I heard a lady (whose name escapes my memory) say that her mind was like a dangerous neighbourhood and she tried not to go there alone. She was talking about finding help when mental health becomes a challenge — how a broken brain can’t fix a broken brain.
I too feel like my mind is a dangerous neighbourhood. I don’t usually go there with anyone else, which I know is asking for trouble, but hear me out. In Stephen King’s novel, Bag of Bones, narrator Mike Noonan (who’s also a writer) reasons that writers are simply people who have trained their minds to misbehave; and so, a dilemma appears.
I want to be a writer, and must train my brain to misbehave. This is a tricky balance, and not really a group activity. However, I am lucky. The people I have in my life — although they don’t accompany me into the neighbourhood — are there with a hot cup of tea and a mylar blanket for when I get back. I don’t know if this is the right approach, but it’s a process. It’s my process.
