Being Disqualified from the Thinking Olympics for Doping: How Steroids Are Messing With My Brain

I’m a buzzed-up giant. The washing machine in my head is spinning my clothes for the 800th time although they’re already clean. I’m a whirr. I’m polo-mint breath puffed onto an eyeball. I’m running three marathons dressed as the end. I’m tinfoil in a microwave and a thousand thoughts in a thimble. I’m a thousand warts in a wimble, and my brain is not my own. I’m a buzzed-up giant – snorted a trail of coke from one end of the street to the other with a scaffolding pole lodged up my nose and now my sun roof won’t close. It won’t close. It won’t close. Stop washing my clothes. Ahhhhh!

And breathe.

I’ve been prescribed steroids before, but I forgot quite what they do to the brain. It really is like being on class-As 24/7, and I haven’t touched anything like that since my insides were young and beautiful and it didn’t take me a week to get over the comedown. It’s not worth it now. Same with drinking. At what point exactly between thirty and forty will nothing short of a blood transfusion from a four-year-old, vegan, pure-thoughted, Icelandic child stave off a week-long hangover, the days of partying all night and going to work the next day a distant memory?

For me, this amplified-thinking hell with no off-switch has taken the form of obsessive inspiration, and I’ve channelled my relentless brain energy into writing. I’ve had no choice. I’ve been almost delirious in the middle of the night with more thoughts than I can possibly process, let alone write, tapping away on my laptop like a Tasmanian devil at a piano. It’s been great for productivity, but that level of obsession and activity is exhausting and almost painful. And aside from the obvious fraying of my sanity, there’s another issue. Although I decided that I wouldn’t make any major changes in the way I work or do anything rash in this time of madness, I haven’t been able to stop myself, and I’m a little worried that I might have trashed my life.

I devoured The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People and immediately started to organise myself in a way that I have never been able. In the same way doped runners can smash world records, I was a time-management ninja on my way to a gold. The second ‘habit’ encourages readers to write a mission statement for their life. I’m reading mine now and can’t help noticing that it doesn’t necessarily represent or reflect the me that existed, live, breathed, thought and was sailing the ship for the first forty-two years, six months and four days of my pre-steroid life. No, this two-week-old, drug-addled incarnation has produced bullet points that never occurred to me before I was Super Hayley. Apparently, fiction is out and the truth is everything. If I’m going to write, it has to be honest. It has to be me. If I’m going to bother doing this, it has to be real. I write the life stories of others for a living and expect them to lay themselves bare for me. This is what I should be doing. So my detective and sci-fi works-in-progress have gone out the window, my paid work has taken a back seat, I’ve changed my name, started running again, and I’ve overhauled my website to preach truth and honesty. I’ve officially taken leave of my senses.

My partner is checking everything I’m writing because I’ve lost all sense of perspective and quality control. It could be terrible. I could have filled pages and pages with shopping lists and recipes for bean stew for all the awareness I have. But, surprisingly, she tells me it’s beautiful and I’m brave, and it’s incredible to be that honest. This means the world to me.

The steroids have also shut down all those annoying voices in my head that tell me, despite my many achievements and evidence to the contrary, that I’m not good enough, that I have nothing original to say, that I should just switch on the TV and eat cake instead, and for that I am truly grateful.

But what happens when the course is over, when I stop being Hayley 2.0, the very best, most productive, creative, confident and well-organised version of myself, and return to regular Hayley who likes a nap in the afternoon? What happens when I see what I’ve produced in this time for what it really is? Who knows? But I plan to see it through to a fiery showdown in a clearing with the sun setting behind me and my arms thrown in the air, and then I’ll see what’s left when my mind is my own again – which will be very soon because what started as an overwhelming box of medication has been reduced to rows and rows of empty blisters and screwed-up information leaflets. I have just two weeks left, and for this I am grateful. I am grateful for the whole experience, and the opportunity I have been given to tap into something deeper than I normally would, or at least more personal, but I can’t wait to reclaim my own brain, flawed, imperfect and guarded as she is.

I need a rest.

Follow Hayley Sherman, writer …  @hayleystories

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She Cried When She Read the Book: An Emotional Ghostwriting Experience

‘Jenny’ first contacted me to edit her domestic violence memoir. She is a passionate woman with so much to say on the subject, following nearly two decades of abuse. She is now dedicated to conveying a message of hope and survival to other victims and building awareness of a subject that is all too often diminished and ignored. It is an important book on so many levels, and I was honoured to work on it. I learnt so much and realised that I was blinkered on the subject in a way that she is at pains to highlight – a victim of domestic violence is not a certain type of person; it is a man or woman who met a monster after dark that refused to let them go.
Jenny told me that she was dyslexic and suffering from PTSD. Writing the book had been a difficult experience for her.

Her determination shone through in the writing, but there were serious issues with the book. She had been incredibly brave to open her laptop and let her fingertips loose on her suffering, and it had naturally flooded out of her in a steam of consciousness. Consequently, it was powerful but muddled and difficult to follow. And there were other issues: she would often abandon the narrative to tubthump the issues surrounding domestic abuse, dragging readers out of the moment and away from her story – a story that conveys her message so much more powerfully than repeated rhetoric; she was also (understandably) guarded with what she was prepared to reveal, often leaving out the most revealing elements of her experience; additionally, she veered toward ‘telling’ her story rather than ‘showing’ it with concrete description and vivid language that draw readers in, so it wasn’t coming alive on the page.

As a writer, my focus is on the experience of the reader, and although this is a painful true story, it is still a story, and I could see how it could be told in a way that would keep readers turning pages. Her focus was, justifiably, on her own experience, so it often felt as if there was a wall between her and her readers.

I told her my concerns, but she had concerns of her own: she didn’t want to simply write a survivor memoir: her scope was wider than this; she didn’t want to bring readers too close to her experience; she had a message that she was determined to deliver; she also had a fixed publication date, and time was scarce. I went ahead with the edit, as agreed, but it was challenging, and I struggled to return it, knowing that it still needed so much work. So, alongside the edit, I compiled a report, containing recommendations, suggestions and pages of questions to help fill in the blanks that the original draft had left me with. The result? Unfortunately, I completely overwhelmed the poor woman. I felt terrible and wished I had simply left her to publish the book. But how could I?

When she came back to me after that, she was beginning to see the merit of what I was suggesting, but she was still completely overwhelmed. It was at this point that she asked me to write the book for her. Time was short, but I knew I could bring it to life and produce a book that honoured her experience while serving as a lifeline to other survivors.

I was excited to work on such a rewarding project … but then she told me that she wanted to see my output every day – every day! – and my bubble burst.
I’m used to having a free rein to produce a first draft, which can then be edited. I felt like I was in chains before we had even begun. However, I am a great believer in pushing my own boundaries, placing myself in situations that are difficult (and that I often don’t like) because this is how we grow. And I respected Jenny’s need to maintain control of the project. It was her book after all.

The result exceeded both our expectations, not just in terms of the end result, but with regards to the process. I would send my copy to her every day, along with a page of questions that would help me proceed, and she would send answers and feedback. Very slowly, the trust grew between us, and she began to feel safe to reveal more of herself and share details that were painful but vital to the narrative. As difficult as this process must have been for her, she would often tell me how much she was enjoying it, and I felt so proud that she was finding it therapeutic and even healing. It was amazing to help her after everything she had suffered.
The energy and compassion of our exchange shines through in the book, and she cried when she read it for the first time. She was so grateful that I had managed to capture this difficult chapter of her life, and I was so proud to have been of service to her. I am truly blessed to be on this path.


Twitter: @hayleystories

Domestic Violence Support, call 0800 2000 247