I Can't Turn It Off

By E.L. Black

A Profoundly Poignant yet Darkly Comedic Journey through Mental Health.

 

In the bleak streets of a modern-day England, Emmeline Parker's story unfolds in "I Can't Turn it Off," a hauntingly raw and unfiltered story of survival and self-discovery. This contemporary fiction navigates the gritty reality of mental health and the ongoing pursuit of meaning in an often meaningless world.

 

Emmeline Parker, our troubled narrator, takes readers on an emotional rollercoaster as she battles the unceasing voices in her head. A young struggling writer caught between the desire to disappear and the need to be seen, to be heard. Her journey is one of desperation and hope, a struggle to turn off the chaos and find her place in a world that never stops moving.

 

From her suffocating apartment filled with discarded manuscripts to the public eye at a literary convention, Emmeline grapples with the dread of early adulthood and pressures of life after graduation. Her story is raw and real, a deep dive into the complexities of depression, the quest for identity, and the power of human connection. 

 

Themes of mental health, self-worth, and redemption remain throughout Emmeline's narrative. Her struggle is palpable, her pain mirrors the battles many of us face in silence. Her voice is both a cry for help and a testament to the strength found in vulnerability.

 

In the vein of "BoJack Horseman" and "My Year of Rest and Relaxation," this debut novel masterfully blends dark humor with profound introspection. 

 

Can she find the breakthrough she desperately needs, or will she plunge further into the depths of her despair?

 

Discover Emmeline's fate in "I Can't Turn it Off" and ask yourself: Can she ever truly find peace, or is she destined to be consumed by the very voices she's trying to silence?

 

Book Length - 345 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.L Black
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227689191

Book preview

Chapter 1

This story being found at possibly the worst stage of my life is unfortunate. A point where I seem to owe a hell of a lot of karma. I don't even know what I did, but it must’ve been bad. Sometimes I wonder if at one point I had gone into a psychosis, committed some terrible sin, and woken up with no knowledge of the act. Whatever it was, I fucked off God or whatever spiritual being is ruling above us. Life has become a series of constant punishments. My days are a continuous grey sludge, each one indistinguishable from the last, marred by a constant, gnawing anxiety that I can’t shake. It’s as if I am paying off a debt I don’t remember accruing. Every step is heavy, as though I am dragging the weight of my past mistakes behind me, even if I can’t pinpoint what they are.

After graduation, I entered this long phase of nothingness. Days stretched into weeks, and weeks blurred into months, all melding into a dark, featureless expanse. I felt suspended in time, caught in this eternal loop of sitting alone in my apartment, waiting for the hours to pass until my boyfriend was available so I could pretend everything was okay. My mornings began with the same ritual: I’d wake up late, the sun already high in the sky, with its harsh light flicking through my broken blinds and casting long, accusing shadows across my room. I’d lie there staring at the ceiling, feeling the entire day pressing down on me before it had even begun. My body felt heavy, anchored to the bed by an unseen force. There was no urgency, no reason to get up, but finally, the discomfort of inactivity compelled me to move. I imagined it being the universe’s way of saying, Hey, at least try to be a functioning human. I’d shuffle to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and look at my reflection in the mirror. The person staring back at me was a stranger, someone I hardly recognised. Sleepless nights had dulled my eyes and framed them with dark circles. My hair, unkempt and tangled, reflected the chaos inside my mind. I’d brush my teeth firmly, the minty taste a brief distraction from the numbness. At least my toothpaste had its life together. Breakfast was a simple affair - toast or a bowl of Shreddies eaten in front of the TV. I’d turn on some mindless show, the kind that never required too much attention, just background noise to fill the silence that was overcoming me. The hours moving in a haze of reruns and adverts, my mind drifting in and out of focus. Occasionally, I’d glance at my phone, checking the time, counting down the minutes until my boyfriend would call or come over. My social life, now reduced to the excitement of, Will he text me back in three minutes or four?

When he finally arrived, it was like a switch flipped inside me. I’d put on a smile, push the emptiness aside, and try to be present. We’d talk about his day, his work, his friends. I’d nod and make appropriate noises, pretending to be interested, pretending to be okay. His presence was a temporary solace, a brief pause from the void. It was like having an emotional support boyfriend. Then, at night, we’d order food and watch more TV, our bodies close but our minds miles apart. I’d lean into him, seeking comfort in his warmth, trying to absorb some of his vitality. But even in these moments of supposed intimacy, I felt a profound sense of loneliness. It was as if I were floating in space, only staying within reality by a single, fragile thread. Plus, how many times could one person watch The Office before it became more depressing than funny?

Since losing most of the people who were close in my life, I couldn’t really understand why the rest of them would want to stay. I thought that maybe they hated themselves too. Maybe they were all just gluttons for punishment. That might’ve been where I went wrong. I doubted myself to the point I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to surround themselves with me. I was like a walking black hole of self-loathing, sucking in any glimmer of optimism that dared approach. It’s the only reason I ever questioned my own relationship. I knew he loved me, and I knew he wanted to stay, but sometimes I couldn’t comprehend why. I mean, why would anyone voluntarily sign up for this emotional rollercoaster? Was he a masochist? Did he get off on my existential angst? I refused to see his side because I hated myself so much that it seemed otherworldly for him to come close to loving me. It was like trying to understand quantum physics when you haven’t even passed basic math. He would say things like, You’re everything, and I’d respond with a confused look, thinking, Are we looking at the same person? I’d check the mirror, expecting to see something extraordinary, but all I saw was the same tired, slightly deranged face, I felt like getting an award for a performance I didn’t even know I gave. Thank you, thank you, I’d like to thank my complete lack of self-esteem and my irrational fear of happiness for making this moment possible.

Sometimes I’d test him, just to see how far his love would stretch. I’d mope around, wallow in my own misery, and wait for him to get fed up and leave. But he never did. It was infuriating. I’d think, What is wrong with you? Can’t you see I am a disaster? Run while you still can! But he stayed, smiling that annoyingly supportive smile, telling me how wonderful I was while I plotted my next self-sabotage move. My friends, or lack thereof, were not much better. They’d invite me out, try to get me to socialise, like I was some sort of pet project. Come on, it’ll be fun, they’d say, as if fun was a foreign concept I needed reintroducing to. I’d go, begrudgingly, and spend the entire time wondering why they even bothered anymore. They must have some guilt or saviour complex. Some obligation to include the resident train wreck. I imagined them drawing straws to decide who had to deal with me that week. At least that made me laugh.

My mind was this major paradox. Surrounded by people who insisted they loved me, yet I couldn’t fathom why. It was like being the star of a really bad sitcom where the punchline is always the same: I am a mess, and everyone’s in denial. Maybe that was my superpower - making people question their own sanity for sticking around. Forget flying or invisibility; my talent was inspiring inexplicable loyalty through sheer, unadulterated pessimism.

At least I kept things interesting. If nothing else, I could always count on my trusty sidekick, Self-Doubt, to keep the plot twisting. And who needs self-esteem when you have a devoted boyfriend and a few confused but determined friends? It’s like living in a dark comedy where the joke’s always on me, but the laugh track never quite kicks in.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Each graduate was called onto the stage, one by one, like we were contestants in some bleak game show. I was sitting alone, trying not to fidget, waiting for my turn. Emmeline Parker. Bachelor's Degree with Honours in English Literature and Creative Writing. For a moment, I forgot my own name and glanced around, wondering who the hell Emmeline Parker was. Then it hit. Oh, right, that’s me. I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping over the chair leg in my haste.

Walking across the stage was like navigating a minefield. I could feel all eye’s on me. I shook the hand of the Vice-Chancellor, who gave me a smile that was probably meant to be encouraging but came off vaguely menacing. As I took my certificate, I half expected it to burst into flames or disintegrate into confetti. But no, it stayed solid, a real piece of paper certifying my dubious achievement. Swiftly, I made my way back to my seat, keeping my eyes firmly on the floor. I didn’t bother looking for anyone I knew in the crowd. What was the point? The people who would care weren’t there, and the people who were didn’t care. Besides, who needed validation when you had the sweet, cold comfort of being utterly alone.

I had managed to achieve a first in my degree. A shock to us all. Seriously, it was like the academic equivalent of finding a £20 note in an old coat pocket - completely unexpected and slightly suspicious. My mum had been astounded. Emmeline? Really? her expression had said. She most certainly envisioned a much different scenario, perhaps involving a certificate for Most Likely to Nap Through Life or Procrastination Prodigy. As I sat back down, clutching my certificate like it might disappear if I loosened my grasp, I couldn’t help contemplating the irony of it all. Officially recognised for my intellectual genius, while I could barely muster the energy to get out of bed most days. Academic excellence and personal dysfunction - what a charming combination.

I watched the ceremony drone on, a parade of future lawyers, doctors, and accountants, all beaming with pride and optimism. I envied them in a detached sort of way, like a cat watching birds from behind a window. Their futures seemed so bright and full of purpose, while mine remained shrouded in uncertainty and dread. It felt like eternity till the ceremony finally ended, and we were headed outside for obligatory photos. I stood awkwardly for mine, holding my certificate at an angle that I hoped would catch the light and make it look more impressive. A few of my now past class-mates approached, offering half-hearted congratulations and awkward hugs. I reciprocated with equal enthusiasm, playing my part in this strange ritual.

I stood alone as the crowd dispersed, staring at a sea of mortarboards and smiling faces. I knew it was supposed to be a day of celebration, a milestone marking the beginning of our bright futures. But for me it felt like the end of something - an end to the structured chaos of university life and the beginning of... what, exactly? More chaos, and no structure?

Having to move back home made me feel worse. Much worse. In my uni days, avoiding my mum was practically a sport. I’d concoct elaborate schemes and ridiculous, obvious lies to extend my stays away from home during the summer.

I can’t come back, Mum, I’ve been recruited for a top-secret summer research project on the migratory patterns of campus pigeons. She never bought it, but it gave me a few extra weeks of blissful separation.

Jake, my boyfriend, understood my predicament. He was the rare kind of person who didn’t require a pre-approved emotional support licence to deal with me. He made the effort to come see me from my hometown, which, to be fair, was about as exciting as watching paint dry, then realising it is the wrong shade and having to start over. His visits were my lifeline, a reminder that not all human interaction had to be awkward and suffocating.

My dad dying last year was a dark twist of fate that came with a slight silver lining. Thanks to his will, I had the financial means to possibly rent a place of my own back home. It was as if the universe decided to throw me a bone after a lifetime of dodging bricks. Congratulations Emmeline. You’ve won a free pass to independence and chronic grief. Enjoy!

The minute I returned home, Mum hovered like a helicopter parent on autopilot, fussing over every minor detail of my life. Are you eating enough? You look disturbingly skinny. Have you applied for jobs? Did you know that the neighbour’s son just bought a house and got engaged? Yes, Mum, I am aware. It was like living with a particularly passive-aggressive motivational speaker. I found myself missing the deafening silence of my university flatmates’ passive hostility.

Though, being home also meant Jake could visit me more now, and that was my only solace. We’d sit in the park, a place where the town’s ambitions went to die, and talk about anything and everything. He’d bring snacks, which was a significant improvement over Mum’s kale smoothies, and we’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Maybe you should write a new book, he suggested once. Call it ‘How to Survive Your Twenties by Avoiding Your Mother and Eating Crisps in the Park’.

I laughed, but the idea was rather intriguing. The thought that I could turn my existential dread into something productive. Or at least something that paid the rent. For now, I had my inheritance, a morbid gift from Dad, a man who knew the value of a well-timed exit.

Mine and Mum’s relationship wasn’t earth-shatteringly bad; it was more like a chronic nuisance, like a mosquito bite that never quite healed. I mean, I didn’t think she really liked