Hi, I’m Becky, an artist and writer based in Derbyshire. I write about my life in what I hope is an honest and open way. I write about mental health, autism, sobriety and simply trying to find my way in this world. Please subscribe to support my work and to read more of my post.
It’s been a while.
In April, I found myself not feeling great. I had a generally feeling of apathy for everything.
I reached 100 subscribers on Substack and found that I didn’t care. I don’t feel subscriber or follower numbers should matter to us too much. They don’t define our worth as a creative or human but the fact that I didn’t care even a little showed something was wrong. I am so grateful to people who subscribe to me, even more grateful to those who take the time to engage with what I have written. I am grateful and to hit three digits should have filled me with something but it did not. I felt apathy. A shrug. A knowing that I should screenshot it and post about it on Notes, making sure to not mention that it took me nearly a year to reach three digits. Knowing that others reach 100 times this number in their first week on this platform. Knowing that none of that should matter and I should celebrate.
I didn’t celebrate. It’s only now, a month later, that I am telling anyone.
I found that I didn’t care about the numbers but I also didn’t really care about Substack. I didn’t know what to write and had no want to try and force any words. Other people’s beautiful words were just skimmed over, no comments left.
Is mine and Substack’s honeymoon period over?
A place I felt so at home, now lost once again to the mind-numbing world of comparison and a constant need to try so hard, to fit in and be what this new place needs me to be.
And yet, I can’t.
I have always been an errant mixture of worthlessness and sheer defiance. I will not be who you want me to be. I will not brand myself. I will scream my anger, my sadness, my nonsense and if no-one wants to hear it, fine. I will die on this hill because, at least here, I am myself.
I found myself not reading. Only half the books read in April that I managed in February and March. Instead I fill my mind with Youtube, telling myself that I am using it for good reasons. I had begun to workout again and I need advice, tips, guidance.
And I went looking for it in all the wrong places.
A 21 years old who works out five times a week, having already worked out solidly for the last three years. I have not worked out properly in well over three years. I am old enough to be her Mum. But, she’s knowledgeable, funny. So alive. So herself. I watch and I wish that I could have been like her when I was 21. Someone so sure in who they are, living their life how they want to.
At 21, I had bright red hair, tattoos, piercings. Dressed like a punk, with stars stuck to my face. On the outside so free, so rebellious but always going along with the crowd. Work in the week and get drunk on Friday’s and Saturday’s. A week feeling wasted if I was not out and having some version of fun on the weekends. Never would I have dared to say no to a night out because I was getting up early to workout, to take care of myself, to heal myself. Self destruction was a beautiful thing and we were all in it together.
So defiant on the outside but just a lamb mindlessly walking to its slaughter. Oh, how dramatic but in my teens and twenties I was filled with a desire to cease to exist. My life feeling so pointless, so meaningless. A life of feeling like I was no one until the weekend, when I could drink and be free. Be the cool girl. A complete mess but oh how funny it all was. Free and yet trapped. Trapped on the same merry-go-round, week in week out. Filled with Jack Daniels so when some insipid boy sidled up beside me, I was brave enough to say yes, even when I wanted to say no.
Trapped with a desire to be wanted, to be loved.
Please love me, even if only just for now. It’s okay if you pretend not to know me the next weekend. It’s all cool. I am cool. I do not care. I am already broken anyway. What’s a few more cracks?
What’s a few more cracks?
April began to come to an end and I began to feel better. The dark clouds I was so certain would stay surrounding me forever began to part.
I began to read again. Wild1 by
. I couldn’t put it down.I went away for a few days with my partner.
I abandoned Youtube for over a week.
Then, I began reading The Cure for Sleep2 by
. Strange feelings all around. To begin, I feel like this is not a book for me. I will read it and then put it in a charity bag. But, I can’t put it down. Something so familiar in Tanya’s story. Filling me with sorrow but also desire. A desire to write.I need to write.
So, here I am. My first letter in a month. As honest and open as ever. I cannot lie, even to you, my darling 108 subscribers. Most of you, I don’t and will never know. Many of you won’t even open this letter.
But, I cannot lie to you.
Because what is the point in lying? Telling you I haven’t written because life has been so perfectly splendid. What is the point in that? Who does that help?
No, I cannot lie.
Life has been life, in all its intrinsic ways. Dark, dark and darker still. A feeling like I will never get out of it this time. And no amount of sobriety, exercise, gratitude, fresh air will help. The dark is my home now.
Oh, so dramatic.
Because here I am, the light peeping through the clouds.
Here I am. Sorry I’m late.
Thank you so much for reading. And for sticking it our during my writing drought. Whether you noticed or not, that you are here is all that matters.
As always, if you enjoyed this letter or anything resonated, please let me know by replying to this email or, if you are on Substack, by giving it a like or leaving it a comment. If you really enjoyed it, please share it or restack it so someone else might find it. Thank you. 🖤
Take care of yourself.
Love,
Becky
🖤✨🌈
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This is an affiliate link. If you purchase this book via this link, I will get a small payment.
I absolutely noticed your absence and missed you, Becky! But I also assumed (wrongly or rightly) that you were taking care of yourself and doing what you most needed - and I was cheering you on in that.
This one felt special to me - so deeply honest and so resonant with my own ambivalence towards online existence lately. Sending hearts and wishes for all that you most want and need. ❤️
Thank you for spending time with my story - and sticking with it through the resistant bits. And if it left you wanting passionately to write then I did what I set out to do! After 8 wildly open years of hyper-connection, I’m now (at 50) in another life passage just beginning: returning to a very quiet obscure way of being - but it feels different than in my 20s because of all the great creative conversations had since I began that mile of writing outside at 42. I’m keeping my free Substack for writers open til end of year although I’m not posting from it any more after three very soulful years on here. I’d love it if any of the prompts were useful to you…