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Passions by a self -defined Humanitarian

Write to Recover is an approved therapy called Bibliotherapy. It is used on people with Eating Disorders, PTSD, Depression and other illnesses. They are prescribed relevant material such as certain poems, novels and encouraged to write to find their inner being. Poetry as a form of healing dates back to Egyptian times in the 4th Millennium  BC. Shamans used to write words on bits of papyrus and get their patients to swallow the words on them for the most speedy effective result. 

In Roman times -A greek Born physician called Soranus of Ephesus was employed to come to live in Rome (in the 1st century AD) – to treat people with mania and melancholy with words. 

The word Mania originates from the Grecians. Melancholia is can be interpreted as meaning ‘black’, bile or gall. Whilst Mania is was broken down into two words Ania- is interpreted as severe mental anguish and the word  Manos is attributed as meaning a relaxed state  or an extreme  preoccupation of  the mind and soul. Soranus was the first person on historic record to suggest that mental illness of melancholia and Mania were separate independant entities – it makes sense to understand why in later years Bipolar was referred to as ‘Manic Depression. It is documented Soranus, treated people with Mania by prescribing Tragedies to read and conversely prescribed those displaying a  melancholic temperament with Comic works.

During the American civil war- American poet, Walt Whitman, used poetry recitations to treat the wounded before Morphine became the popular choice for pain relief. The humanitarian poet ( author of ‘Leaves of Grass’) also wrote a poem about his experience as a nurse on the battlefields of the American Civil War,

Thus in silence, in dream’s projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals;

The hurt and the wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night — some are so young;
Some suffer so much — I recall the experience sweet and sad;
(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)

Walt Whitman, “The Dresser” (1867, later titled “The Wound-Dresser”)

In modern times Poetry therapy is used to help people express themselves through self-reflection. So,the saying, ‘Words Matter’ – indeed do matter and have a powerful effect on our emotions and cognitive faculties.

Poets such as Alan Watts, Walt Whitman, William Wordsmith and Antonin Artaud works are prescribed to patients as an alternative form of therapy. 

An article was written by, Igor Goldkind, called ‘Towards an Uncommon Sense: the Practice of Poetry Therapy goes into greater detail of the breakdown of the three types of the most common approaches used to help people with Mental Health issues. 

Receptive/Prescriptive,

Expressive/Creative,

Symbolic/Ceremonial. 

Towards an Uncommon Sense: the Practice of Poetry Therapy, Igor Goldkind

 

I  identify as a humanitarian, I’m currently doing my TEFL (Teaching  English as a Foreign Language) training. I  think I have found my new calling. Perhaps my next career move will be to do training to become a poetry therapist. 

So, I will carry on with my ‘Write to Recover’ posts because I benefit from using this creative outlet to consolidate my Emotions and feel energised and purged from the unravelled thoughts I have in one day. My thoughts have a way of discombobulating my emotions and I become ruled by my emotions and thoughts that are not necessarily based on evidence and truth. I have made an ambitious start at using self-therapy DBT  (Dialectical Behaviour Therapy)to practice emotions distress tolerance, Wise mind and many other techniques to have more moments of Emotional Wellbeing than non.

I’ve downloaded many helpful apps to help me stay focused -The DBT therapy app, Happily, The recovery app because   I do live in my head a lot. Perhaps too much and too often. and in the past when I have been unwell with my Bipolar, Chronic Anorexia and Emotional Unstable Personality Disorder.

Please, can the word labellers of the world reclassify the title of this illness because I hate the Stigma and connotations conjured by the term EUPD?

A post for another day… 

I’ve also begun to throw myself into reading and educating myself across the entire spectrum of the Humanity & Arts subjects- Music, I have a Music blog, Photography, Art and reading up about different philosophers -all the subjects I have a great passion for and I never thought I was intelligent enough to grasp.

Reading back on these words,I find this tragic to put myself down to the point I feel that I am not like “normal” people who can enjoy these subjects and write about them (with a degree of credibility).

Momentarily I shall blow my own trumpet to state that I have a post-graduate certificate on the humanities I worked my booty off and received high merit. I received high merit towards my first year studying my MA degree in Advanced Creative Writing focusing on stage scripts! Writing about themes I want to shine a lot on – Homelessness, eradicating the stigma attached to mental illness.

Morality plays covering historical themes- the Russian revolution being a prime example.

I am compelled to volunteer my time in my community on the therapeutic benefits of creative self-expression and the connection with Mental wellbeing being. I have done this in the past. I’ve stood in front of Social workers, schools, NHS workers doing Anti -Stigma Workshops. Co-producing them. I don’t want chuffing letters after my name. I don’t want fame. I loathe it. I’ve been asked many times what it feels like to have so much insight into my mental health issues and “suffer” from them. Sometimes, I scream in frustration, I choose Ignorance! 

Perhaps this is the reason why  I’ve sought out “bliss” by self-medicating or trying to take my life because I have two live in my head. 

I will wrap this post up by affirming my saying 

Write to Recover or die to live the day of another

Brrrisk it –

This is audio recorded experimental monologue in two parts that depict the impact Brexit /welfare reform has on one woman with severe mental health issues trying to keep things together and on hold to talk to someone about  (I don’t know) her benefits being stopped. Or her having to go  & be questioned on intimate & embarrassing issues to prove she is ill in front of someone probably not qualified in complex mental health issues. It’s my story.  😀 I am making the assumption .lol. This was an experiment (essentially scene one)   as sometimes I can’t type or write so I record and act out an improvised piece. I have always been able to create characters in my mind and act them out. My daughter does the same thing. THERE IS AS GENE FOR MY PECULIARITIES? Gulp.

(the recording is not great quality-its the concept I am more interested in and how I  can use it to create a piece of work that means something to me and has some relevance to the community I live. Theatre and social issues equal a match made heaven.

IN yer face drama ( this isn’t) Brechtian? (elements later on if this ever is finished) Kitchen sink drama? It’s not glam, is it… I would love to an SFX of her peeing or on the toilet having a number  2 when someone becomes available down the job centre or something. It needs a ton of work.

To digress ( briefly)

Going into my own world was my first addiction. I would disappear and create dramas and stories to escape from my real life. I started doing it when I was 5 years old and stopped when I was 15.

For this character ( loosely based on me and other people I’ve seen go through a breakdown in mental /social health) I used repetition in the characters dialogue. Iand I think that the character doing everyday chores- cleaning, making her bed contrasts with the chaos that is unravelling from the hinges in her mind. There would need to be more backstory. It needs a lot of work but I think the government should hold their heads in shame. I will always fight for justice and whatever I write.

Different actress. It’s an interesting technique to use when you have writer’s block.  Like my “poetry” ( borderline) is organic and raw so is my approach to creating characters.

I didn’t study for a postgraduate degree for any other reason but to make sense of what was happening in my life. And writing became my life. I had forgotten how much I have written over the years.

So it’s rubbish  QUALITY WISE( not the idea) it needs loads of work. I love the Vivaldi in the background ( in a theatre it should drive people nuts) but its better suited for an audio play or radio script because of it feels oppressive, we don’t know what the character ( not me anymore) is going to do next. WI.

God job I write for myself and not to please other people.Though I enjoy being an instigator of some one’s happiness.

I could start my final year in October. I’m enjoying learning about writing about music and engaging with people in a different way. It’s not the world of academia. And I m loving my little fashion career. I get work with my mom. And I’m happy. I’m happy that I can still write. I know I was a better writer at one point. My grandad was a self-made millionaire-  twice and poverty stricken  twice

I don’t write pretty cos the world not preettty. It’s fascinating and terrifying and all-consuming, fleeting, dull,

I’m done writing…

I feel ok.

 

When OCD became messy

Shout out to LINDA G stream of consciousness   – check out what it is all about here

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Caught out -over indulging on sexual delicacies.

Orgasming, glow in the dark visuals projected onto her Fantasia cranium mental ceiling.

So novel.

Walls cave in – was it just lust  that caused her to make up all this fuss?

Why did she do it?

once. twice. three times?

Her heart was consumed. ‘Rose-tinted glasses’ a voice shouts out  and presumes.

She thinks there was real depth to some of her proclaimed emotions. How can she even look at another confectionary when she already  has the sweetest deal?

Her dowry is  her  very own Wonka factory.

There was no excuse for her to set foot out of her mind and demand to feel more satisfactory.

Does momma know her better than she does ?

Always want what you can’t have!  5-year-old  drops to the floor.

Toys R us.

Not leaving till she comes outs with  a red, tanked up, M&M replica bus.

Ready to dice herself up and fling herself into a blender – sexting, texting -somewhat fulfilling,

but not having anyone  else to indulge with afterward, leaves her with a rebellious sense that can only be satisfied by means of  tangible  bondage style correcting.

Honest to a breaking point.

Target those she wants to anoint.

Commitment. Did  she truly know what she was taking on?

She realized her demise when she demanded the same form of commitment from some other, partly innocent feckless person in an ‘ I’m- doing -alright‘ disguise.

Bonfire night explosions went off in their usually tranquil  home.

He sat back too long ,let her spirit roam and defend its right to move within another astral zone.

 Kitchen sink drama screams ,sweeping up the spindly staircase.

Mother clocks eyes with her child, rubbing her slumbered eyes – runs to pick her up and wipe away salty tears from her face.

Heart beating wildly. What has she done.

The sickly cost of seeking out more affection afflicting her  startled young.

Time to move forward.

She has respect, love, honesty, faithfulness, a family, laughter and more than she ever thought she deserved.This place under the shady protective arms rooted to the spot – she truly earned

Time to act like a true woman, tend to  her man and family –   like one would a tree – keep those roses -tidy, pruned – this time the tree still stands .

May lightening strike her heart and torment the rest of her living days if this time she hasn’t  learned.

seasons lies life’s mystery

This is the moment where I should embrace the wintery-powder snow to come.

Under-wraps.

We all delight to create snow angels.

So too do the most damaged pimped out hoes

The death of everything I know.

 

Yet,

I

don’t

know

if

I’ve

 ever

 known

Even one thing for certain.

Always,

I  thought

I blew according to the way the wind doth blow.

until I  walked right into the eye of the

C.louds

 I.ntelligance

A.ir

shouted them down-

No, I won’t go slow.

 

Voice  ricochets  seeking  a target

breathe exterminated-

The managers above cloud corporation hear my

costly,

cerise

commotion —

derogatory

delirious

temper tantrum.

 

speech

pressurised protests-

Attacks of panic.

I got what I was owed.

Hitch hiked a lift with a passing tornado.

 

Whirlwind dropped me off in a place with no directions to  the Republic of sense-at-ors of common.

I walked along the  the uneven, cobbled path —  another independent equality  free flowing  feminist ,

juggling with digits and exchanged words with third eye chakra chemists

Paper –

trees-

All alternate in form — it ends for the same means.

Or is that me unravelling myself from being stitched up — picking away at the seams?

I didn’t  mean  to lose my way — countryside hikes are  not my  governing zodiac  sign indicating

I’m in my element.

This body contains still waters wrapped in layers of skin.

No  teasing trickle or   babbling brook

nor a wishing well to reassure my hearts confidence within.

 

Summertime- the livings never easy

not when you’re a weed  on self destruct,

especially when the sun shines on  and makes blossoming

a gift without the morning sickness

That sense of queasy.

 

Rudimentary realisation.

 

Desolate

Deception.

Dark sunglasses can’t make me incognito to —

Looking back-

 

I should  of clapped my hands

, in breathless awe when the sunset—

lowered gently against the abstract  backdrop

Tropical orange salmon, pink sprayed skies.

 

Pay my respects —

Let it rest when it his time to slip down and fall.

 

Reap what you sow.

I deal with every blow.

 

Turbulent Winds commands my flight against   common ground

I find myself high up  and all alone

the comedown — finds me face down in muddy bog marsh — eyes arrested by a facetious fog —

Not even a bird to sing me an ode of encouragement to aid me back home.

we come into this world alone and we die alone.

Money, stuff — the acquisition of property

— it all gets left behind when we lift the veil to step into the next body of energy-

stagnation left in a cadaver —

this is our vessel —

Our only claim to earth’s  throne.

Seasoned Cycles of

life,

death,

regeneration,

rebirth.

 

Change –

it’s contradictory to our nature.

Wearily wallow over wilted, dead plants — tomorrow I’ll throw them away.

 procrastination

Embrace the opaque

the possibility of a welcome winter

undisturbed silence-solace only to be found in untouched fallen snowflakes.

Trigger the cycle to fall — this is autumn.

Death and decay I feel implacably broken.

This idea of pressing flowers, dried

Into bookmarks is a nostalgic notion.

Shouldn’t I let it go and embrace the tremors, the blast of the callous   cousins cold and colder

A gift of this perilous season?

anti climatized.

 

I live on an island full of tall trees in treason for being out of season.

Let these words be enough.

Be my reason.

On my knees begging for hands to let go of me-especially those who touch are rough.

 

Grant me sight to see-

permit  my body and soul to feel the spectrum

exhilarating and painful emotion.

Facing  forward to a future

 smelling the unsullied  scent of rebirth

A possible sight spotting of   Tigger

ready to  uncoil  and bounce into spring

 For the awakening of the blessed bees, Lilly white lambs and a hereuse holiday closer to the ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

Even Lunatics must break fast

The calm before the storm.

I break my fast musing over my odds of being crazier than the norm.

Muttering,

stuttering

— Brain sensory overload — the cranium structure is deceiving in its form.

The third eye lazily flickers in a state of REM.

an attempt to channel my inner chakra.

I’ve resorted to stick-on Googly eyes to play the part of spiritualist guru, sipping on high tea, to awaken my inner rapture.

Dear Goddess Kali, can you save me from the howling winds?

The mooing cows spinning around me

  moaning gutturally for their new fateful flight as fledgelings?

My Glasshouse shatters into a myriad of snow flaked, razor-sharp, jagged pieces.

broken,

unable to repair the damage.

Take a searing hot iron to my face to smooth out the grimace in my features.

Sacerdotal screams interrupt the night — another man stolen from his lullaby.

Sleepless ideas

patrol,

brazen in their efforts to destroy,

 my favourite playlist titled: sweet dreams.

behind the thousands of words, I’ve ploughed through with oars

Where will  I be?

Will I have sailed?

Will I capsize?

Will I have the ability to walk?

Will I  be a cripple, dragging myself by the elbows under a storm pelted bleached , grainy beach?

The Temptations won’t knock

They will saunter in.

Oh, it’s to be expected.

I refuse to fall to my knees

swearing  my allegiance to make another man’s family richer

Than see mine indicted.

I’d sooner sit on a floor, covered in colours of paint and corners lit with the smiles of my loves.

I’d sooner watch paint dry or read a screenplay loosely based on what I know about when life comes to rouse me with rough pushes or shoves.

Fire,

water,

earth,

and air

Elements balance my kinetic,

dynamic,

complex feelings of despair.

Change comes with a promise.

Fear comes with very little solace.

Motion to a new position –

don’t cower from success

It might even suit your current attire and inner prowess.

 

My time to deliver.

Get my due.

Affection,

laughter,

love,

and living

For me and my few.

 

My kind words are still here and my support?

I have some to spare.

I won’t waste it on those who don’t reciprocate

The err is but their own.

Chosen to remain frozen-staring down a hall of, pale, mirrored self-reflection.

unable to see

they are not the only ones

in need of encouragement or care.

I swill down the remnants of this blessed day with a bitter tea.

 

I clamour to suppress my applause.

I  catch out the dawn  rising with a yawn  unashamed ,gloriously

naked.

I’m no longer afraid to be the lunatic.

I’ve seen the powers of nature.

Forces of rage.

still, waters run deep.

 This insanity is something I hold dear to me-

The great mother gave it to me-

I will set with the  sun

It’s my duty to consummate all that is sacred.

Revised stream of consciousness — borderline poetry.