There I was, so totally delighted with myself and my success that I made the brave decision to reduce my Prozac. By reduce, I mean, of course, stop.

I had stood up for myself and set up my courses on my own steam. Folk were inspired, writing, loving writing. The time was right, right? No. Wrong. I have been on antidepressants since the mid 90’s when a random GP began prescribing them after a rape. Yes, I was prescribed anti depressants to help me cope with being raped.  Despite every attempt to consciously overcome past difficulties, traumas and general life shite, I have developed two decade chemical habit.

The problem is I have nerves. I have little to no self esteem. The voices in my head tell me I am worthless and only fit for taking in laundry. When a child is grown with criticism, she learns to criticise. As a child and young woman I was only told how I shamed my family, and, it seems, this speech pattern repeats in my head. It’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be. I can over ride it by learning to care for myself, nourish my body, mind and soul. I can live with it by running off the negativity. I know how to sit on a rock in a river and breathe until Light fills my heart. And now, I am managing to stand up and teach the skills I learned, the tips I am passionate about. I am managing to inspire others to write raw and pure from their souls. And this feels right and good.

So I ditched the shed loads of Prozac. 4 million butterflies took up residence in my belly. My head filled with snot, which flowed freely from my nose. My ears blocked. My head went. I got the shakes. There was no way I could even open an email, couldn’t go out of my house and had to hide in my bed.

I used to think folk just sorta tolerated me. It wasn’t until this year, when I broke my ankle, that I realised my friends actually love me. I am a 46 year old woman who has never had a cuddle or kind word from her mother. It has been miraculous to have love. It has been brilliant to teach the stuff I love. This year has changed my life.

I took myself to the surgery with my head up my arse and begged for the chemicals. Then, I sat still, imagining I could do it again. Telling myself I could go back to passing on all the writing knowledge I gained. Wrote notes to myself listing positive actions, ate well, walked on the beach. I prayed for my mother who had no love for me, for my father who could only protect her. And I prayed for me. Today, I got up early, with snot and sweat, chills and butterflies and somehow managed to once again inspire a group of writers into writing more. Now I have a cuppa tea and we are going to do it again…..

You are welcome to join us. Workshops are £30 each, unless you agree a concession with me beforehand. next Friday we are developing our favourite locations.