As a writer I'm always looking for new and interesting ways to tell a story, whether its through a character, comic, an inanimate object, narrative, memoir or having the reader be so immersed in the story that they actually take on the active voice of the story teller. I love doing that and most of my readers  love that as well.

The latter occurred to me after I had come out of a set back due to  Schizpohrenia. I thought, how do I get people to understand or at least, see what's going on in my brain in these moments. It was hard getting the words out then, it was a trying thing to write when the chaos infiltrated my mind but I did it. It took a while but I kept at it.  

I started writing about the images I'd see and putting them into story form. Down The Rabbit Hole is one of the stories I wrote while hallucinating. I was surprised that I was able to do it and have the writing be clear....well somewhat. Most of the time, probably as you see here - I write in my own voice. But I have poems where I have written in the voice of the one in my head. Those poems are something different and I'll share one here. I was going through some pretty tough stuff all at once but hey...I'm not special - just another person living on earth trying to make  sense of the world around me.

We all have moments in this life where we have had to suck it up and get on with it. It's never easy, in fact, its down right hard. You're fighting circumstances and situations known to you and unknown to you because they are forced upon you. You are dealing with different attitudes from different people on a daily basis and as if that's not enough - your mind is cluttered. Remember that chaos? It doesn't stop, it will, but what needs to be done can't take a backseat. I wanted to write, so I sat myself down and penned my mantra for the day. 

I am bigger than my circumstance.

The day before that, I wrote - 

My mind is an amazing muscle, strengthen it.

Why? Because I needed something to ground me in reality. Something to chant to myself when the air got thick around me, something to focus on when all I wanted to was close myself and cry. These things help. Focus is key - if you can focus on what you are doing then you can get through it and this can be said about anything you are trying to accomplish. Complaining and doing nothing are the dirtiest kinds of band aids there are. Sure it patches up the problem for the moment but the longer its stuck to you and you to it - without breathing room, that problem will never heal. Putting your life on hold until the issue is gone has never helped anyone. Resentment builds, things fester and the pain never goes away. Nothing gets done. It's not conducive to your health nor is it productive to the healing process. You have to take an active part in your healing...that is to say doing nothing about your situation or circumstance won't change a thing.

I know its hard. Trust me I know - my life wasn't just swallowed up by the illness but with other things too. Sickness in my body, a marital separation then eventually a divorce and kids who were effected by it all. I just couldn't keep them out of harms way - the more I tried the more I hurt them. I needed to do something, so I did. I sought help, talked to the people I trusted and enacted a routine for myself.  I need structure - when the routine fails I feel out of sorts and that increases my anxiety. When my anxiety is increased so is my neurosis and when the neurosis appears - the schizophrenia lets me know it hasn't left me.

So my routine involves writing. As you have heard, it is therapeutic. It is one of the one things you can  do, to place your mind elsewhere when you are in a bad place. It is also an escape from this plane of existence. To create your own world, language and people gives you a small sense of entitlement. We are like God when we create these things. We're not trying to be him but we are imitating him and imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

I chose the above title for two reasons. An awesome friend of mine and one of my favorite writers TheAlvarezChronicles uses this phrase and adds "There's no crying on Wattpad."  He means it. Suck it up buttercup isn't just a saying but its command that we should speak to ourselves when we are in the midst of trouble. Things out of our control and understanding shouldn't be the end of us - suck it up buttercup! Keep moving, keep interacting, keep on keeping on.

Once I was able to produce a spot in my mind that was free and clear of the chaos, the noise and doubt - I wrote like a  mad woman.  I wrote poetry, short stories and a novel. I even wrote a couple of one act plays. Nothing was off limits because nothing is. I got right down to it - I wrote poems in the early stages of the disease at point where I found a brief clarity within in my mind. 

This is that poem....

False Sense of Hope

subscription....prescription

inscription.....intuition

masked faces

silent paces

hands tied with dirty laces

impending.....neverending

unrelenting......it's all sending

stomach in knots

thoughts by the lot

ssshhh....damn, there was something I forgot

over and over it begins to repeat

hands grip the sides of this seat

taken further down the line

can't discern which thoughts are his and which are mine

faster and faster the pace goes

whitened out by a blizzard of snows

crushing force upon my brain

overcome by the immense pain

all falls silent and left incomplete

unable to move or stand to my feet

drained by lucid images and incoherent noise

pulling it together to regain poise

feigning security

I shared this poem with my therapist and was told that it was a great summation of how I felt. The hesitation to state the problem was picked up as well as the hurried tone at the end for it all to cease. I've caught some crap over writing like this. Sometimes I get a - "you are too vague" from my readers or ..."it doesn't make sense to me"...and worse yet "this isn't poetry" No matter, I think anyone would pick up on what's going on in those lines even if I hadn't shared its theme. But that's just me, I never want to give away too much or too little. I like the middle ground.

As far as my writing content, I learned to use those horrible things that I saw and heard as fuel for the literary fire. Every voice,every event and every misguided action - I use now. It is these experiences that allow me to bring about believable characters and situations to my writing. I'm not saying that everyone should do it - please...do what suits you best and what suits me best is mixing my facts with my fiction. I've used the emotions I've experienced with certain things and drop them into the characters I create. My friends, family and acquaintances have all had major roles in my writing at some point in time but they'll never know it - its my secret. There was no need to ask their permission because I wasn't referring to them directly but I did use some of the situations they fell into, some of their characteristics and some of their own quirks to bring my characters to life.

During the course of writing, I learned that I had to be in a place that was conducive to my creative process. Like well lit rooms or darkness with some light in the background...for some reason these environments are soothing. I've written at Star Bucks before and it was the weirdest experience for me. On a day that I was a complete and total mess, couldn't decide whether to drive or take the bus because my focus was off I'd decided to risk driving. I didn't feel well. Depression had set itself up in me like a circus tent waiting to take in all the other problems I was having as main stage issues displayed themselves front and center while the sideshow was effectively the flesh walking around in the daylight with sunglasses and uncombed hair. I was experiencing depression on a physical level as well. Sciatica. It's evil and should never exist but it does and I suck it up with that too. I can write from bed with no problems. 

Looking a lot like the crap I felt like - I walked into Star Bucks with my computer bag loaded with snacks, notebook, ink pens and the laptop. I knew I could just sit at home alone with the way that felt. It was the middle of the day and I was having suicidal thought. I needed to be around other people to try to calm that in me. So I went. Once I got there, I ordered my coffee and sat myself at a table in the back of the cafe where I commenced to people watch. I shouldn't have been there. I really should have been admitted that day but that wouldn't happen for another few weeks. I've been in and out of behavioral health hospitals and hated every visit up until the previous last two. I needed my family but they were busy, I needed my friend but there tied up in other things. I needed my husband at the time but he insisted that he could not leave work for one of my break downs, so it was just me and the noise in my head.

But what came out of me was strange and funny. I didn't think I'd be able write anything with the way I was feeling - I was all over the place and talking to myself at a volume where other people could hear me. I'd gone a few days without showering, just taking quick wash-ups in the sink and I had eaten anything for the last three days, convinced that I was fasting for toxin release. The meds I was given were not to my body's liking because I was taking them on an empty stomach. My routine had been thrown out the window over a trigger, one that came out of my husband's mouth. "It's a good thing we're married, or else..." That short phrase swam through my mind like sharks in bloody water. It fed every doubt, bad thought and insecurity I had about my life and my marriage. I should have been hospitalized but I would have some therapy that day in my poor condition at my own hands.

I watched the people come in and go out. I listened to conversations about vacations, business matters and babysitting offers. Friends caught up with old friends, secret lovers met in discretion and a suicidal mother/writer/sister/daughter/friend watched it all. I was inspired and wanted to write. So I penned this to my blog at livejournal: seechelle. I remember hearing the voices then and referring to them as muses.

I'll post it under Schizo separately from this story - this one is pretty long so I'll end here.  It's called They Love Me.

If you made it to the end of this story and read every word I say Thank You for reading and toughing it out. I'll do my best to keep them at a reasonable length in the future.

I wish you well writers,  peace be with you!