I've written several times on these pages about mental health and well-being. I think that it is important to talk openly and honestly about the struggle that many writers, including me, have with depression, anxiety, panic attacks and associated conditions, although I am aware that not everyone is able or wants to do this. Despite the enormous strides which have been made in widening public conversations and awareness about mental health in general, it is still a sad fact that, as an 'invisible illness', there are those who still dismiss it as a self-indulgence, or think we should just 'pull ourselves together'. I wish it was that easy.
For personal reasons, which I will not go into, this summer has been full of the (rotten) lemons which title this piece, hurled at me one after another. I do not wish to make lemonade (the normal advice for when life hands you them). For one thing it would taste bitter and vile for lack of sugar and sweetness, and for another, nobody would wish to drink it. These particular rotten lemons have been toxic to both mind, body and creativity. Not only do I feel physically poisoned, (not least because my physical body has reacted very badly to the combined stress of anxiety, depression and panic attacks, enhanced by what my doctor tells me is an excess production of cortisol), but my creativity levels have gone through the floor.
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