I have a gurgling brain. This mosh-pit of antagonism has troubled me for more than 30 years and led to suicide attempts and an enthralling nervous breakdown. 

​In an attempt to keep my evil twin at bay in the past, I’ve enthusiastically taken to alcohol, cannabis and gambling. I take medication and have counselling, but nothing works like poetry. The tap-tapping of my fingers on the keyboard is therapeutic – the words that come out please me (mostly) to such an extent that the troubled mind is banished for long stretches of time. I’m grateful. 

I’m not alone even though I feel like it sometimes. I have writing or artistic friends who have mental illnesses and we all know the famous sufferers. Contemporary British poet Roddy Lumsden has written that “a poet confessing to mental illness is like a weight-lifter admitting to muscles”.

According to a study by psychologist Kay Redfield Jamison, the incidence of mood disorders, suicide and institutionalisation was 20 times higher among major British and Irish poets between 1600 and 1800 than the general population. The “Sylvia Plath effect” is a term coined by psychologist James C. Kaufman in 2001 to refer to the phenomenon that poets (principally women) are more susceptible to mental illness than other creative writers.

After I had my colourful, but distressing, breakdown about 10 years ago, I started writing poetry more seriously. The event changed the way I look at the world and life and all the big and boisterous questions. My writing became more intimate and confessional and intense – except when I was joking about being too intense. British writer Clare Allan: “In my own experience, one of the enduring legacies of a ‘breakdown’ is a vastly increased flexibility, a smudging of the boundary that used to divide ‘the real’ from ‘the imagined’. Once you realise that the world you perceive is precisely that, the world you perceive, and not an objective reality, it's impossible to unrealise it again.”

I wasn’t able to hold down a job for years – I’d lost focus and confidence. Now we run a guest-house from home and I write for magazines. I crave silence when I write and only launch into it after the household goes to bed around 10pm or 11pm and continue through to dawn – very anti-social. 

I pursued poetry with more energy because I flipped out, although I don’t write about mental illness all the time. My depression and anxiety has given me an insight into another way of seeing myself among all these other people. It colours my writing and I think adds a component to it that enhances the poetry. But it doesn’t make me a better poet than the person who has a clear head and wind in their sails.

British poet Luke Wright says: “I don't think you have to be ‘mad’ to be a poet, but if your mind is alive, then it can produce both positive and negative responses. It can mean wonderful things, but it can mean that fitting into ‘normal’ life is difficult.”

Psychologist Gary Fitzgibbon says: “Creativity is certainly about not being constrained by rules or accepting the restrictions that society places on us. Of course, the more people break the rules, the more likely they are to be perceived as ‘mentally ill’.”

Writing poetry has given me a cliché (sorry, that should read “purpose”). The expression of my thoughts keeps me sane - along with the plastic pills I pop in the morning. 

In a recent poem I wrote about how I deal with the many-headed beast that hides in my shadow:

Falling Foul Feet First

I’m tired of all this evil
burning bulls and spinal taps
ashes in my mouth,
bent-over-backwards monkeys
talking about bombing Briscoes,
suicidal actors playing
hostile dictators in soiled nappies

I’d like to turn the ace of spades
into a shovel and bury
three quarters of the majority
who voted for whoever’s in power 

no matter
there’s always next year
until it’s last year
then you grab your history 
and throw it against walls of silent farts
waiting patiently for the crestfallen
to ask you to leave quietly
with good manners strapped to your back 
and frisbies holding up the meaning of life  

I felt better for writing that, whether it’s considered good or not. And for me that’s the point – I don’t have to measure up, I just have to write. Poetry is cathartic, healing and inspirational and plays a significant role in my battle with mental illness.   

NB: Some poetry that rings true for me ...

Charles Bukowski:
these words force you to a new madness

Sylvia Plath:
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

Charles Baudelaire:
My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning? 
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions, 
In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection, 
I see insanity and horror forming.

Do you suffer from mental illness? How do you tame your beast?

Keith Nunes lives beside Lake Rotoma near Rotorua, New Zealand. He was a newspaper sub-editor for 25 years but changed lanes and now sees life from a different perspective. He’s had works published widely in New Zealand and also in bulkier nations. He has been anthologised, commended in competitions (means 4th) and is a Pushcart Prize nominee. His book of poetry/short fiction, "catching a ride on a paradox", is sold by the lunatic fringe. 

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Sometimes the obstacles seem insurmountable, the heartache is paralyzing, the fear is searing, the anxiety makes my head spin. It is only when I find the quiet in the fear that I find my strength and my purpose. And I write. And write and write. I am finally home.

I posted this status update on FB a few weeks ago. The private responses surprised me:

“How, how do you find the quiet place?”
“I have many dark places in my head and I fear them.”
“I have severe bouts of anxiety about my writing. How do you deal with yours?”

How I wish I had the answers to these questions. So many artist friends I speak to deal with this darkness, these demons inside our heads that refuse to die. They are demons of self-doubt, of low self-esteem, of fear of rejection, of fear of success. Sometimes they can take over and instead of motivating us to do better, they paralyze us. When this happens to me, I find myself in a scary place where I cannot move forward with my work, I cannot do anything. I just sit and stare at the computer and feel this sense of hopelessness and loss that seems insurmountable.

When I decided that I needed to face this darkness, I knew I had to make a few key changes. First, I needed to face the fact that I was going to have very dark days. I made a conscious decision that when the dark days came, I would deal with them instead of letting them take over my whole world. Let me tell you, before I go on, that it was not easy to learn. I failed miserably along the way; in fact, I failed spectacularly along the way.

But then, slowly, I began to learn how to handle the demons. I began to notice the signs of their arrival and to strategize how to deal with them. I recognized that this feeling of darkness was a luxurious gift that I gave myself. Perhaps that sounds idiotic, but this is how I explained it to myself: Feeling sorry for myself, being worried about the future, feeling “less than,” or feeling anxious was a luxury that I could not afford. I was, I am, a working writer and in order to work, I need to have a clear mind.

Strategy one: When I feel a pang of anxiety coming my way, I just get up and walk out into an open space—the deck, the patio, the street. And I walk. This helps clear my head. If the feeling is particularly strong, I listen to really loud, happy music. Many times, just this helps a lot and lets me get back to my desk energized and ready to work.

Strategy two: I wear a rubber band around my wrist and when I start to worry about my work, I pull the rubber band really hard. It smacks my wrist and reminds me that worry is fruitless and that I need to continue to work more and worry less.

Strategy three: This is not pretty, but when no one is home, I crank up my Bollywood tunes really loud and dance until I break out into a serious sweat.

Strategy four: I make a gratitude list every night before I go to bed. I write about what I am thankful for the most and keep going till I hit ten items. By the time I reach the tenth item, I am usually smiling.

Strategy five: When nothing else works, I realize that perhaps it is my brain’s way of saying I need a break. I distract myself by cooking, or reading a funny book, or watching my favorite TV episodes.

Then there are times when I just sit still and let the thoughts go by. This is possibly the easiest and yet the hardest strategy. If I can let them go and not get entangled in them, then I am home free. I find my quiet and outlast my demons.

(I hope you will find this helpful. If the feeling of anxiety won’t go away, I seriously suggest you speak with your doctor to discuss your symptoms.)

Do you suffer from anxiety? How do you cope with it?

Author, writing coach, and popular speaker Monica Bhide, known for her exotic cookbooks and beguiling essays about food and life, has released her first short story – “Mother. “It is included in the anthology Singapore Noir (Akashic Books, 2014). She is currently working on her first collection of short stories.

An engineer by training, Bhide followed her instincts to become a sought-after food/travel/parenting writer. She has been published in national and international publications including Food & Wine, the New York Times, Parents, Cooking Light, Prevention, AARP-The Magazine, Health, SELF, Bon Appétit, and Saveur, to name a few.

She is a regular contributor to NPR’s Kitchen Window and a frequent speaker at the Smithsonian and at national and international writers’ conferences. Her work has garnered numerous accolades: her food essays are included in the Best Food Writing anthologies of 2005, 2009, and 2010, while the Chicago Tribune chose her as one of seven noteworthy food writers to watch and Mashable selected her as one of the top ten food writers on Twitter.

Bhide has published three cookbooks, the latest being Modern Spice: Inspired Indian Recipes for the Contemporary Kitchen (Simon& Schuster, 2009).

Bhide lives in a suburb of Washington, DC with her husband and two sons. Visit her website, Modern Indian Cooking & Food Writing Workshops by Monica Bhide.

In every interview I’ve given about Post Marked: Piper’s Reach, I’ve sworn I am not Ella-Louise and Ella-Louise is not I. But I’m here to confess: we’re more a part of each other than either would ever admit. When Ella-Louise entered my life in January, I didn’t realise how much I needed her. How she would help me find my way out of the dark.

Annus Horribilis

2011 was my annus horribilis. It kicked off with massive floods in Queensland. Though we were spared, my time, energy and focus were ploughed into 100 Stories for Queensland, cramming it between two existing anthology projects, both with early 2011 deadlines. It was really the start of the end. As the earth’s crust broke, seas rose and crashed, and a nuclear reactor went into melt down, I felt my grasp on the world slide and in April I tumbled into the first of two debilitating periods of depression.

In a year where I published five paperbacks, won my first literary award, worked with a humbling, dedicated group of authors, had my first commissioned story published and made my print debut in an Australian anthology… I watched it all from a distance. Now I barely remember any of it, let alone feel it: like someone took a thick, black marker and blotted everything (good and bad) from 2011.

In Search of Passion and Reconnection

2011 became 2012.

I was still incredibly fragile, but I knew I wanted a different year. A year where I: fell in love with writing again; said ‘no’ more often; did projects for the passion, rather than the obligation; finished the unfinished; and lived, where possible, a stress-free existence.

To find the roots of my passion for writing, I went back to the beginning—my obsession with letter writing. But it wasn’t enough. I knew I also needed to come in from the cold and write with someone again. Until I could believe in myself—felt strong, solid and confident—I needed someone else to believe in me and help me find my feet.*

Out of this soul searching, an idea—to collaboratively pen a series of letters, hand-written and posted in real time—surfaced. It was actually an old idea, breathed life into by need, (perhaps a little desperation) and the serendipity of meeting the right person, at the right time. I tell people (whenever the opportunity presents) that the timing is always perfect, even when it appears to be totally off. You just have to trust!

The Birth of Ella-Louise

Since the first week in January I’ve been handwriting letters with my writing partner Adam Byatt. I pitched** the seed idea for Post Marked: Pipers Reach in the ocean at Brunswick Heads as our kids swam and splashed, (less than a week after Adam and I met in person for the first time). That afternoon we brainstormed a very basic premise: teenage best friends, reconnecting via letters after twenty years of silence.

Several hours later I drove back to Brisbane—salty and sunburned—but in a better head, heart and creative space than I’d been for a very long time.

Somewhere around Helensvale (the suburb of the big theme parks Movie World and Dream World) a character slipped into my passenger seat, her mountainous baggage deposited in the boot. By the time I arrived home, I knew she was my letter-writing POV.

It took half a year to realise just how broken Ella-Louise was in those early letters (in fact, most of the first season). I knew, quite early on, she’d taken a sea change of epic proportion and had returned to the coast to rebuild her life, (though not to Pipers Reach where she’d spent her final years of high school). Burned out, jaded and looking to reconnect with the one great love of her life, she reaches out to find her old best friend, Jude Smith. In retrospect, I can see she was grabbing for a lifeline, and so was I!

The Rise of the Phoenix

I would have refused to see myself reflected in Ella-Louise in January, even as late as July. Now I can see us on opposite sides of the same pane, fingers pressed into the glass, shadowing each other.

In September I closed the final door on the dark period of my life, just as Ella-Louise was stepping through the final door on hers.

Several weeks later, I was climbing 180 vertical metres of switch-backs (what my partner told me would be a pleasant bush walk). I’d just completed my first set of panels at Conflux8 in Canberra, held our first book launch in a bookstore and read my work aloud for the first time in public. I felt like I’d finally stepped up to claim my professional space.

As I climbed, Ella-Louise swirled in my head: an ongoing two-week conundrum of reconciling where she’d come from with where she was going, in the context of her current predicament. Just when I thought I couldn’t make it any higher and the Ella-Louise’s transition was all too hard, a phoenix flared in my mind’s eye.

For so many month’s she’d unknowingly been my strength and, in her ‘dark night of the soul’, the phoenix became my gift to her.

We’ve both been incinerated by the choices we’ve made in life and raised ourselves from the ashes. The process of putting Ella-Louise back together has been a metaphorical process of doing it for myself. There has never been a stronger experience in my life of writer heal thy self.

We’re on the Road to Somewhere

When Ella-Louise slipped into the car on January 5th, I had no idea the wonderful creative adventures and opportunities writing her letters would birth, or the richness and depth she’d bring to my life. Much less the structure she and Jude would build, to enable Adam and I to work together across an entire year.

The momentum born of writing letters again, the enthusiasm to explore the world through Ella-Louise’s eyes and my interest in her backstory, spawned What I Left to Forget, the first short story I’d written in a long time. And like the proverbial rolling stone, I kept on rolling. I’ve been prolific: written poetry, a novella, short stories, vignettes, short film scripts and a box full of letters from Ella-Louise. I’ve taken risks and experimented and in doing so, seen more of my work enter the public realm.

I understand now the power of one small step, some faith and trust, and a tiny spark of wonder. How they reignited my passion; allowed me to fall in love with writing again. But more so, let me step back out into the light.

This is why, I encourage every creative person out there—writer, musician, visual artist, quilter, cook … whatever the creative bent—to have at least one project you do just for love, and work on it with someone you love.

Whatever you need or whatever you want will follow.

Post Scripts:
* Thank you, Adam! I feel as though I will never be able to say thank you enough.
**This is known as the infamous ‘the bikini pitch’.

JODI CLEGHORN is an author, editor, publisher and innovator with a penchant for the dark vein of humanity. From her leafy, southern Brisbane abode she manages the Australian arm of eMergent Publishing, working with a growing number of talented ‘next crop’ authors, editors and grassroots writing organisations. Her horror novella, ELYORA, is scheduled for publication in December 2012.