Boiling Water & Bleeding

Boiling Water and Bleeding is my first ever book. Currently, it is in process of self-publishing. Boiling Water and Bleeding tells my story of healing through a jumble of poems. They all capture different aspects of how I've grown since my diagnosis in 8th grade. Now, in 10th, I will be publishing my story for others to see and share.
Through my struggles with developing my mental differences, becoming aware, striving, dreaming, healing, and relapsing- my way of escape was not to think at all, and to let my pen do the talking. I describe my work as something even I don't fully understand. When I write, I go into what seems like a trance. I don't think at all- about writing, about moving, about thinking, about breathing- I let my pen do the work. After writing, I usually find myself letting out a deep exhale, which slowly brings me into reality and into a state of mind capable of reading what I just produced.
Writing was an escape. It still is. At a time when I have no control over my body nor my mind, I don't need to control what the ink puts onto the paper- I just let it take over. I remember that I did this for the first time when I was sitting in the common area of The Hawbridge School in Saxapahaw for the first time. There, I wrote one of my most hated works, but my first... and somehow, it made it into my book. Even though I hated the poem, the story it told about finally feeling so free but yet so restricted was my first step into my writing-coping, and an entry into my own little world of nothingness.
When I start to write, it feels like nothing I've ever felt. I just sit. I just look. I just move my wrist. I feel almost as if I have lost consciousness, my mind, my thoughts, everything- have just fallen into a void. Then, in a matter of time, I can breathe again. Almost like the quick last burst of my inhale whilst writing the last line is a vacuum drawing my train of thought back on track, and my exhale is the train whistle that prepares it for it's next motion.
Over the years, when I found myself in a place of complete loss of control, if at all possible... I would draw myself to my pen... and like a magnet, I was attached. When that occurred, I could feel myself slipping off of the skinny metal bridge into the pit. Then, without feeling any time pass, I was back there. Ready.
I will never edit my poems- it wouldn't be the same. Each word, each line, each mark on the paper- they all tie into the beautiful story my mind paints while I go away. There's no holding back in any of my poems, and there never will be.
So why don't you join me in observing what happens when you document your loss of stability and control in a mixed up mind relying on therapy and medicines for a healing that we cannot predict?