I have enough drugs in my house to kill me. Probably three or four times over. And that’s ‘normal.’ That’s just how it is.
‘Pain is a form of alertness and particularity; pain is a way in.’
Abby Norman was never going to have a ‘normal’ life, no matter how much she may have wanted one. And she really, really did.
My immediate response when I try to search the Mines of Moria of my memory is usually a 404 error, and trying to think about the whole past year crashed Continue Reading →
I write a lot to stupid things when I’ve taken zopiclone, which is a sleeping pill that makes me think I’m a creative genius when actually I’m an idiot
‘Take your pills. Don’t take your pills. Read this self-help book. Call her emotional. Put Manic Depression on a mixtape and give it to her for Christmas.’
Working my way through the impressive and throat-gripping essays in new anxiety anthology Headlands, I’m struck by two things. How unique each story is – and how each one is Continue Reading →
A few days ago I attended a funeral. I’ve been trying for weeks to write something about kindness and why it matters. Everything seems trite, not enough, or like it Continue Reading →
Found poems, sex dolls, drugged cats and robots – just another day, really.
“I don’t see the point in writing about something that doesn’t really excite you; that doesn’t get right down into the base of your spine.” – Helen Heath