I’m not one for writing. I got a B in both English Lit and Language at GCSE and waffled my way into a 5 in English standard at IB. I’m not creative, I can’t draw nor play an instrument. So why am I writing at 12:33 on a Wednesday night when I have a 10 am lecture the next day? I don’t really know. It’s a bit of an adventure, delving into this nocturnal creativity that likes to creep out of the back of my head at some ungodly hour.
This isn’t a new phenomenon, it usually comes once every quarter of the year. It gets to 11pm and I don’t know why but sometimes creativity just happens…
Creativity is an odd one for me. I’ve always been more scientific than poetic, which is why I chose psychology over art or drama. Creativity just isn’t a concept I really understand. “Draw a picture” someone may say. Where do I start? What technique do I use? What is the subject matter? By this point I usually give up. Why? I don’t know, maybe I overthink something that should be so natural or organic. Maybe it’s that voice in the back of my head telling me “What’s the point? It’ll probably be shit!”.
There’s an irony about this whole piece (if you can call this a piece). That voice isn’t here as I write this, it’s somewhere but it’s being spoken about, so it’s in hiding. Call it what you want ‘anxiety’, ‘fear’, ‘nerves’, they all come in so many different forms so I’m going to go with anxiety here.
For the last year or so I’ve really struggled with anxiety, and it was the first time I ever truly experienced mental illness. I’ve always been a worrier, be it stupid things or not being clean enough, but I’d say there is great difference between a worrier and having anxiety, but heck, I don’t know where the line is. I know where it was for me, though. It’s when it begins to affect how I function: your work, your relationships, and your mood. It’s hard for me to say I have x, y, or z, or where I fall on the spectrum, but ‘my anxiety’ comes mainly in the form of hypochondria. Worrying about my health, my so health or the possible dangers that could happen to me.
The hard thing with mental health, my mental health, my anxiety, is that there is no silver bullet. You see sometimes that some pseudoscience Facebook page called “Spirit Crystal Healers Unite” talk about how yoga and a diet of solely fruit will solve your anxiety, but for me, personally, that isn’t true. Exercise and keeping busy does help, but there’s a part of me that doubts that it’s going to last. And I’m stuck in this weird place of feeling good but waiting with anticipation for a storm to hit me, and then it does, in one way or another.
If you’ve made it this far, dear reader, you may be asking yourself what’s the point of this post. Truthfully, I’m not too sure. But something I am sure about is that the one thing that does help me, that is some sort of rare quartz crystal or special fruit, is talking about it. Be it to a friend, a stranger, or in writing. Talking about my mental health has always helped. It’s hard at first because you feel like no one will understand. But if one person reads this article and relates to it then I would be happy, because mental health can be a bitch and it can really affect your life and no one should feel they’re alone when dealing with mental health because you’d be surprised how many people can relate to your story.