I came to writing late in life. It had to wait until I was happy.
There's a common archetype of the tortured artist, the writer who writes driven by daemons and trauma. I am not that writer, as least not directly. I could not write while I was unhappy. While I was unhappy I struggled to create anything at all.
My childhood was a happy one. I was blessed with a loving home, full of fun and creativity. My imagination found outlets in painting, drawing, arts and craft - all encouraged by my parents. But as I grew older, I lost this. I no longer found joy in creating.
It was gone. I did not know why.
Back then people didn't really talk about mental health, especially not men. Depression was just "feeling sad", and anxiety "being afraid". These were not illnesses to be treated, they were just feelings to be dealt with. Keep calm and carry on.
I didn't know I was sad. I didn't know I was depressed. It was just the way I was. Every day.
In my mid-thirties, something in my mind began to change. Perhaps it was parenthood, perhaps not, but I began to recognise that I was not happy. So I made some changes.
In a very short space of time my life changed a lot. By my late-thirties, I was in a new relationship, a new home, I was working for myself. I'd had counselling, which was transformative. My life before... that was someone else's. I felt very good.
Then at some point, I'm not exactly sure when, my imagination came back to me.
Inexplicably creativity flowed, unstoppable and relentless. Sculpture, painting, music, craft, all came back to me in an insatiable torrent. Having spent most of my adult life trying to wring out ideas from my mind, I was now struggling to keep up with the flood. I could not produce work fast enough to satisfy the pressure in my mind.
Then I began writing.
I didn't plan on starting to write, I just somehow did. I had a story and it demanded words. I can't explain it any other way.
This surprised me. I've never been a writer. Though I've always read a lot, I had never considered writing for myself. But then I did, and I found something new, something good.
As much as I enjoyed my other creative outlets, writing gave me something else. It is so immediate. Straight from my brain into words. No waiting for the paint to dry.
My mind can breathe.
So now, I suppose, I am a writer. This blog is for me to write. If you read my words, I do hope you enjoy them, but if you don't, that's ok too. I am writing for me.
❤️
