'I Say, I Say, I Say.' By Simon Armitage.

I realize that I haven't posted anything on here for a while and I will write about the reasons for that at a later date - apologies!

For the moment I just want to share with you some work I've been doing recently in relation to my English Coursework.

For our coursework we are required to write a piece of recreative text. This is where you take a stimulus material (it can be a picture, song lyrics, poem, another piece of text, anything) and you have to write a piece of creative writing based on your stimulus material.
Whilst struggling through various poems contained in our 2012 Anthology I discovered a poet I actually liked! Which is unusual for me because I am not one for being soppy or liking the rhyming, musical, lovey type poems! This poet however had a very different style to any I had really read before, he wrote mainly in a contemporary style but his individual views and style of writing added depth to his poetry.

Simon Armitage.

I found several poems I liked by him. The main three being 'Knowing What We Know Now', 'Give' and 'I Say, I Say, I Say'.
'Knowing What We Know Now' (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkJh9lIUUPc) is fun and made me laugh but at the same time it also clearly demonstrates that there are some very selfless and also very selfish people in this world. It just amazes me how he can incorporate such a heartfelt message into such a fun piece of writing.

'Give' is the poem I will actually do my coursework with next year - due to the requirement of stimulus being very specific! It is ambiguous, it could be read simply as a ballad, a love poem. But on further analysis it's obvious to see the links it has with homelessness and each line has clever meanings that can be read into in many different ways depending on interpretation.
I may post the poem and my recreative text based on it in the future, or if you want to see it.

'I Say I Say I Say.' Is the poem I'm going to post now, I'm not really going to say anything about it, apart from it is intense and I make no apologies for that. It's real life - as many of you, I'm sure, will be able to relate to.

The poem is as follows:
Anyone here had a go at themselves
for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
in the know, those of us who have, hands up,
let's show that inch of lacerated skin
between the forearm and the fist. Let's tell it
like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark
round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels
washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck.
A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs.
A likely story: you were lashed by brambles
picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good,
repeat with me the punch line 'Just like blood'
when those at the back rush forward to say
how a little love goes a long long long way. 

My recreative piece of text is this:

The chilling blade was a sharp contrast to the boiling water that filled the bath and seared against my pale, chalky skin. I looked down at myself in disgust - my mutilated wrists, coated from hand to elbow with the fading scars that, in many ways, would never fade. Even those that were now no more than faint white lines, ghosts of my past demons, they would never fade. Those that no longer needed hiding, those that could be easily talked away with fabricated stories of my clumsiness, they will never fade. In my eyes not one of them will ever truly fade. Each will bring back its own haunting memories, the memories I just cannot hide from, no matter how hard I try.

My leg flung forward abruptly and violently kicked the glass that was balancing on the end of the bath, where it always stands, unmoving. My rock. Despite knowing it was the anger deep inside of me that fuelled my movement, the noise of the smashing glass and the spray of a mixture of scalding bath water and cold, strong alcohol splashing onto me made me flinch with shock. The freezing blade almost slipped from my grasp but my hand automatically tightened around it. The tiniest of breaths escaped my lips as I felt the cool, sharp edge of the small razor blade scrape a shallow graze across the palm of my hand.

A single drop of blood fell. I watched as it, seemingly in slow motion, descended in a graceful fashion to merge with the hot water. It made me smile. And my smile made me sick. How wrong am I? How twisted?

I slowly and carefully lowered the shining blade down onto the edge of the bath and cupped some of the hot water in my hand, letting it cascade over my sliced right hand.

I had thought, a very long time ago, that I would become numb to the feeling over time, numb to the pain, but as I felt the sting in my hand I realized yet again how vain that hope had been. After all, that was the whole point, was it not? Pain. I watched the water, now tinged with my bright blood, slither down my arm like a menacing snake to join the main body of bath water.

I sighed and with my now free hands began to reluctantly unfasten the bracelets and bangles that hid my wrists from prying eyes. Sleeves were good too, of course. But after countless times of absentmindedly rolling my sleeves up and hearing the whispered snide remarks I'd grown sick of the abuse. From people that should know better as well. Was the topic of their snide remarks and cruel comments not adequate proof that I abused myself enough without them doing it for me? Was it not enough to make them think that maybe a little love would go a long long long way? Just as a little hate does...
At least the pretty bracelets distracted slightly from the angry red lines that crisscrossed in hideous patterns across my skin and at least the charming bangles offered a welcome change from the not so charming rest of me.

The metal of the tantalizing blade was still surprisingly cold as I scooped it back up off the side of the tub. The tears sprang to my eyes even before my hand moved the shard of metal anywhere near my forearm and I screwed my eyes closed tight against the hot, prickly tears. I felt myself press the cold metal to my skin and I held it there for a second, contemplating whether I still had the strength to butcher myself like this. I reminded myself of what this really was, it was a way to stop the pain. Nothing more.

“Don't be stupid.” I scolded myself in a voice that was barely more than a pained whisper before I dug the icy blade deep into my skin.

I gasped in agony, feeling the warm, sticky blood seep freely from the wound and trickle down my arm. I could hear it dripping rapidly, adding volume and colour to the water. I opened my eyes, hot tears blurring my view. I could still distinctly see the colour of the water changing from the clear, clean transparent to a bright crimson as my warm blood infused with the warmer water. I plunged my arm under the water and closed my eyes tightly again against the intense searing pain of the laceration in my arm being exposed to the blistering heat of the liquid.

My make up, my ironically pointless make up. Carefully applied to make me someone I'm not, to make me appear to be perfect. I'm not. No one is. Now however, eventually, my make up reflects who I really am, as it is washed into a clown-like mess by the tears streaming down my face. I smiled bitterly.

At least my tears were no longer tears of self hatred, or anger, or sadness... They were simply tears of pain. The best kind of tears.

Through my blurred vision and the fiery pain of my wrist I glared at the pile of towels, once pearly white. Now, a faded, murky pink colour, forever stained with my blood. Mocking me - as if the pain, the suffering, the everlasting scars etched deep into my skin weren't enough of a reminder. Why didn't I buy red towels? Or black? Anything but white.

Annoyed I let the blade out of my grasp and watched it, mesmerised, as it slowly sank to the bottom of the scarlet liquid in the tub.

Write soon... Peace :):

Opening Up About Bipolar.

Told you I'd blog soon! You didn't believe me did you? Don't blame you to be honest.. But here I am! Blogging! (Whoop!!)
Anyway.. I'm talking about opening up about Bipolar, or any mental health disorder, or even any disorder. As you may (or may not) know I follow the "Time to change" campaign. I've mentioned it before and the link for their website is in some of my blog entries and on my page (I think!). It's a campaign that encourages people to fight the taboo that surrounds mental health and talk about there experiences. But, as I'm sure you know, talking can be hard. Really hard.
Maybe talking comes easy for you? But for me anyway it's not. I'm not much of a talker about personal things - people I care about, my family, my past, etc. And being bipolar fits perfectly into my category of things not to talk about.
So at first I decided to tell no one, absolutely no one. But I'm also a terrible liar.. So unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your view) my best friend could tell there was something wrong and I couldn't lie to him. It took a long time, and a lot of patient prying and encouragement from him to finally find the words to tell him. But I did, despite being truly terrified of how he would react. (I'd like to say at this point that he is an amazing person and I knew I needn't have worried but I am a little paranoid and don't trust easily, which is the only reason I worried. Completey due to my own flaws and not, in any way, his fault.) Anyway, his reaction was far better than I ever could have imagined. He didn't really know that much about it but he was so, unbelievably willing to find out all about it and be there to support me through it all. He offered to come to doctors appointments with me and anything else I needed, he was a true friend, and still is. I'm not going to lie and say he's not left my side since, he has. He's let me down, and I've let him down. But we're human, and we're there for each other.
On the other end of the good/bad reaction scale you have a friend that I recently told of my disorder. We were on a school trip to Spain and the drama I'd hoped to leave behind in England had definitely not been left behind. Things took place on the first night that I need no go into. The second night the rooms got mixed up a bit as we changed hotels. So there was just 3 of us in the room rather that the 6 there had been in the room on the first night. I was having a hard time and was really tired from lack of sleep on the first night. It was already like 11pm and I was trying to get some sleep when this girl (my friend?) started talking to me, and not in a very nice tone. What she said was very long winded, very repetitive, rather harsh an rather rude, so I'll not repeat it. But the jist of what she said was that she had come to Spain to get away from all the shit and that it was unfair of me to be upset because I was making everyone else miserable and I was on holiday so I should enjoy myself. I'll admit that my first thought was to tell her to go away (not in those words!). But I decided getting annoyed wasn't worth it so I kept calm and tried to explain to her that I didn't want to be unhappy and I'd tried to be by myself a lot that day because I didn't want to make anyone else unhappy (in my head having a negative effect on other people is by far the worst part of being bipolar). But for some reason my carefully worded and calm explanation just seemed to annoy her more. Her next words, again, I will not repeat an nor will I tell you what she said to me. I will tell you though that I don't think I've ever been so angry, I honestly don't know how I stopped myself from getting up and hitting her. But I did, and instead I told her that she didn't understand. She told me she did understand. Her mum suffers from depression and it's sickening to watch attention seekers like me pretend like they do. I'd had enough by then, attention seeking is the last thing that I am. And fear that people would think that if I opened up about being bipolar is one of the main things that has stopped me from talking about it. So I told her about it, and regretted it straight away. She told me I was pathetic and left. She only slept in our room one night the whole holiday and that was only because she was forced to and she never said a word.
On a brighter note the other girl in the room, a girl in the year below who I'd seen around but never spoken to until the trip was unbelievably nice and supportive about the whole thing. She gave me a little time by myself then came out to talk to me. She knew exactly what to say and exactly when to keep quiet or point out the gnome on the mini golf course that we had to go and say hello to before breakfast the next morning.
So they were the worst and best reactions I've had. There's been some inbetween reactions too, and they're weird really. Not knowing whether people care or have forgotten or what. It's not hard, just weird not knowing if you can talk to them about it or whether they think you're crazy or what. I'd rather someone tell me they think I'm crazy rather than just trying  to avoid me or something.

That's all I've got to say really.. I'd like to heare your experiences though! How have your friends or family reacted? Or have you.no told them? Please share! Or tell me what you think or ask questions or anything!

Peace. :):

Hello Everybody!

I know I haven't blogged in ages, shoot me! No seriously, shoot me!
Anyway, apologies for the huge gap between this post and the last, I've been having a pretty crappy time. There's loads of half written posts from various points over the last months which are far to painful for me to even read a few lines into, let alone finish and publish.
I hope to try and write a post about people's views on bipolar, and how they differ right from one end of the scale to the other, in the next few weeks. So keep reading, please, I'll try and be better about blogging more.

Take care! :):