Midnight Chatter

I feel like something terrible is going to happen. Dread and convincing stories are running through me like full-speed water, flooding from a dam. Only the dam is a shutter in my head, opened by anxious chatter. And the dam is only gently pulled shut, or to a trickle, by love.

Love and gentleness to myself. But even then, it doesn’t always do anything. I feel lost in a storm and I can’t see my way out. I feel lost in a dizziness, a trip, of anxiety and worst-case scenarios, worry and fear.

I’m not really sure how to stop it.

It’s not until I spend time with people, that I really hear how loud the voices have been yelling. The stories, the dread, the anxiety, the worry. When I’m with someone, they almost become a mirror for what I’m feeling. They become the bouncing board, the story board, for what I’m feeling and what I’m experiencing. Maybe that’s why I find it difficult to be with people.

I think this is hormones. I think this is PMS. Last month my PMS involved the darkest most intense PMS yet…I reckon. And this month maybe, rather than a darkness, there’s a sparkiness…a motherfucking BRIGHT and LIVELY sparkiness. In other words, ANXIETY. It’s a bitch. Such a bitch.

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I find it hard to know what to act on, and what to leave behind. I find it hard to know what is trauma and anxiety that is just there, considering everything I have been going through, and when it is anxiety here because beneath the anxiety, is something I need to work on, sort out, do…

I’m not really sure. There is so much in flux at the moment, and so much to be worried about. But also, in a way, there isn’t. Like, I have the basics here by me – a roof, a fridge of food… but in these moments I find those things hard to take as anything to go on. But if you ask anyone, it really is the basics that it comes down to. The basics that count. I am beginning to very slowly see that. There just is a truckload of resistance when it comes to trusting that. And that’s fair enough.

Just like the resistance around me feeling safe, or feeling supported, or feeling held, or feeling comfortable, or feeling happy and held. Fuck that resistance, but again, it is there by the truckload.

But, saying that, there is a little part of me open to all of that, and a gentle, loving, compassionate voice that is telling me I deserve it, even when my body almost retches with angst at the thought, or sight, of those loving, bright, feelings.

Along with this compassionate and loving voice that’s getting stronger by the day, my heart feels open – wide open – at the moment. Wide open, or slammed shut…I feel like I need an inbetween. It’s beginning to be there, slowly and gently.

It’s time for bed.

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Being afraid of your Bad Ass

Recently I’ve been feeling pretty fucking bad ass. Like so bad ass I’ve felt like I don’t need people, I don’t need shoes, I don’t need a house (this has proved tricky seeing as I’m house hunting at the moment), I don’t even need food – I just need ME. I’ve felt so full of bad-ass-ity that I’ve not known what to do with it. Sometimes I’ve stood on the rooftop and done my yoga feeling as powerful as the whole world. I’ve breathed out fire and felt strength within me that stuck me to the Earth’s core. I’ve felt elated with connection and compassion for myself and the world, combined with a total independence that’s felt free and fucking beautiful. But other times – and this has often seemed to be my favoured option – I’ve stuffed the bad ass right back down into my belly. So deep that I gave myself indigestion…I’m just fucking scared.

Being bad ass is exhausting. Being bad ass is seemingly isolating. Being bad ass means you don’t feel like you need anyone and, well, that’s just fucking scary. Especially as someone who has always needed people. But being bad ass is fucking cool. It’s where it’s at. It brings a freedom and a confidence that I haven’t ever found anywhere else. It makes you feel like you can do anything, and it makes you feel as though you can nail all the dreams you’ve got, had, and are currently discovering.

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At this time in my life, I think being and feeling bad ass is pretty blood important. And of course at any other time of any other life too, but right now it just feels like the kick up my fearful, traumatised, teary ass that I’ve been swimming with the last two years. As I step into my power, and as I am continuing to dive deeper into myself and discover avenues I have never been to before, this bad ass is a mighty useful tool. And I think it’s been brewing for a long time now. I believe we all have it there beneath whatever other ‘ass’ is at the forefront though…it’s just getting to know it, getting to love it, getting to know that being bad ass is safe, that you can be bad ass and still have friends.

And most of all, getting to know how you can get your bad ass to truly shine. Let’s hope I continue to do that, and quit giving myself indigestion.

 

Dating comfort, dumping fear

I used to always say I was a fearless child, and many used to tell me so, because in many ways I was – but more in the metaphorical or appearing-so sense. I used to hurl myself off cliffs and throw myself down hills on skateboards. I used to be the first up for anything, whether I’d done it before or not. I used to, and still generally do, talk to anyone whether I knew them or not. And I used to do things, responsibility and trauma wise, that meant I danced daily with intense and gut punching fear…just fear of a different kind. A whole different kettle of un-fun fish. But recently when I tell tales of my childhood – mainly the ones involving my obsession with crazy sports – I stop myself saying I was fearless, because I wasn’t. I remember quite clearly being fucking terrified – A LOT – of the fun things and the hideously traumatic things. I felt fear daily, I just had gotten to know it so well it was like a fond friend.

I either continued what I was doing because I was in love with whatever it was and fear was part of it (sports), or I carried on because if I didn’t, something terrible and life ending/changing would happen (trauma & childhood responsibility).

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I read this quote this morning and I realised that I was and am, and always will be, brave. There’s a difference. I’ve always been told I’m brave too – a word I’ve heard frequently in my adult life, as well as my childhood too. And now reading this I realise it’s true: I’m not fearless, I’m brave. Being brave is about being able to sit with the fear, look it in the eye, wrap it in your arms, offer it compassion and take it with you…let it whisper in your ear with what it’s trying to teach you, and filter out those bits and compost the rest…or simply punch it in the nuts and carry on regardless.

“And one has to understand that braveness is not the absence of fear but rather the strength to keep on going forward despite the fear.”~
Paulo Coelho

Now fear isn’t in my life so much, I often feel a little lost. I sometimes get an urge for it and drop myself in a scenario where it floods me from all angles (not hard these days) but quickly realise that shit isn’t fun anymore. It’s fucking hideous. Not anywhere in my body, is there a place that enjoys it. Except perhaps a part of my soul and the edge of my spirit. Gone are the days me and fear used to dance arm in arm, and me feel more at home with fear than with anyone else. Gone are the days when the rush of life threatening adrenaline was as good as it gets.

Fear and I broke up for good the day I overdosed, and my god am I glad we did. We’d been dancing around this, knowing it needed to happen. We’d been having ‘relationship chats’ or arguments (my adrenals were mainly in charge of the arguments) for a while before then…but I couldn’t imagine life without it. I’d been beginning to have an affair with comfort, and my gosh was that scary, but also incredibly nice. But I don’t do affairs – I do one or the other, so knew fear had to be dumped. I knew I needed to give comfort a chance.

One day I’m excited to know fear again as the long lost friend it is – diving off cliffs and whizzing down hills – but like any break up, you need to space to heal before you can become friends again. Right now, I’m in a relationship with Comfort and she’s a mighty fine companion to have. Fear has taken a backseat but I have no doubt will show up again…

But just as friends.

Creativity and fear – a romantic marriage or a messy bust-up?

I have this fear, the fear of just letting loose with my creativity. I read about and watch people – documentaries or real life artists who are just going for it and doing their thing. They are following their heart and not budging and embracing their skill, talent, and thing that makes them unique. I dream of doing this but I am so fucking scared.

I worry about money. I worry about failing. I worry that I am not cut out for that kind of gutsy way of doing things. I worry that I will just spend my life worrying. I worry that I won’t have any friends because I’ll be too wrapped up in my own creative world, trying to make ends meet. I worry that I won’t ever quite ‘make it’. I worry that I won’t have anything to say.  I worry that I’m not actually any good.

In a nutshell, I WORRY. And I’m scared. And I reckon that is pretty bloody natural, and any artist, writer, or human being, feels this way at times, or a lot, too. But I’m also torn because in my heart I just know I have the ability to either make friends with the fear and carry on regardless, or kick it in the nuts and carry on, or both. I know this is innately within me and has been all my life, fear and suppression by myself and others just has often gotten in the way. Not always though – not always, at all. It just feels like it now.

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I am filled with envy, jealousy, admiration and inspiration when I read or hear of stories of people who have just gone for their dream, sacrificed things, lived in a shed to make ends meet but all in the name of passion…and then they make it. Okay, I’m not jealous of the shed bit but I’m jealous that they can be in love with something that much and have made friends with the fear enough to do that, leaves me in admiration. I’m not saying that’s easy, at all. I’m just saying I reckon there has to be a certain level of fear friendship that goes on to enable individuals to just bury their head in their creative passion, and then enable them to come out the other side beaming.

Maybe the freedom and the freespirited-ness in my writing and my creativity and my confidence to get this shit out there, will come. I hope so. And I think I know so. I just wonder whether I’m able enough? Able enough to just GO FOR IT.

The fear could aid creativity and creative expression. It could be there as something that empowers me, kicks me up the ass to get up and GO and just SAY IT, whatever ‘it’ is. In the moments and days I don’t surrender to it, and carry on regardless, it could bring a fire and a inspiration to me because of this.

I don’t believe we can ever get rid of fear, and I definitely think it can serve us well. But it can also take a fucking hike at times too. Just the thought of attempting to become a writer fills me with dread. The initial thought fills me with excitement but then when I get to the nitty and gritty, I could almost vom at the thought of it all. The potential things that could go wrong, the risks, the potential for complete failure and wasting and all my other potential that would be put on the side to try and make this happen.

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But what about the excitement? The thought of being paid to WRITE. The thought of having my voice out there, in the world, being read and seen and heard. That’s the thing I think – I care too much. Well, not too much, but just a LOT. Caring is all gravy but I notice it overwhelms me and I buckle at the knees because I just want to give it my all. See, there’s a positivity behind the fear, it just comes out in twisted self-sabbotaging ways. The fecker.

I hope that the fear settles and I work out what it is hear to teach me. Or I hope that I just learn how to kick it in the nuts and let it inspire and motivate me, rather than demoralise and deflate me. There is, after all, a thousand ways we can live our dream and do the thing we love – being a writer doesn’t necessarily mean doing it full time. Maybe this brings too much fear and doesn’t hit the spot, anyway. Maybe I use my writing in a job or work for a organisation or a project where writing is the main role. Maybe I’ll learn to be free and learn to let go and learn to just not give as much of a shit.

And, maybe I don’t need to decide right now. I dream of being able to just throw myself at the thing I love, but maybe if I give myself credit and notice what I’m doing, I’m doing just that. I’m just doing it gently and I’m doing it without the living in a shed bit.

The unknown

Trauma is a bitch. The anxiety it causes following the trauma, leaves The Unknown as a bundle of fear and worry, rather than excitement and mystery. Today I have seen that no matter what place I am in, the unknown has become my worst enemy, whereas it used to provide me with that rush of adrenaline and a buzz of excitement for what might be. And the fact that generally I never have really had any idea of my plans at any future length, I always embraced and wrapped my arms around this mystery of life.

But in my last seven or eight months of living in a blinding haze of trauma memories and anxiety, the unknown has become my worst enemy, no matter how much I try to rationalise it or see it as exciting, or intriguing…or simply just not what I need to think of right now so quit the stressing, woman. And that’s what pisses me off.

I long to be able to relax and ease into the fact that I don’t know what’s gonna happen. I long to be able to be how I used to be and embrace the fact that I have no idea where I am headed in life. I long to be able to see how many skills, abilities and talents I have that will lead me far. I long to not look at what could go wrong. I long to not spend my days in fear of falling apart again. Of completely and utterly going mad, and falling of the wagon.

The more I learn about trauma and the more I learn about myself, I see that all these fears and inabilities of trusting the future and the unknown, are stemmed from a lifetime of evidence of things going tits up. Especially in the latter year. I overdosed. This is enough to leave you living in a constant, daily fear that any decision I make will lead me to that. And it is so so frustrating. I hate it and just long to be able to let go of this worry. But I do see that beneath this layer of fear is a lot of self love – to try and take your own life away is, in my opinion, the most destructive thing you can do to yourself. And I don’t want to do it again. Or more, I don’t want to be in the place of wanting to do it again and so I want to do every tiny little thing possible to not be. And to me this means I have a tonne of love for myself that I am not giving proper acknowledgement.

That day I saved my own life. I freaked out and called the ambulance. My fingertips could not stop calling. Every inch of me wanted to hang up and leave it be, but for some reason I just couldn’t. It was the weirdest thing I have ever experienced and will never forget it. It was like something within me was rising up and taking charge. Every time I went to hang up, I couldn’t. I just kept on talking to the emergency controller. I kept on telling her my location. I didn’t want to, I wanted to let it be. But I couldn’t.

So in an act of total self destruct, self hate and self loathing, came the most self loving thing you can do: save your own life. This feels so profound to have experienced, and the latter is the one that I forget. I focus on the fact that I overdosed. I focus on all the facts around that, and what led up to it. But I don’t focus enough on the fact that in my deepest darkest moment, I coped. But I not only coped, I shone through and saved my own life.

Today I realised that the reason I am living in such fear of the unknown and what might be, is because I have drawn up the conclusion that everything I did in the months leading up to the overdose was wrong. It leaves me analysing everything that I do now, and if what I am doing feels familiar to that time before the overdose, my stomach ties itself in a anxious knot and doesn’t let go until I stop what I’m doing or continue doing it but soften my mind with rationalising the fact that so much is different now. So much. Where I am now and what I am doing now is so different to where I was and what I was doing in the months leading up to the overdose. Sure, there is a lot that is the same, but that is bound to be because I am still me.

The thing that I want to really grasp a hold onto, is the fact that what if actually, all that I did leading up to it was okay? It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t right. It was what it was, and it was me doing my best. It is a long and complicated story behind what happened in the months before and what happened the days before I overdosed, but in a little nutshell: I was beginning to fall apart slowly. I developed PTSD and severe anxiety, and it was brewing slowly, and not so slowly, whilst living a winter in the beautiful Northern California. On a week in my home hub San Francisco, in between changing location, I spoke with my mother (the root cause of a fundamental proportion of the PTSD). The phone call was hideous and horrible and full of so much hate, which was completely normal but I had not spoken to her for the whole six months I had been out there and diving into therapy, for the first time in my life. So suddenly I found myself speaking with the root trigger, and to ice this trigger cake, she laid down such a traumatic phone call. And it tipped me over the edge. Hanging up, it was as though I enveloped a black cloud of severe depression and I simply checked out. It was too much for my already fragile being. That evening I almost overdosed. 48 hours later, I did. It was as simple, and as fucked up, as that. I had not spent the months before dreaming about it. I had not spent hours and hours planning my attempt. I just did it. And that is what, in many ways, was the most scary. One sunny Californian afternoon I went to the park, sat beneath a tree, wrote a note and swallowed 150 Tylenol. Thinking, that with every inch of my being I wanted no more. It felt tragic, it felt sad, but it felt the only option and the one that I just had to do – there was no way I could cope anymore.

But what I didn’t know was that it wasn’t every inch of me thinking, believing and wanting that. There was that extra strong inch that kicked in and pushed through and made the call. And at the time, and often in the moments that followed, I hated that inch. But I now love it, and am learning to love it and know that it is always there, no matter what. That inch of survival always seems to cling on and kick in, in the deepest and scariest moments.

So, what if actually, all the months leading up to the overdose are not something I need to look at and work out what I could have done differently? What if the overdose, as I have been told, was a blip along my path? Sure, I was on my way to my breakdown, and that breakdown happened (and sometimes still feels as though it is flippin’ happening). But what if this breakdown is a sign of pure health, and pure health to come? What if the overdose was just triggered by a traumatic call with my mother, not by the months leading up to it? It just happened to get wrapped up in a haze of events, and due to the intensity, the overdose is the thing that I cling onto as the thing that perhaps I could have avoided if I had just done things differently.

As I sit here and see that this really is true – that the overdose and the trauma that followed, was purely as a result of an overwhelming and mind numbingly painful conversation with my mother. Nothing else.

When I think like this, The Unknown feels exciting. It does not feel something I need to overanalyse and worry that my decisions and path will take me to where it did before. It feels true. It feels an inspiring mystery. And it feels like something I can begin to wrap my arms around again and know that it is going to be okay.

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Until now

Until now, I have been living with a deep ridden fear that every choice I make or every route I take, be it big or small, will lead me to life happening as it has done until now. It has only been this way the last six months.

What if maybe, this is just life?

What if maybe actually, those things that have happened to me might not happen again? It was just something that came along in my life’s path. It wasn’t something I created or made.

This doesn’t really make sense…but it does to me.

Six months ago I took an overdose and after ICU, ended up in a haunting traumatising psych ward. (The latter was not due to any state of mine, only due to the covering of medical profession’s back).

Since then I have been living each and every day, moment and millisecond in a mist of bone rattling anxiety, trying to make sure I live a life that doesn’t lead me to that happening again. It was a blip. A massive blip that happened. But what has come from it is huge. I can’t even begin to explain the transformation it began and in many ways, solely created. But I never want that to happen again. Ever. It was haunting, terrifying, traumatising, scarring and hideous. And many of those scars are now only just being seen.

But just the past few days I realised that this fear has been literally ruling every decision I make. The most recent being which therapist to go with and which route to go down. I don’t share this fear, because I don’t think I had quite realised how directly it was linked to the trauma of the overdose, and what followed. I’ve heard myself share my pain that it was me who made it happen, and that all of what I did before in my life, led to the overdose. Almost like a build up to this end finale. But as two therapist friends of mine have both said: No. I see that as a blip following a traumatic call with your mother (which, for the record, was what it was). It wasn’t that you were building up to that, or that all your choices before that had been ‘wrong’ and resulted in you doing that. You were desperate, you were scarred, you were scared, you were hurting so deep you could only see that way out. 

What’s weird is that only now am I maybe starting to believe that.

I realise now that perhaps this is the trust for me growing and building. Doing something like that – attempting to take your own life – must be the number one crusher of trust in yourself. For me it was. For me it took weeks, and months in fact, to really even trust that it was safe to be on my own. That I wouldn’t do that to myself. This shows me deep inside how little I wanted it, or want it, to happen. It was out of a dissociated desperate state that it did. And it wasn’t even, consciously, a cry for help. It was real. 100% real attempt. Not that others aren’t, but I believe there are different after effects of if an attempt is 100% real and if there are edges of awareness that it is a cry of desperation. I do believe though, that every attempt, whether you realise it yourself at the time, or not, is a cry for help – sometimes it just comes deep from within your spirit. And I think that’s the scary thing. Afterwards I saw how determined I was and how definite it was to work. There wasn’t even a question or a doubt, anywhere below.

So how could I not think that all of what I had done to lead up to this state, was wrong? Or my fault? Or, if I had only done things slightly differently, I would not have been hurting quite as much. Or would not have been in quite so much of a traumatised, dissociated state.

The thing is, I cannot think like that. It’s understandable that I might, and that I have, but what if actually, it was just a fluke hideous and tragic thing that happened?

I find it easier to let those worries go with the overdose but I think the element to it that I struggle the most to believe is what followed. I can’t share the words yet, but the hospital was haunting. Haunting beyond words. And every folk from San Francisco will know what I mean. I have seen the reaction on Californian faces when they hear that is what happened, and their face says it all.

This is what I struggle to not see that I made happen. What if I could just have done things differently? The overdose – sure, that was one thing…but this? This exposure to such terror and trauma, and proof of my deep rooted fear that I’m crazy or might end up crazy. This seed was watered and grown into a blooming tree within 24 hours in this place.

So how can I not sit here and think that I could have done things differently? But, as my therapist’s text message read to me in the ambulance over there: they are just covering their backs. Only she and I knew what this meant for me. What was about to follow once I stepped foot in that door. And even I was blown over sideways at what did follow.

I’ve gone off track, as I tend to. And am feeling a little spaced from the trauma of this post now, so will gently bring it to an end. But what I wanted to share from these words is the shift I’ve felt in the letting go of these fears, and a growing trust to go with the ebbs and flows. Meaning: that what happened above, won’t necessarily be a part of my life again. Just because it’s happened before doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.

I fear, deeply, beginning with a therapist in case I reach that state again. (My trauma was heightened and brought to the surface through therapy…which was kind of inevitable I think, but has left me really fearful of beginning again in case this unmanageable PTSD state occurs again. I began with a therapist 4 months before my overdose, and in my subconscious angst mind, I put the two and two together…but I realise this is not how it works. It’s just hard not to trust that sometimes.)

Does anyone else find that – that trauma creates such obscure and deluded logic in your mind? That you wind up linking events before, after, during the traumatic time, that leave you totally believing that something caused it to happen, that you caused it to happen, that if only you had not done this thing, or if only you had not done these million things, then it would not have happened, and so you must never do that thing again…??

As I go for a swim down the pool lanes, I just wanted to share a glimmer of hope. A little candle of maybe. Maybe I can slowly let go and begin to trust this funny path called Life. Maybe what happened before were simply boulders for me to climb and collect, to build the mountain of strength that’s mine. Maybe the choices I make now, even if they aren’t the best ones, will not lead to that happening because they aren’t right. Maybe I can afford to make some mistakes in this path of healing, and know that these mistakes won’t lead to that trauma happening again. Or even any other. What if I am free to choose, and free to trust, and free to STOP ANALYSING every single decision I make.

What if I can trust that I will take care of myself. That I will cope. That I have always coped, no matter how distant from coping I’ve felt. That I have grown. I have changed. I have begun healing. My PTSD is changing, and is different now. My way of dealing with it is so different now too. I was in the midst of new pain I did not know how to handle. What if life is ever different and moving and changing and growing, as am I. It would make life a hell of a lot easier, that’s what if.

I hope you can all hold some trust in letting go of these theories we create for ourselves, based on the trauma we have seen or been. Know that it was not your fault. Know that sometimes in life, things happen. Sometimes all the time. But it does stop. It does stop eventually, and when it does, please find moments in that space to see that no matter how many theories or conclusions you can draw up that prove that you did it, it was your fault, you failed, the choices you made led to that/it, hold a little flicker of faith that actually: it doesn’t work like that.

As buckwheatsrisk would say: there is hope.

Big love.

A late night skate

Tomorrow I have a second appointment with an EMDR therapist.

I feel sick. I feel angry. I feel scared. I feel like I’m going to die. I feel a spark of humour at that last statement. Because I know I’m not really going to die tomorrow, it just feels 100% like I’m going to.

I think the main feeling I’m feeling is fear. Fear that she is too much of a trigger. Fear that I will collapse and crumble like I did for the last week. Fear that I’m amping myself up to deal with it and it won’t be any good. Fear she’ll be really hopeless. Fear of disappointment and let down. Fear of this triggering a loss of hope and a spiral downwards, as it so easily has done before. I fear I’ll feel like I can’t see her anymore. I fear that she will spark too much aggression and hate, transferred from my ma to her. I fear this will make me lose control and I’ll be outrageously rude and pretentious and stroppy and hard work. She is like I’m staring at my mother and that freaks the crap out of me. Yet I have only met her once, how the hell do I feel such a tonne of emotions! I think that’s what scares me too. I’ve never had such speedy overwhelming intense feelings about someone. And it makes me really not like the woman! I don’t wanna to at all…but yet I do. I really do. I just really don’t like her. But in a sense, that’s quite helpful I would have thought because it means that I will drop aside worries of what she might think. But I do fear that I am not feeling like I want to be open and vulnerable with her. For me it has always been SO important that I like the person, and it still is. But perhaps for EMDR and these more technique based therapies, it can not be such a dominant feature of importance.

I feel so so alone in it. I feel tongue tied and tongue twisted that I can’t explain quite how the trigger of my ma effects me. But maybe this feeling is part of what needs to be felt because maybe it’s what I’ve felt for years with my ma but just never been allowed to feel it is safe. I remember always feeling like my words would never come out right because anything I ever did say was the wrong thing anyway. Maybe I’m just revisiting these old feelings, as sometimes you do when you’re on the brink of something in your transition.

Tonight I went for a skate to burn off the fear and adrenaline and anger that was racing around my bones. Man it felt good. I’m only slowly getting to trust that it’s okay to exercise again and get it out. Having chronic fatigue you learn that exercise does the opposite to you that it does to others – it makes you feel so much more tired and unwell, in particular the following day. But now, as my trauma has surfaced and is running riot, I’m learning that exercise can be my saviour – that trust will come as I love even more, that embodied feeling and empowerment of using my body with the beans that it should be used in.

In terms of tomorrow, I’m terrified. But with terror comes relief somewhere in there. And I won’t know until I try, so all these predictions of the future I’m trying to make are better off hopping on a jet plane out of here.

This will be okay, won’t it?

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Storytelling & Future Tripping

I just found this post I wrote last week but never uploaded. It’s a bit of a lengthy one. And not quite as relevant now as it was back then but I feel it needs to be put out there and shared, so here you are. 🙂

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As the autumn leaves fall and the winter winds sweep,
These days bring something from which I want to keep.

They bring strength, resilience, abilities.
Abilities to keep going no matter what.
Abilities to keep faith in the midst of everything feeling as though you shouldn’t.
Abilities that I see help you grow into the being you are supposed to be.
Because all will be okay, something perhaps I am only just seeing.

Times are changing, and I am too.
Sometimes I feel I’m not. Sometimes it feels just how it’s always been, but worse.
But others I see that this is just a phase.
I have these moments I can feel myself in ten years, looking back on this time now.
Looking back with compassion and laughter and tears at what I fought through and for. At what felt as though it had brought me to the floor, yet all it did was show me I could only do more.

I see me helping someone in the place. Mid twenties and crumbling.
I see me offering understanding and comforting words, that “this too shall pass”.

I don’t know how but there is a glimpse that this might happen. That this is not forever. That all my worst case scenarios of craziness and hospital might not actually happen.

Slowly…just slowly, my efforts and strength are coming together it seems. Just as I chose with my meds, I decided they were the right ones. I decided I would cope with the side effects they might bring. I decided I would make it work. That these were right. I stuck to the tiniest of doses, determined not to take more. Determined not to try another one, as I had dabbled with so many yet they all brought turmoil. This one did too, but something was different. There was an edge to it, be it a change in me or a change in my physiology, but there was an edge that left room for error. Before this I could not, and would not, cope with that. The only edges I had were those supporting survival.

As a friend said, this is a sign of health.

The same has come for therapies. I’ve been round and round through thick and thin trying to make something work but always being left lost and longing for more. More wisdom. More opportunity. More class. More grace. More manners. Less of a motherly face.

And yet this week, I’ve decided. I’ve decided to try a lady out. For many reasons, which I won’t go into just yet, I’m not entirely comfortable with it. In fact, I’m terrified.

But I feel like I’m determined. Determined to make it work. I know that with anyone I’ve met with an attempt to work with them in a therapeutic relationship, there’s always been something. And there will always be something. And this is just the nature of these kind of things. And any other relationship in life at that matter.

I’m scared.

I’m scared of where my life is going. I’m scared that I’m not going to get through this. I’m constantly scared that I’m going mad. For those of you that saw the last doodle I uploaded here, that is pretty much a constant fear dialogue of mine!

But who knows. Who knows what’ll happen. And that’s just the thing.

I’m terrified of how spaced out I feel at the moment. And then I have to remind myself that I’m still very much recovering from a gigantic tooth and HEAD infection, still taking the hefty antibiotics, had cranial sacral yesterday, and have just finished my period. This to anyone would make you feel weird and spaced.

Why does it always leave me feeling like I’m falling off the wagon? What if I’m just going through a big transition of feelings and emotions and states rising to the surface, to be healed and seen. And then head on their way. What if, for my entire life I’ve held everything in and down and stuffed away because it was never safe to let it be seen. What if now is my time to let this all be shown. What if, letting it be seen now is no fact for the future. It’s just a fact for now. And these feelings? They’re not fact. They’re just feelings.

I’m scared of the PTSD too. And I have been for a while. I’m scared to sit myself beneath that title, for what it might bring. But, provided I keep a connection to myself and everything else, letting this title be part of me, surely must only help things?

This fear is heightened, and potentially caused by, storytelling and judging of myself. These judgements and storytelling goes a little something like this: how long I’ll have it for; that I’ll have it forever; that it’s only going to be getting worse; how I am destined to be a mess forever or at least a very long time; that I’m not going to fulfil my potential; that I’ve failed for letting myself get to this point; that I’ve failed for not being able to overcome the trauma myself; that I’ve failed for not being more balanced and losing my ability to always be so rational; that I’ve failed for crumbling; that I’ve failed for struggling with money; that I’ve failed because I’m living with a random lady, not friends or family; that I’ve failed because I don’t have family to turn to; that I’ve failed because I could no longer hold onto the capable, coping, girl I was…etc etc.

It makes me feel sick when I sit and think of this. Sometimes it turns into panic, but generally it’s just a constant level of worry and angst, floating about. And I hate it.

And I trust that right now, the only thing I can do is keep going.

Keep going because I just don’t know what might happen. It all might start improving, it all might get worse. Or it might do a bit of both. Who knows. As I type, just the fact that I don’t know makes me feel sick with worry: just the fact that I don’t know exactly what is going to happen in my life freaks me out. And yet, isn’t this quite funny? This is definitely a time to laugh. I freak out on such a regular basis because i can’t predict things…?! Beneath this appearance of a control freak, is actually a real care to myself. A care that I want to know what is going to happen, so I can change what I do, say, am, and am becoming, so that I don’t become a mess. This is all what it boils down to:

I am so scared of not knowing where my life is going or how it’s going to turn out, in case I turn out a failure and a mess, and miss the chance to take a different route or do things slightly differently, to stop me becoming my mum or my dad, to stop me becoming crazy (like them, and like I feel so often at times right now – in the midst of anxiety & it all), or to stop me ending up wasting my life and wasting the potential and skills I have, to stop me collapsing beneath the weight and pressure and trauma of what’s been before…and on the list goes.

Basically, I would do everything I could to stop me winding up in any of those above scenarios. But that’s where I need to stop and trust that all that determination and persistence and will, is playing itself out without me having to consciously try at all. I am trying my best, at times I feel totally lost and confused and helpless and ready to completely give up. But something just keeps going – it always does. All I want to do is to trust that that part of me will never fade and never leave. And that is something I just hope, and I think I know somewhere inside, that only time will tell. Trust, in my eyes, can only grow with proof and evidence. So in a few years time, when I’m still here, I’m still me, I’m still okay, I’m living a life I am wanting to live, I am using my potential in whichever ways come, I am not crazy, I am loved, then will I trust that that fighting spirit and inner strength never dies. Until then I hope and I hold onto that inner bit of me that I think knows.

I hope you all can hold onto that inner trust and knowing too. Because, no matter how far away or deep within it or completely out of sight it can feel, it is there. I promise.

Love.

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