I can’t think of a more doggish feeling than needing to write but being unable to. Pacing, canine. Rabid. An unyielding reminder pounding at the back of my head: write, write, write. But no words present. Only a rushing of blood, muscles tensing and untensing, a too fast heartbeat. Only humanity forms at the tips of my fingers but not a single letter. Nothing to show for my sentience. The one thing I was born to do, is something beyond my control. Words coming and going as they please. Presenting themselves only when they feel it’s best. I don’t get to decide on those words. When they come they are almost always unexpected. At midnight, at work, in the shower covered water. Forming from brain fog into firmness. Always inconvenient. Always when no pen is near. Arriving in pieces which I am later able to stitch together.
The rest of the time I listen to the voices, making up stories and lies until they arrive at some truth.
This is my bane as a Schizophrenic writer. My essays born of illness, while important to me, are never my decision to write. Perhaps I am more a vessel than a captain. After all, Schizoaffective Disorder is like sailing your ship through the roughest waters, without ever knowing what the water really is.