The melody of home.

“When the uniqueness of a place sings to us like a melody, then we will know, at last, what it means to be at home.”

~ Paul Gruchow


I feel so grateful for my home, right now.


Grief, noticing, and hope

I’ve been feeling the grief I mentioned in the last post I wrote, so deeply lately. And it feels very much to do with not telling my mum how I’m doing, what I’m doing, all that I’m achieving, all that I’m healing. It feels a grief so painful that I usually end up lost and unable to sit with it. I end up scared and feeling too vulnerable. I need someone there to guide me through it. To help me grieve.

I just want to reach out to someone, to a mum, and tell them how I’m doing. The funny thing is, I don’t actually want to do it with my mum. I want to do it with a mum. It feels like a pain in my chest that hurts every time I realise I don’t do this. It’s there because I want to do it with my mum, but I think the grief has come – and is something I am able to hold – because part of me is realising I’m not going to be. This distance is essential and I think the more I realise that, the more the grief can come. And the more I realise how much this distance is bringing me – the way it’s enabling me to shape my identity and ultimately, to heal – I think the grief can come for this reason too.

I feel lost and abandoned, and hurting and open.

I feel full of grief but I feel full of love. I feel lost but I feel like I’m continually coming home, to the person I was always meant to – and going to – be.

I do feel a despite ache for things to be different. With my mum and my dad. With my

Witting about it feels safe. Thinking about it feels safe, because now I don’t over-think. I drop into the feeling and where it is lying in my body. I allow the grief to have a voice, and move. I think this is why it feels safe. I don’t get flashbacks because I am with the feeling, with my body, rather than with my mind. My mind is where the graphics, the images, are stored. My body is where the gold lies. Where the memories are stored in the place they can release from.

The place that love belongs, and the place that love and compassion can be found.

This has broken open a door in my healing process, I’m sure of it. Just what I’ve noticed in the last month, is something to go on. And so I hope that continues. I’m pretty sure it will, because I remember my therapist once telling me that mindfulness – mindfully feeling feelings – is like riding a horse (or a bike, i can’t remember which). Once you get the hang of it, you wondered how you ever lived without it or how you ever couldn’t do it before.

Mindfulness as a practise – meditation – has defo come in waves and ebbs and flows. But the practise of being mindful is different. That’s just been growing and growing the last year or so. And this way of feeling feelings in my body has been the theme of therapy for the last two years, but something that I’ve found hard to coin for myself out of therapy.

But it’s coming. Defo coming. In fact, I think it’s actually come. It’s here. It’s happening. I’m doing it, and I’m succeeding with it.

That’s pretty rad.

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The thing about this grief that’s here, is that I feel able to share it with others. I feel able to feel it when I’m with others and not always say something about it. Or I just need to say ‘I feel sad’ or ‘I feel alone’ or ‘I’m feeling a lot grief at the moment’, and that is often enough. I really notice my communication has become a lot clearer and from the heart.

I don’t need as many words as I had to, to say what I need to say, or to feel connected and supported. That’s beautiful and so so healing due to how lonely I have been feeling lately. That loneliness can be soothed with just one heartfelt connection rather than a few connections in which I’ve tried and tried to speak from a place I can be heard, but never ending my feeling really heard and seen, and ending up feeling more pain and more loneliness and isolation.

The trick is I also notice who I pick to connect with, to talk to, to open my heart to. This has been coming for a while, and still is growing – my ability to notice and nourish myself with people that notice and nourish me. And picking the people to talk to about whatever topic – knowing my crew, knowing my resource, and sticking with the guidelines, the boundaries, of each friendship. That used to always piss the stubborn part of me off, because I want someone to be there for the whole of me, and so I would step over these boundaries and into the limitless love area…but would rarely feel met and would generally feel raw and open for hours afterwards. And lost, too.

I think it’s the art of noticing. That’s the puppy in healing, it seems. Noticing, not attaching. Noticing, not describing. Noticing, not telling. Noticing not rejecting. Noticing, not missing. And noticing it all – the bits that piss me off, the bits that make me rage inside that are part of me or feelings I’m feeling, the parts of me that I just fucking wish weren’t there sometimes. The parts of me that hold so much pain it’s seemingly uncontrollable.

The parts of me that pretend to not need me, but so do.

It’s noticing it all with an open heart and a compassionate warmth towards myself and the world around me.

Noticing. Noticing. Noticing.

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Healing is…

Trusting that these are just chapters of my book, versus of my life song. And without these chapters and versus, the book and the song, wouldn’t make sense. It would be incomplete. There would be nuggets missing. I wouldn’t be whole.

Just how I’ve needed all the chapters before me, no matter how painful and confusing and how much part of me longs that they had been different, my story and my song, needed them.

I needed them to make me, not break me. That’s what they were here to do.

That’s freakin’ beautiful.

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The power of touch

I just read this article on Elephant Journal about the healing power of touch in yoga, and it resonated so much. I noticed, for a while, my yoga teacher was the only person that I would let touch me…except for hugs with friends. But even those were done with a shut-down-ness going on inside. In yoga, I felt able to be open and be held and be nurtured…there was a slight resistance but never enough to make me shut down completely and pull away. And it felt more physical – like a physical, defence, reaction, but not one I needed anymore. And almost all of me, was able to know that.

Still a part of me feared it, but I think a large part of this fear was the fear of vulnerability, the fear of falling apart, the fear of her then stopping and leaving and moving to someone else’s mat…I think I knew I was safe. To be honest, even when I felt slightly defensive, I still couldn’t get enough of it! I never felt like she came over to my mat enough. I often found myself asking questions and asking her to demonstrate or help me with something, even though I kinda could freestyle and find my way…I just wanted her support and her nurturance. I may as well have it if it is there, I always thought, rather than battle on how I used to.

It felt beautiful to read this piece to realise that is what was happening – I was healing. I really miss yoga and I really miss those classes but because of my back, I haven’t been since the summer. Fuck. But also, what’s weird – and I think incredibly normal – is I kinda feel like my journey with that class is on a temporary break. I need something new. I need a new place to take my body and stretch and explore my soul, and reach my toes.


Something I notice, on the subject of healing and touch, is how it is so important for me to regain trust with myself…to regain, and find, the trust for human touch through my own. I give myself cuddles. I explore my body. I hold my body. I stroke my arms, my legs. I offer myself gentleness and love, boundaries and strength. I offer myself the whole package. And I don’t hold back, and I listen to the ‘no’ that comes from inside sometimes. I sit with my inner girl and I tell her she is safe, as I hold myself tight.

As someone who has continued the abuse I received as a child, so strongly and so destructively in my adulthood, this feels so fucking healing. It feels like it just makes sense. In order to trust others, I need to be able to trust myself. In order to trust that people are safe, I need to know that I am going to protect myself and keep myself safe before I allow anyone else to touch me.

For ages I have felt such a massive resistance to body therapists. There have been a couple that I have worked with the last year and a half, who I have known before everything, too. They felt safe, but even with them, there was a deep sense of unsafety. I went from never hugging, never wanting anyone to touch me, as a kid and young adult, to a few years of a stint of total affection and hugging and loving it, to then shut down the last couple of years…but, to me, it kinda makes sense. This would happen as you’re healing, right? Wounds flare up and sit on your face until it’s time for them to soften, or until they simply just fade. That’s what I feel like has happened with the subject of touch. I long for it, I crave it, I desperately need it, but it also feels desperately unsafe. And so I honour that. Whereas before I would have powered on through, I listen to my body and my defences and what my little girl is saying, now. Before I didn’t know how…I didn’t know it was safe.

It feels like the utmost gift of self love, the action of holding myself. To love myself through physical contact, not just through actions or words, but through one of the most fundamental ways of showing affection – touchThese feel like beautiful, solid, and wholesome foundations on which to build a relationship based on trust, with others on again. And it’s happening…it’s definitely happening. Cuddles are coming back in fashion, slowly.


It wasn’t for me.

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Right now, I’m writing a piece about my overdose with the hope to get it published and seen. As I write it, I’ve been swinging between concise, conscious writing, and just allowing myself to free-write all over the page, because I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s a bit fucking annoying, but I also feel like it’s part of the process. Talking with a friend last night she said to just let it happen – let the words spill out if they need to. This Is Writing. I realise that hours and hours can so often go into writing just one thing, but I just want it to be concise and easier! I just want to have my words all neatly packed in paragraphs so I don’t have to fucking sort through them afterwards to edit and filter what I want.

But I think I realise this isn’t me, nor will it ever be me. I’m not entirely sure why I thought it would be any different this time round. When I think back to uni, and any other piece I’ve written, I’ve exploded thousands of words onto the page and only used half of them, or less. Part of me does neat and tidy, concise and ‘together’, but the other parts of me Do. Not. And that’s creativity.

Anyway, as I was writing just a moment ago, I was in a phase of spilling the words out onto the screen – them hitting the blank page before I realise what they say – and I found myself writing this:

“It’s a place that I think I needed to visit to know it wasn’t for me. I think it’s a place I needed to visit to know it wasn’t for me.”

I had to write it twice because it blew my mind. I was referring to my overdose, and I was referring to that time in my life. I spend so much in time in total fear and terror that it’s going to happen again. Not because I want it, but because it’s trauma. And trauma can make you feel deluded to the truth, and make you feel terrified that it’s going to happen again. It’s not a case of rationality or reason, it’s a case of terror and a lack of sense of freedom. So when I wrote that just now, it almost made me cry. Instead I found myself sat with a gaping mouth at the screen… maybe this is really true. Maybe it won’t happen again, maybe it was somewhere I needed to go to know that it wasn’t me.

To know that time in my life was perhaps a place I needed to go to find the deepest, darkest medicine that I could ever get. To know suicide is not for me. To know that following the path of my mother wasn’t, and isn’t, for me either. To know that I am who I am today because of what happened, and everything else too. To know that my fear of it happening again, is just a fear. It really was just a stage, a time, a chapter, a nugget of sea salt in this entire ocean of my life blows me away. But I think  I really knew that. I think I always have. I think I’ve always known that I won’t go back there again, but  the fear of really giving myself that feels greater than living with the fear and the hypervigilance that it might…because that’s known ground – the confidence is wayyyyy foreign territory.

As I heal though, and as I type this, I find myself frowning at the screen…do I really feel that? I really do… and that shows me I’m healing because these norms and these levels of thinking or ways I’ve believed I need to live in, aren’t truth anymore. I’m discovering newer and healthier ways of being that are relevant and are real. Like living with trust – for myself and for my life, and for the universe around me.

That’s nice. I’m off to eat some food and – temporarily – drag me out of this writing stuper I’m in. It’s not a bad one, but sometimes I feel like I realise things that literally blow my mind out of my room and into next door’s garden…I think that just happened with what I wrote about, so I best go find it and celebrate.



Creative explosions

When a thousand words feel at my fingertips,

No word alone can do the job.

No stencil or outline,

Etched onto the page

Can summarise this swell of emotion

Charging through…


Moments come and go,

Like ripples in the tide.

Feelings visit this way too –

Intense but short lived,

Powerful but with no forever weight.

I dream of art, of poetry, of speech –

Of having a giant release.

I dream of it feeling manageable

These surges of me.


There’s this surge of STUFF that surfaces the minute I dive into myself and try to release, even if it is what I am craving. I sit down to write and a few sentences in it’s like the world has opened up within me, energy is charging round me. My legs start tingling, my heart starts thumping, my mind starts racing. It pisses me off. It makes me agitated and angry because I started off with just one thing I wanted to write about, or I start off with a real somatic feeling of needing a creative release. I love it. It feels warm and healthy, but within moments it’s charging round my system like a squirrel on crack, or a trail of fire.

Maybe it’s trauma? Maybe it’s as I start to open up to my feelings, where they come from – the stuck trauma in my body – starts waking up and yelling in my face. Yelling in my body. This is why people take drugs – legal drugs. This is why people soften things, to be able to release them. I feel as though it happens especially when I haven’t done any writing or releasing for a while, and then I start…it’s like it’s been building up, reading to storm. And then when I put a pen to paper or a fingertip to keyboard, it all comes flyin’ and sticks around for days.

I notice I have a pattern. It’s like a pattern of shut down and then a pattern of explosion…a pattern of shut-off-from-my-feelings. A break, but also a disconnecting disembodied and disempowered, kinda depressed, place to be. But, a restful place. What follows is everything opposite. It’s an explosive surfacing of EVERYTHING. And it’s so energetic, so somatic. As though the world within me raises to the floor – to my brain, to the outside of my body – and takes me with it. To the floor. Or maybe to the ceiling. Sometimes my mind is running so freakin’ fast I don’t know where it’s gone. My body is racing the opposite direction, but just as fast. Then they collide and leave me gasping for a breath, frustrated and pissed. And completely daunted by attempting any creative release now. It feels worthless. Oh how I swung. Every. Time.

I just want to SIT DOWN AND WRITE, dammit. I just want a gentle somatic and emotional release. Or maybe not even not gentle, because nothing ever really is in this way, but at least not SO explosive. At least not so fucking flooring and exhausting. I want to start a sentence and finish the piece on the same train of thought I began, not one a million miles away. Anxiety and depression, exhaustion and triggered, are patterns that are completely normal for people from hard childhoods or with ptsd. It’s what ptsd is – anxiety and depression rollercoaster. And I think I have that creatively too. I have the ‘suppressed’ stage and then the ‘explosive’ stage, and then it begins again. I want a motherfucking releasing, comforting, empowering, healing, stage somewhere in there too PLEASE.

Oh creative release, you’re amazing. But you’re also a fucker when you trigger such overwhelm. And ptsd? Don’t even get me started on you.

A Twisted Entitlement

I used to pick flowers, a lot. It used to be one of my favourite past times. Friends would often get me rocking up with a wild bunch of flowers when I would go round for tea, or they’d open their door to find a wild bunch on their doorstep if they weren’t home when I popped round. It was my way of appreciating them – the flowers – and my way of showing love to my friends. But now I realise that appreciation doesn’t have to be in a way of destroying, it can be in a way of witnessing and letting be. And showing love can be in so many other ways too – it doesn’t have to be by giving things.


Any kind of flower is one of my favourite things ever and I thought by picking them I was enjoying them and appreciating them. But now I see, as of the last twelve months, it is completely the opposite. Apart from a bunch of buttercups and petals or flowers I have found fallen on the floor, I haven’t picked a flower the whole time. I have occasionally bought a few bunches of daff’s when the spring came, which I fucking loved and appreciated for every day of their life on my mantlepiece and was glad & grateful that I did.

Tonight walking down the road with a friend, she stopped to pick a flower to put in her hair. I had to keep walking. I said something but stuttered a bit, knowing that I needed say something but wasn’t quite sure what. My anger rose and I felt blinded. I was left speechless because I am also aware that my reaction is perhaps not like a normal one. And I know my sensitivities are so very sensitive right now, but fuck it made me mad. I didn’t quite realise until afterwards…until I started walking home and sat with it on my own. One day soon I hope to articulate things like this better. I hope to actually, on the spot, say just what got my beef. To say that it makes me angry when people just think they can pick a flower. That just because it is beautiful, they can have it. And just because it will die soon, they should pick it to be able to enjoy it. That just because there are so many of them, it means we can have them too.


I got home to a flower that had been picked and left on the bathroom windowsill, beautifully laid out. It broke my heart. On my period, I seem to gather an even more maternal edge and feel protective of the world, and myself, in so much more of a greater way. I gathered up the flower petals and stuck them in my journal, above. I appreciated their beauty and will press them and have them there as I read over my writings. But I still felt really sad.

This is something I want to work with in EMDR, and therapy in general. It’s the universal grief. Earth Grief. It’s the anger that rises, not about the one flower my friend picked, but about what we are doing to the world. About the millions of other flowers, metaphorical and real. The entitlement and the fucked up sense of rights that us, as a human race, seem to hold. I want to not shut down or click into a fury so blinding or a grief so motherfucking painful I just go home instead of out dancing, like I did tonight…I want to be able to have this pain here and still continue to appreciate too. I know this comes. I know this is healing – being able to have these feelings and them not floor you or isolate you or leave you stuttering and lost for words. I’ve heard this from my therapist on numerous occasions, sharing from her experience and others too.


Tonight I saw how much I have changed. I saw how much my consciousness has changed. I realise this is therapy…this is one of the side effects. The side effects that the whole world needs. I used to pick flowers because they were beautiful, I used to do just what my friend did tonight – the thing that made me mad and sad – thinking that I was doing something beautiful too. But now I do the complete opposite, and I know this is the kindest and the most beautiful thing. I look back on myself with compassion and with a newfound love for this part of me that’s grown. This connection to the earth and the respect for the living things. I can love something and not have it. I can appreciate it and let it do its thing. I can have my experience and it have theirs, be it a snail or a flower or another human bean.

We don’t have the right to just take because something is beautiful. We don’t have the right to destroy just because we need. We don’t have the right to abuse because it’s easier…because we can’t be bothered to develop and find a solution or another option, benefitting all rather than just ourselves. We just don’t have the motherfucking right, and I am not really sure why we ever thought we did. Nest in the flowers. Sit amongst them and appreciate them. Photograph them and stick the photo on your wall, saying a thank you to clever Mother Nature for growing such spectacular things.

Pick your spots, leave the flowers.

Cafuffled Dates

My attribute that I am most glad of at the moment, is my sense of humour. My ability to laugh at myself and at life is something I have realised is such a big resource – one that I used to overlook. This year, however, I have begun to discover how this is such a tool, and one that I am proud of, and so grateful for. Provided the laughter is in a heart-warming, compassionate and light way, rather than a bypassing abusive kinda way, this is when it’s health in a nutshell (in my opinion). 

Today is a classic example of a) how my life can be, and b) how my humour is a gift. I’ve been anticipating the year mark since the overdose happened for a while now. I just can’t help it. It was a mega big deal. It changed my life. Not only is the rational remembering, but there is also the physical remembering – the surfacing of memories, the physical symptoms that is trauma simply coming up to say hello, and then head on its way.

I thought the year mark was next week. I have next week increasingly filling with nice things – friends, theatre trips, and other stuff coming my way – but now, it turns out, the year mark is on Friday…this Friday!! As in, in two days. This is hilarious. It is like planning your 30th birthday party for one week, and then suddenly discovering your 30th birthday is actually the week before. Okay, I know I hardly turned 30 that day, but I was reborn. The me I am now, was born then. So in that sense, maybe I should throw myself a 1st Birthday Party. Except I want more than one candle on my cake. You’re all invited. Who’s in?

I had been aware of memories surfacing and feeling increasingly in need of company, love and just more company the last few days. I figured it was to do with my period that needed to hit me anytime soon. But there was something about my thoughts – the memories that were surfacing felt different to normal. It sometimes feels hard when memories of the overdose surface, to not worry and wonder whether it is suicidality back again….Instead, it is as though it is the trauma releasing. And because part of the trauma is stored in my mind, it can get a touch confusing and close for comfort as these thoughts surface to release. But there is a big big difference between remembering the details of a time that I wanted it all to end, and actually wanting it too. Trust me, it is so not the latter. It just gets a little weird and close. Beneath it all, I always know I am there, on solid ground, with a healthy distance from the memories/thoughts. Watching them like a passing, and sometimes stormy, cloud.

The way I discovered the day was actually this week, was because my therapist (from America) emailed me to arrange a time to speak this week, as she does. She then said that she knows it’s a special week this week, so if I would prefer not to speak because of plans or company, then that’s okay. I emailed back informing her that it was in fact next week, the special week. She emailed back apologising, saying her notes said it was the 19th and 20th.

And then it clicked. I looked over my way of working it out – all I knew was that it happened on a Thursday last year, around the third week in April, so I figured it would be Wednesday this year, and next week – and realised I had been completely blonde. First off, it would be Friday this year, not Wednesday, and it is this week, not next.

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So here I am in my ‘special week’ and I didn’t even realise! But I think subconsciously I did. It’s funny. Incredibly funny really, because I have been spending so much time in the midst of angst and worry and fear of next week, and now it is here with me already. And, I have all these lovely things planned, but the time is actually now! I watched and am watching how anxiety is there, because of this. And heartbreak too. For today is the day that I almost did it. And this is what is weird – this is why I feel like subconsciously I knew the week was this week – because I felt like I wanted to sleep at someone’s house tonight. I wanted company, but I didn’t know why. And now I do. This time last year I sat in the dunes and almost overdosed. I then spent the rest of the night in agony and turmoil, but with a deep knowing that it was about it happen. It was one of the weirdest nights of my life.

But instead, I will go home and I will have a bath and eat some tasty food. I have asked a friend if I can sleep at hers, but she doesn’t get home til late so it might not happen. And plus she thinks I’ll be fine so I think she didn’t really feel a need. I know I will be fine, but it is simply just the company I need. And I think this is a normal kinda thing to want at times like this. Love, after all, is all we need, yo.

And y’know what else is funny, I was on my period when I overdosed. And so that is a hella lot of anxiety that I get every month when that fella comes! Although it has definitely softened as the months have gone on, since it happened. But this month I worked out on my calendar that it would fall around the time of the ‘year mark’…this made me laugh. Thanks woman bits. But then it started today, and I thought it was weird. But then I thought, hey, maybe this is the universe helping me out. One less thing to feel is the same as it was last year, during this time of this year! And now it turns out that it is here at the same time anyway!

One thing anxiety and trauma do together, is leave you reading into every little synchronicity or every little thing that is the same as it was last year, or whenever the trauma happened. There is a deep deep knowing and super strong belief that all will be well – I KNOW it is not going to happen again. But that is the rational. That is the sensible grounded me. Then there is the nutty anxiety me. She’s the one that reads into things and comes up with all these angst ridden conclusions. She’s the one that needs a whisky.

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I panicked as I don’t have anything special planned for the coming few days. But then I realised I do. I have a dear friend from Aus visiting tomorrow. But what about Friday? What should I do? I want to do something special to honour the time, and be with someone who I love and feel relaxed with, and who I know will simply ‘get it’. I knew who right away. My friend maisie who lives by the sea, and who has been trying to get me to visit for the past few weeks. I’ll go and visit her. So, I text her and it’s on. My 1st Birthday Party will be happening by the hills and the ocean – couldn’t be more perfect.

And y’know what else, it feels significant too because I have been nervous about leaving the city and kipping somewhere else for a night. So this is the bridging of that fear too. A taste of even more freedom. The freedom that I have been increasingly feeling this last month.

I feel like I’m a combination of things right now. I feel a desperate need for love and people. And then I feel an overwhelming sense of confidence in my own self and my ability to just be there for me. I feel a deep anxiety around this time, for what could happen and what did happen. And then there’s the pain and the sorrow…oh, the sorrow and grief for myself back then. But then there’s the pride I’m glowing for myself. I’m scared, but there’s this bizarre trust that seems to be here more and more recently – the trust that whatever happens, I’m going to be okay. I don’t know if this is me deluded, or whether it’s the truth, but in a way I guess it  doesn’t really matter. What matters is, it’s here. And then there’s the humour – that’s there too. I keep finding myself laughing at how this has all come about – something that was so huge and had so much anticipation around is just here. Quietly here. This brings a secret relief, weirdly, too.


Happy birthday to me.

Early birds

I wake up early. It’s just how I roll. Whether I hit the pillow at 10pm or midnight or 2am, a 6am rise tends to always be what’s in store. Sometimes, sometimes, I sleep until 8 or 9am. When I do, I wake up grinning like I’ve just won the Lotto.

I always, not one exception, have the urge to go outside. Straight away. Most of the time I just open my big windows wide and let that be enough, stuffing down the desperate need for nature and proper fresh air. I always have the running dialogue of ‘you shouldn’t do that, you’ve just woken up’. Because I don’t see other people waking up and diving straight out their front door in their baggy pants and wooly hat at 6.30am, I think it’s weird if I do. This is one of the most annoying habits of mine – stopping myself doing stuff because I don’t see other people doing it – but it is beginning to gently break. And that’s such a relief.

This last week has been undescribably bitching and I have felt the importance of bringing myself back to the Now…constantly. And connecting to nature around me is the way I do this the most. It eases, inspires, nurtures, reassures and grounds. Or, when things are proper tits up, it at least just holds me. All the other things come with time.

So, one morning last week I listened to that urge to go outside, and went for a potter with my camera at 7am before the city had properly woken. The aim was to remind myself where I am, that it is 2013, that I am okay, that I am going to be okay. And it worked. I realised how, despite how much I soak up the beauty of my surroundings every time I go outside, I don’t realise how in the city you truly can connect with nature amongst the concrete. That morning stroll showed me nuggets of beauty that I hadn’t seen. I sat by a stream that I have always just walked past, wishing for the river or the sea. But that morning I sat by it for twenty minutes and realised that, despite it not being perfect – I couldn’t swim in it – it was still there. One of my most ultimate sources for resource – water. And now I have found some just down the road. Sure, I will always have a painful wish that it’s more, but at least there is some.

I am terrified of Spring. Because with spring comes the year mark of my overdose. And what follows spring comes the Summer – when the most trauma would happen with my mom. So, I go against the grain of the British world who are wishing the winter away – I have just been longing for it to stay. Because also, in the winter, it is easier to hibernate and feel like shit, because the rest of the world tends to be slightly dozey too. But come the summer I just have that painful longing for health. My chronic fatigue feels like a constant punch in the face, gut and heart. Every. Summer’s. Day. And now I’m living in a city, I fear this even more too.It’s a fear I can’t describe. It’s like a panic that runs through my bones – as soon as the sun comes out, I have to be in it, outside and in some form of water, or on some blustery hill with no block of concrete to be seen.  The summer to me, means every waking minute outdoors.

This morning stroll gave me a blast of faith to all those fears I write above. It may not be perfect where I live, but there are many things about it that I need right now. And every day, most of my waking hours, nature is incorporated into it. So, despite it not being wild and free, it is still nurturing a big chunk of me. Compromise is one of my words of the moment,  and I feel it quite fitting for this nugget of life too. As for the fear of the month it is, and the summer on its way, this is the year I am healing and releasing the trauma, so this is the only thing that seems to soften this fear of what is t come. Only just. I am still terrified, but it is so deeply stored in my body that all I can do is just notice it and gently prove it otherwise. And I know this is what works. That is all my body has known, but my soul knows otherwise.

Maybe Spring isn’t, and won’t be, so bad after all.

These are just a few of the treats I found. The chubby little guy in the first pic sits directly opposite my window every morn, greeting me with a ‘cuckoo’ whatever the hour, whatever the day. It’s lovely. I’ve named him Dave.