Thursday, 27 October 2016

Just Some Things #6 ; Louise Jones.

This is the latest instalment in my feature Just Some Things!
In case you don't know, here's how it works...
I send a writer an individual email with prompts from the '642 Things to Write About' book, and when I get the responses, I dedicate a post to them and their piece. It could be short, long, backwards, in another language, I don't mind. It'll be an adventure whatever happens! And they can use or ignore however many of the prompts they wish. 


When published on the blog, their piece will be put in first and then I'll add in a little piece beneath it, my response to the same prompt. I will always ensure mine is shorter and less prominent, obviously. It's all about featuring my fave writers.

This post celebrates Louise Jones; this gal writes brilliantly about mental health, runs with royalty and works in editorial for The Mix.

Her prompt was: What's the one thing you cannot let go of?


'I can never let go of the deep-rooted anxiety that sits at the bottom of every organ, muscle, and bone in my body. It’s there like its own beating heart, the lifeline to my living and provider of substance to ensure my body can react how it should - in erratic, irrational, and frustrating ways.
I know the anxiety and the anxiety knows me. It’s like holding a child’s hand when you cross a busy road. I know the anxiety is controlled if I control it.

When people describe mental illness, they talk about it physically. The Black Dog. Does that make it easier to control? If we described it as something that isn’t physical, isn’t holdable, isn’t movable, then maybe we wouldn’t be able to control it at all. We wouldn’t be able to let go because there’d be nothing to let go of in the first place. Would that be better? If we didn’t give it meaning? Or do we need to imagine mental illness as something tangible and controllable to give it validity and understanding?

All the questioning and confusion about anxiety is almost laughable. I can hear It laughing now, sitting at the bottom of my insides and growing in size and importance. I’m fulfilling it, I’m encouraging it, I’m validating it, but not in the way I should be. Not in the way that helps me, that helps others.

But my anxiety is not me. It’s just made me its home. I’ll let it settle, despite the no rent, as long as it behaves and lets me tame it. I’ll hold on to its hand and we’ll learn from each other as we both grow in size and importance, until the contract ends and death do us part.'


Louise's blog : Twitter : Instagram.


Here is my response to the same prompt...

'Crumbs'. That's the word. Crumbs. I have never heard someone our age say that, let alone in a moment like this – you've just heard the most hideous and hurtful news, at least on my end. C r u m b s. You utter prick. I really thought you were nicer. More of a friend. You only hated me when she was around. Her, too. Crumbs.
You raise your eyebrows behind your glasses. You won't react any more than that. I know you won't. Crumbs. Slight change in pitch. That's all I can detect. That's all I'm worth. You won't be thinking about this in an hour's time. I'll think about it for the next 9 days. Until I am put to sleep. Yeah. Crumbs, indeed. Arsehole. 

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