I got an email from Jonny the other day about publicity for my book. This scares me. But what scares me more is that we have a slot in New Forms 1 where I will be expected to stand up and read some poems or liturgies.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I DO NOT read things that I have written. I give them to other people to read. I am fine reading from a script, or even blagging around a topic but I do not read what I’ve written. I get all self concious and embarrased and just generally hate it.

I suspect I’ll be bad at the whole publicity thing. I suppose I want people to buy my book because it gets me money. But I don’t want people to buy my book because then they might read it…

This is all much more complicated than I first thought.

I had an appoinment with my “Key Worker” today, it was the second part of my assessment and was meant to find out why I am the way I am. I tried to answer his questions, but couldn’t. I don’t mean I didn’t want to, but that I literally couldn’t. He asked me to describe my mothers character – and I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have the words. Then he asked me to describe my father – and I said “Dead – well, not really – sort of” and explained about my step-family. And then he asked me about when I was diagnosed, and whether I’d seen any other proffessionals – and I told him about the last five years. About 4 GP’s, 3 Psychiatrists, a Social Worker, a CPN, a psychologist, 2 counsellors and hours of waiting.

And it’s all left me really drained, and sad, and weepy.

And I know my illness is old news. I have lived with this – lived like this – all of my adult life, and in a way I’m used to it. I know the way my body and mind work, I know how I react to things. I know the facts and the figures and the theories and the ideas. I’ve answered all the questions so many, many times that they have ceased to mean anything. I am expected to know what will or won’t help me, I’m expected to rationalise how I feel, and to be mature and adult about it. And I can be.

I can be strong and brave, I can face the world with a smile and my head held high. I can grin and laugh whilst inside I’m dead. I can be a grown up, I can be the ‘mother’ of our little group of friends, and get shopping and feed people and check up on friends and be strong.

But not right now.

Right now I want to be a child. Right now I want some comfort and warmth. Right now I want people to try and help, instead of knowing that they can’t. Right now I want to be selfish and self-centered, and pour out my grief in an angsty-emo post. Because I’m fed up of being strong and brave, of smiling and laughing. Right now I want to be me. Without any masks or shadows, just the broken, fucked up person I am. The survivor, the artist, the writer. The broken, the grieving, the remembering. The activist, the idealist, the dreamer.

Because that is what I am.