Crazy Writer Says Hello

Eyebrows can be very good indicators of a person’s emotions. Raising them can signal surprise, lowering them when frowning can show irritation or anger.
You can quite clearly see how happy I am from the state of my eyebrows, lately. They are bushy, straggly, and perhaps slightly resembling those of Groucho Marx or Dennis Healey. I haven't felt the need to inflict the torture of plucking them lately, that exquisite agony being my new technique for dealing with urges to self-harm. Women will know what I mean, so I'll explain to the males out there who are fortunate enough not to be pressured to have the perfect arches - plucking your hairs out by the root bloody hurts. And I do mean bloody, sometimes, which is why it is not advisable to pluck just before you go out, because people may ask what has happened to your face as blood runs down from your massacred brows. Hey, they may be glowing red and slightly puffy, giving you the look of an exotic creature from Star Trek, but at least there are no straggly bits.
I digress. As usual. What I wanted to talk about was my book, 'Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)'. And talking about my eyebrows is so not going to sell any books. I have a mind that goes off on mad tangents, though, so you'll have to bear with me. There is a point, I promise, it just takes a few twists and turns to reach it while you are in my mind maze - hey, that's a good term! I'd better write that down.
I'm twenty-eight years old, a mother, and a mental patient -God, that sounds horrible! I've been on medication for a couple of years now. What was I talking about? The book, yes, that was it. I started writing when I stopped drinking - unusual, I know - and found out that sometimes, I was still behaving like I was when drunk. Taking my top off in public, having blackouts, you know, the usual Friday night sort of thing. But now it was Tuesday afternoon, and I hadn't drunk myself silly. With some persuasion I went to see my doctor, who told my I had a mental illness; I needed medication and a shrink. Scary stuff, nearly scary enough to turn me back to drink. I didn't, I took my medication and waited on the waiting list, like a good girl. And waited. And waited.
Pretty soon I got fed up with waiting to find out what the hell was wrong with me, so I started doing my own research. I joined a support group on the Internet, and began writing poetry and keeping diaries of how I felt - which was like shit, most of the time. These insane ramblings turned into a book, 'Living Without Marbles', which deals with the early stages of being diagnosed, and finding out my mother had killed herself. I had to sort myself out, and I included the resources that I used, in the hope other people could sort themselves out, too.
'Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)', yes, I'm getting to that. The mix of poetry, stories, narrative and mental health information proved popular, so I thought 'Why not do it again?' This time I wanted to concentrate on more long-term mental conditions, as by now I'd been through several diagnoses and was no more enlightened. The book gives mental health service users and the wider public an insight into various mental health issues, covering subjects as diverse as self-harm and my self-confessed three pants mood swing. I take the reader on a journey into my mind as well as my knicker drawer. I found that my style was helpful to people, they felt less alone, and some felt inspired by me. Their words, not mine. I'm a pain, as I refuse to fit into any one particular niche, and I write in lots of forms. My work has been described as sublime. By my friends. When I make them say it.
With the help of an editor-friend of mine, I turned a sow’s ear into a silk purse. I decided to self-publish, although Chipmunka had very kindly offered me a contract. It turns out I’m a bit of a control freak. I really enjoyed putting the book together, picking my own front cover, and, yes, even the endless editorial arguments, I mean discussions. I published with Lulu, an American print on demand (POD) company, who charge nothing up front, and just take their cut from the sales. I found the whole process easy; once I’d stopped screaming at the computer and realised the problems were down to human, rather than mechanical, incompetence. I’m very pleased with the paperback; it has a lovely, glossy cover and good quality paper, exceeding my expectations quality-wise. Still, I have to admit that my proudest accomplishment to date still is, when I was around six years old, and a poem I wrote about a flower was picked out in foot-high letters around the gym for parents' evening.
Members of a writing course that I attend have bought copies, even insisting I sign them -blush - and I’ve given a few copies to the social services centre where I go for counselling, so people can use the resources that I have put together. I wrote the book to try and help other people like me, and also the people who have to live with them. Sometimes, I don't want to get out of bed, but I've found writing gives me hope and a sense of purpose. I want to encourage others in emotional distress to write, share their feelings, and smash the stigma associated with mental health problems. I also want people to realise, that they can lead a fulfilling life, even if they feel like crap sometimes.
I’m not going to have tax problems any time soon, that wasn’t the point. I hope to have some financial success with my fiction efforts, though. I’m currently halfway through a novel, but I’m not expecting riches from my mental health books. 'Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)' isn’t really likely to ever become a bestseller. It has, however, affected people who have read it, changed their perceptions a little, and in one case that I know of, swayed someone’s mind against suicide. That’s worth more to me than money.
That’s not to say I’d turn my nose up at a few quid, so for those with more than just a hand in their pocket, you can buy 'Living Without Marbles' in e-book format from www.chipmunkapublishing.com and 'Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)' in e-book or paperback format from www.lulu.com/clarehill
Here’s a little extract:
Maybe I’m a bit pathetic really. I have this obsessive need to
be liked and loved, and to be special to people.
I guess it comes from feeling rejected by my mom. And
therapists are so wrong! Knowing why you do or feel
something, does not really make you better. But, I guess, you
knew that anyway.
I’ve been bad today. Moped around eating chocolate and
reading magazines and sleeping, of course. I’ve been seeing
things and was convinced that there was someone in the room
with me, when quite clearly there wasn’t anybody there.
Having to take medication every day and even extra on some
days, makes me feel so useless. I feel like a failure and it
scares me, because sometimes it is hard to know what is real.
The colours look wrong, lights get too bright, noises too loud
and it seems as if things are moving by themselves.
Sometimes even my taste buds mess up. I’m eating
chocolate and it tastes like potato. And I smell weird things,
like Advocaat, you know, the Christmas eggnog drink, or
oranges. I can’t trust my senses, they all go wrong. I hate
being like this. Mind you, at least now I know, that it does go
away again. Sometimes, I feel that the tablets are causing
some of the problems that I’m experiencing, but I won’t get
started on drug company conspiracy theories. Suffice to say,
that without people like me in the world, there wouldn’t be
much call for shrinks, and lots of people would be out of jobs.
Keep the mad drug dependent!
I’m rambling now, aren’t I? Sorry, just feeling a bit like my
personality has been judged and found wanting. So, I have
been given these drugs to suppress me, keep me down, make
sure I don’t cause any trouble. Be a good little girl and take
your pills and don’t bother the normal folk, because they don’t
want to deal with the likes of you. Keep the bitch quiet!
You’d have laughed at me last night, as I was trying to close
the curtains in the living room. They don't quite meet in the
middle and it didn't matter how much I moved them, or fiddled
with the curtain pole, they just didn't fit. As befuddled as I was,
I spent a long time trying to make them fit anyhow and if I had
found the staple gun I would have stapled them shut!
Oh, and earlier this morning, that severed finger wrapped in a
clear plastic bag on top of the tumble drier, turned out to be a
small carrot. Still, I poked at it a few times with a wooden
spoon before getting up the nerve to unwrap it.

My mother never existed, not in any real sense, for me. Now she’s dead, and she’ll never have the chance to change, to become the sort of mom I fantasised about, the apple pie baking, homework-helping paragon of virtue I always imagined other kids having. So now I’ve replaced my dream mom, with a dream that someday, somewhere, some little girl will still have a mom, because what I have written, what she has read, will have touched her mom, and stilled her hand as she reached for the tablet bottle, the noose or the knife.
As for the future, I’m in the middle of writing a novel, a romantic comedy, which is a huge relief to my family as they want me to write something happy for a change! I’ve already got an idea for a follow-up to it, so as soon as I’ve finished the first one, I can -hopefully - start the next. I’m taking part in the New Writers Development Course in Birmingham, which I’m finding hugely helpful, and I’m working on putting together an anthology for a support group I’m a member of. These eyebrows have got to be done before I can be seen in public. You’ll recognise me, I’ll be looking tidy but sore.
© Clare Hill 2006
(previously published in Twisted Tongue Magazine)