I need my fix: my fix of everything I love.
Starting with Coldplay’s “Fix You,” I sit down to write. I’m writing now, so that’s two things I love.
It’s one of those days. I’ve only just woken up from a nap, meaning I am in the transient state of dreaming and waking. I am drowsy. I have a cup of tea to help the transition, and it’s only the first of four that I typically drink a day. Three: tea. Another fix.
I need my fix today of all days. Nothing in particular happened today to make it so, but I simply need it. I can feel it. I know it. I am positive of it, because of the less-than-living week I had last week. I sort of floated, sunk and rested at the bottom of the pool of everything I felt wash over me. Anxiety, stress, worry and everything in between built up in my brain, filled my head and rang in my ears. At one point, I finally came up for air, finally wringing everything that had leaked in and filled every crevice, every porous thought I had that left room for doubt and unease. I wrote about it.
I wrote to pump a little blood back into me. The clacking of the keys thumped like fingerprints on my heart, forcing me back into rhythm. From that point, it was simply a spurt then an outpour of all the black water I wanted to rid myself of. Of course, there are still remnants of it in my system, but that’s natural. It takes time to work things out of your system completely. There is no such thing as an immediate fix.
I’m better today than I was last week…three days ago. I’m better. But it has taken me a few days to get over the nausea, the headache and the lacklustre I felt and possibly appeared.
I’m not writing of a tragedy here, let’s be clear. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. No need to send worried texts or emails or call me frantically wondering what happened. I am simply explaining the week I had last week in a way that is perhaps a bit more tragedic than the comic voice your used to hearing from me. As I mentioned, however, last week was a week that dripped steadily, streamed easily, then rose to the flood that washed me out by the weekend.
I feel better, and it’s because I am able to write.
I stumbled across a quote that I had heard before but somehow forgotten:
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. – Ernest Hemingway
This couldn’t be more true.
I can’t tell you how many drafts I write on here and never post. But it doesn’t matter. I write, simply because. I can, I want to––I need to write. It’s an addiction, and a cure. It’s my fix. I’d like to say I’m cured now, and I am in a way. I’m cured from my week, but writing is the constant fix I’ll always need in my life, no matter how I’m feeling.