Singing

This morning, I sang in the shower. I sang in the shower. It wasn`t pleasant, and it was almost indecipherable (it was I`m blue dabadeedabadoow dabadeedabadow, which is in my friend`s Top Five Worst Shower Songs) but I sang. In the shower.

I haven`t sung in the shower for nearly eighteen months. I haven`t sung, in fact, since I left England originally, in the summer of 2009, where I was prone to singing in any kind of washing environment I found myself in: would set myself up in the bath with a shampoo bottle and happily warble my way through the remaining four Worst Songs. I was too on edge when I got to Japan to sing - too out of my comfort zone, too nervous - and then I was too stressed because The Boy kept inexplicably disappearing (to The Other Girl), and then too heartbroken, and then too sad. And for the last six months, I`ve been too drugged. Drugged right up to the eyeballs, which is only becoming clear now that they`ve finally left my system and I`m sober again. And, apart from occasional brain shake (common withdrawal symptom, where it feels sporadically like somebody has grabbed my brain and is shaking it around my head), the only really terrible side effect is: singing. And the only people who really suffer because of that are my neighbours.

Nobody takes anti-depressents because it`s fun: if you want fun, you go for the kind of drugs most doctors refuse to prescribe. You take anti-depressents because there`s no other choice, and so - because once you start having panic attacks in the middle of National art galleries there really is no other choice - the side effects have to be just ridden out. But (and trust me, I`ve Googled it) there hasn`t been a lot of research into the impact of anti-depressents on creativity. Mainly because you can do science experiments on a number of factors related to drugs until the cows come home, but just how sparky your imagination is or how many pages you write a day don`t tend to be two of them. They`re quite tricky to measure in a laboratory.

This morning, I didn`t just sing. I got out of the shower and I did a little bottom dance with my towel - for my own benefit, obviously, because I live on my own - and then I walked like Michael Jackson back into my bedroom. It was only as I did a little spin at the end and winked at myself in the mirror that I realised: I`m playing again. Not because I feel like I have to to maintain appearances and convince the world that I`m alright when I`m not, but because I am alright, and because I`m perfectly capable of having fun on my own. And because me dancing with a towel makes everybody laugh, because I can`t dance and I have zero towel-related coordination.

Better than that, after six months of being too anxious to write, and then six months of being too hurt to write, and then six months of being too numb to write, I`m suddenly not too anything at all: I`m Goldilocks with the right temperature porridge. I sat at my computer this weekend and I did what I haven`t done since I got to Japan: wrote from 8am in the morning until 11pm at night, burnt five slices of toast because I kept skipping back to the computer to alter a line midway through cooking, had my lunch with one hand still typing and forgot to have dinner completely. I couldn`t stop writing: got up at 2am because I`d suddenly thought of a great sentence, and my fingers were bored. My brain wouldn`t stop whirring: after so damn long asleep or hurting or licking its wounds, it was gagging for a little run around and refused to stop moving (especially during the brain shakes, which are very unpleasant and I`m very glad that Google says they`re normal because I thought for a little while that something had come loose). And while memories of Him are cropping up again after six months of absolutely nothing - vivid and powerful and so real I can smell him, which is unfortunate because smell was not one of his best qualities - I`ve realised: it`s okay. Because it`s a sign that my imagination is back again, and wide awake, instead of lying in a stupor in the back of my head somewhere, fanning its face. So whenever a romantic or painful memory pops up all colourful and shiny, I pat myself on the back, congratulate my imagination for being so vivid, and push it away immediately with all of my brand new strength. Instead of hating myself for not being able to control it, and hating the power of my own mind.

Everything is real again. Colours are real and smells are real and people are real. I suddenly have interest in the world again: want to go places and see things that seemed pointless a month ago. I want to climb those mountains and jump into those lakes and get lost in the middle of a desert somewhere. And, true: when I went to an onsen with Yuki last night I nearly passed out, because brain shakes and hot water are not a good combination, but for the time when I wasn`t clutching my head and swaying I was capable - finally - of holding a coherent conversation, because words fit together again. Writing, speaking, singing: words that had totally disjointed - like a jigsaw with no picture to follow - suddenly make sense. It`s like the writing version of Dangerous Minds, where all the naughty students abruptly start behaving, and it`s wonderful. I just can`t stop them all from spilling out.

Prescription drugs are great, but only for as long as they help. When they stop helping, and you`ve healed the way you`re supposed to, it`s time to try and take your life back again.

And it all starts with singing in the shower.