07.02.21: Why We Write

A journalist asked me a question last week, and it sparked the first of these letters. What was it that made me turn to poetry, and how has it impacted my mental health?

It began snowing, gently, around lunchtime. Since then the ground has been accumulating white in that slow, quiet way that nobody seems to notice.

I think the darkest parts of anxiety are a little like that - it isn’t there, and then it is.

Last week an interviewer asked me why I started writing poetry, and I’ve been thinking a lot about that question. The truth is, I think I first became a poet for the same reason I went to therapy: nobody wants you to touch them when your hands are covered in blood.

I think I wanted poetry to provide some kind of catharsis; a solid ground on which to rest all these broken and crumbling pieces. But I’m not sure it really works like that. Forcing myself to revisit these memories isn’t easy, and I wonder if the process isn’t its own kind of trauma.

I guess what I’m saying is, some days poetry is the stitches, other days it’s the wound.

But, while the writing hasn’t made me any less anxious, or allowed me to sleep an entire night, I think it would be true to say it has made me braver. Over time, writing has made me more accepting of the person I’ve become. Of the person I’m becoming.

The poetry I write means I’m always pushing myself to be vulnerable; to embrace a kind of honesty that has long escaped me. I find myself being continually open with strangers in ways that are surprising to me - in ways that have made me want to be a better person.

Years ago, I wouldn’t have been brave enough to speak about mental health, or to allow myself to be vulnerable - even with those closest to me. Today, I speak about these topics every day, often wearing my struggles with mental health on my sleeve. I do this because I have begun to realise how much it can help other people.

The truth is I don’t write for catharsis anymore. I write these poems for you.

I get hundreds of messages every day from people all over the world, telling me how the work has helped them make sense of their own emotions; how my words make them feel less alone. I can’t tell you how much these messages mean to me.

Suddenly, my ability to carry the weight makes sense. Maybe I was meant to withstand the things I’ve been through, so that I could write about them. Maybe I’m finally doing something good.

I’ve always thought of myself as far stronger than I ever wanted to be, and I’m beginning to wonder if that’s a gift. Maybe I’m strong for a reason, and this has always been more superpower than curse.

Writing doesn’t feel like therapy to me, most days it’s the opposite. But it does feel like a calling; like I’m finally where I’m supposed to be. For the first time, my life feels like it has meaning - a genuine purpose - and I owe that incredible gift to the people who read my work.

So, I guess the next time someone asks me why I write, I know the answer is because I’m supposed to. These words never did belong to me, and I think I understand that now. These words have always belonged to the people who read them.

Yours,

Blake.