am certainly winning. This is why I hesitate to write again, or at least frequently so, by deciding that perhaps not every emotion is necessary to explore, nor would there be any wisdom in doing so. But really, who am I kidding? Whether it's writing or art, it comes almost instinctively, not something I'm sure I have full control over. Besides, such philosophy of avoidance would be synonymous with running away, consumed by fear; and which by no means symbolises strength and growth, no?
I believe writing is one of the gifts He has given me, and by His guidance, I will no longer ride the downwards spiral to my own destruction. No more.
So here I am, past five in the morning, because a dreamer's instincts have zero sense of timing and inspiration just chooses whenever to come and go as it pleases, even if it means when you're already snugly tucked into bed and ready for the next adventure in la-la land.
Anyway, a certain wise young man once told me it takes hard work to become the person you want to be. If it means being able to sober up from all this depression and bitterness, then so be it; that's exactly what I'll do.
