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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Gently breathing love,

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Lately, I’ve been finding mindfulness really difficult. I still do it but I end up swamped and in my own thoughts, memories or feelings or impulses flooding my system. But I kinda roll with it. Sometimes I enjoy it – that bursting with indication, grief, pain, joy, beauty…but sometimes it frustrates me because I never come out of the process of breathing and being mindful, feeling that peaceful. I feel knackered. Or like a wound is right there, raw and open – even more than before. That’s the thing that keeps happening the most…I kinda dread just being with my own thoughts and feelings, and mind and body, yet I crave it too. And at the moment I’m getting a lot of it.

I think I feel so swamped with ‘stuff’…my stuff. This isn’t new, and I think it feels accompanied by exhaustion and MIND fatigue…in other words, brain fog. That must be it. I kinda can’t ‘come to’ unless for short bursts. Doing something in nature or really connecting or really outside myself and requiring a lot of concentration, then I quickly ‘wake up’ and drift from my innards and feel present, in daily life. It sorta feels like my brains just really knackered and it’s on Sleep. Maybe it sorta is…maybe it’s its way of coping. Our bodies, after all, are the queens and kings of knowing what they need. I just sometimes (I used to all-the-time) wish for different. Instead, I kinda long for it. Wishing hasn’t ever solved anything and once I realised that I stopped doing it so much…but there’s something beneath the wishing that probably needs to be felt. And I think it’s a longing. Like, a longing for it to be different – a longing for my mind and body to feel fighting fit. I’m allowing myself to feel the longing for other things in my life, but I hadn’t realised that I’m not really feeling it for my body. God that thing deserves my longing to be felt…I deserve to feel these feelings.

I used to think feeling feelings meant you BELIEVED the feelings and felt them entirely, and maybe that by feeling the feelings you are writing Fact…writing history. Like, by feeling angry, I AM angry. By feeling sad, I AM sad. But what if I’m just feeling angry or feeling sad, and they’re a feeling and they’re here to pass through on their way somewhere else? They’re not writing history, unless my history is a history of what I’ve been feeling…the. holy fuck, my history of just today has been long!

So back to mindfulness. In a way, this makes sense. What I’m trying to do is learn how to feel the feelings I’m feeling beneath the story my mind is telling. Beneath the ‘stuff’ is a story of feelings – a story that only needs to, and can be, told through the process of noticing…noticing qualities, noticing how the feeling feels in my body. It’s such a different experience when I do that. My daily experience and my momentary experience is completely different. I feel more AWAKE. My eyes feel open and my brain feels cleared.

When I open up my chest and my throat and breath real deep, and breathe in love to myself – strongly and gently and commitedly – I get a break. The above happens. Whereas before when I’ve done that, I’ve tended to breathe in with force rather than compassion. Like rather than breathing in YOUWILLFEELCONNECTIONCOMPASSIONLOVEDAMMIT, I breathe in love connection compassion right down, deep into my belly. Strongly but firmly. Gently and compassionately. Then it all falls away. My stuff is there to just notice, rather than cloud.

Maybe this is my ticket to vitality. My ticket to my own inner coffee shop. A coffee shop that serves up cups of Noticing, and mugs of Breath. Rather than triple shots of Ethiopian or cafetiers of Venezuelan.

That’d be nice. I’d defo have a loyalty card there…and maybe I’ve already got one, I just forget to trust that I can – it’s safe – to use it.

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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.

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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.

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Healing is…

Learning, adopting and practising the art of mindfulness. And weaving it into your daily life and how you connect with your body and daily surroundings.

But…sometimes, I know with ptsd, to be able to actually be in a place to practise mindfulness is healing In itself…sometimes our bodies and our minds just can’t go there. There’s something else in the mix: severe adrenaline overload and trigger-ville.

I’ve learnt to be gentle with myself in times I can’t actually do mindfulness or when dropping into myself sets off triggers left right and centre…it’s during these times that the healing comes from not dropping into myself. But once the anxiety softens – through herbs, supplements and time – when I can catch my breath and practise mindfulness, a deeper sense of healing – and connection – has begun again.

It’s a motherfucking process. A long, intricately beautiful, confusing, and profound one.

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“Jesus loves you”

A lady walked past me today and said “Jesus loves you”, right at my face. She had the biggest smile, and radiated pure warmth and openness. It was then that I noticed the giant wooden cross sticking out of the trolley she was pushing, that I hadn’t seen before.

Normally I would run a mile from this kind of thing, cursing and feeling fucked off someone had made me jump, and/or invaded my privacy. “Keep your beliefs to your own fucking bench.” But also because those peeps preaching Jesus on the street tend to be – or appear to be – somewhat crazy, so it pushes my trigger buttons, I ended up flooded with judgement, anger, and overwhelming fear, and I leg it. But this was different. She was so warm and genuine that it almost made me stop in my tracks. She really fucking meant it. I walked up the road mega grinning, partly because her act was so blatantly meant and kind, but also because her openness and sharing of her beliefs ticked all my boxes that have been open lately about how love really is all we need.

Love soothes anxiety, fear, trauma, physical pain and aches, isolation, desperation…the feeling and/or the act of receiving (and giving) love is like what a giant dose of Prozac does in the eyes of a doctor. Sure we need to eat and breathe and do things but in terms of healing, I have just been so aware of how love conquers all…the symptoms, the fears, the frustrations. It doesn’t take them away forever but it certainly heals the hurt now. Or simply just lessens the panic and sense of not being able to cope around the experience, and makes it bearable. In the last few weeks of desperate, stressful, and fucking intense times, I got into a place where the only thing that helped me when swimming in severe anxiety – or stories or blinding rage or suicidality and a deep sense of hopelessness – was to flood my body with love. With the sensation, the physical sensation, of love. It literally was the only thing that calmed it all down and made me feel like I had a grip on it all…or more like made me feel like I would, was, and will, survive. And then, after the first few waves of love, I would focus on the feeling of support and let that flood my body. Basically my tool was a fuck load of flooding for this challenging time…kinda like a flooding for a flooding. Instead of the ptsd flooding that was going on, I chose a kinda flooding that triggered hope instead of an all encompassing sense of disaster. I sure don’t feel like I’ve been to any WATER though, for all this flooding that’s been happening. God, I miss that more than words can describe. My heart literally aches for it. It hurts. Gimme sea, gimme rivers, gimme water it’s all I need. (I write this lying in the bath, so that helps, but I’m not sure my iPhone likes it.)

So back to the story – I really believed in that moment, when the lady said that, that Jesus loved me. And she did too, so I had proof…I had back up. It wasn’t just me being cocky, in case my critics piped up in this situation. Whereas if a guy has showed me affection or the slightest hint of liking me the last year or so, my inner critics have bombarded my brain and bod with megaphones of doubt and gongs of hate (basically, an orchestra of bullying), but they stayed unusually quiet for this one…perhaps they believe it too. Or perhaps they just thought it was so completely ridiculous that they’d gone to pester another part of me. Motherfuckers.

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Perhaps Jesus still loves me – perhaps it wasn’t just a fleeting affair. (I hope it wasn’t. If it was, what a slag. Jesus you’re dead to me.) Weirdly though, I think part of me still does believe that Jesus loves me. Not because I know it’s true but more because it makes sense. (And when i say Jesus, i mean god, I’m just referring to the big J in this context because of the story). It would make sense that there would be/is something out there – something a fuck load bigger than me – to love and support and guide me. And to remind me of my radiance and my greatness and my deep sense of belonging here on earth, by sending cross-pushing ladies past me in the street. Throughout writing this piece, I feel like I’ve developed a deeper sense of who my god actually is and where my relationship stands to religion…from where i started at the beginning and now going back to edit, i realise my doubt has worn thin and been replaced with a strengthened skin of beliefs of where I am with it at the moment. That’s pretty cool.

I still feel hives of cringe and disbelief spread through me when I think of Jesus. I definitely will always refer to this presence as god, rather than big J. Some guy in sandals with wavey brown hair that was here millions of years ago, might connect with billions of others but it doesn’t for me. I believe in a big presence rather than one average sized being. That to me, makes sense.

I think this whole thing with the “Jesus loves you” thing today, just tucked a little nugget of goodness and inquisition, into a pocket that’s been opening gently, filling up, and expanding, for the last few months/year. It’s a pocket in my jeans of life. It’s a pocket that sews itself right up again when I lose faith in the universe and wonder who the FUCK god thinks he is – if there even is one anyway – prancing around, causing all this shit to happen for me…but I feel like it’s love and/or hate: God gets a shit load of respect and inquisition and love from me, and then rapidly gets a shit load of ‘I don’t fucking believe in you anyways’ thrown at him/her. Poor guy.

Even in those moments of ‘who the fuck do you think you are’ or ‘where are you, you dick’, towards God, there is still a calm gratitude, and warm compassion and sense of deep, widespread, sacred connection with the universe. That’s always there, whether the god thing is or not. And in times when even that – the universe thing –
seemingly fucks off somewhere else, it then pops up again, slightly battered and bruised, but having grown a fuck load in wisdom, respect and worthiness. The growth is always beautiful.

My relationship with religion is somewhat shonky and ever-developing, but Jesus obviously did exist. Therefore Jesus could obviously love me. My god is an energy, a life force, the earth, the creator of the earth, Mother Earth…it feels like more of a presence, than a thing. But I do want it to be a thing. I want it to be someone I pray to, but I just think I feel more connected – or perhaps prefer – the grandiose-ness and sense of real safety/holding when I pray to or connect with something far larger than the earth.

I always come back to the line from the Marianne Williamson poem: “You are a child of God”. We all are. This concept always blows my mind and brings me home, no matter how many times I think of it. It grounds me, connects me, and reminds me I’m okay. Reminds me I deserve to be here, just like all the rest of the life on the earth.

That’s pretty rad.

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Realising Me

As I read and edit pieces for a beautiful and exciting publication, I feel this bubble inside me that’s been growing and blossoming the past weeks. This bubble of realising what I’m here to do. The bubble of excitement and healing, realising that finally, finally, all that has happened doesn’t need to be secret anymore. The bubble that fills my whole body with relief, brings tears down my cheeks, and makes my heart soften and open. Because now, for the first time in my life, I am connected to a world of others. 

Sharing my story and reading others makes me realise I am not alone. I am not abnormal. I do not have to keep it schtum and suppressed anymore. We are all beautifully connected. Our pain connects us. This pain that is so often frowned upon or buried beneath out of fear, not knowing what to do with it, or just the overwhelm it can so often leave us feeling.

When things get stuck, dissociated, depressed, fatigued, it’s when I’m not safely tucking into this pain mine. Tucking into the beauty, the neglect, the abuse, the physical pain, the illhealth. Filling these wounds with love. I have done my good dose of tucking in, but without the grounds beneath me to nurture and support. As I grow in the avenue of mindfulness and self-love, with it comes an unconditional compassion for myself in every moment I tuck into this pain. Previously I have dived head first, not listening to what my body says. Not listening to the scream to STOP. To leave these details for now, to step away from this haunted history and focus on the now. Instead I kept tumbling straight forward, into the crevasse of abuse.

And this is when my PTSD began.

But now things are different. That urge to dive head-first is still there sometimes, but I can always catch it and bring my awareness to my feet. To my body. To all that parts that aren’t my head. Because our body knows what we need to do to heal. It’s physiologically and instinctively programmed that way. And my body wants to feel the pain, touch in with the emotions, the hurt, the neglect, and the abuse, but in a mindful and connected way. In my eyes, this is the way that PTSD can soften. And it really does work.

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Reading about abuse of a woman’s body and how thousands, millions, suffer in silence from what has happened to them, made me sob. It makes me realise that I too, am one of them. I too, fear sharing my story. When it comes to this subject of rape, I fear it so greatly. I fear it so much that I have only shared it with a sprinkled few. And that was a couple of years ago. It is a memory that only haunts and terrifies on a daily basis. This breaks my heart. This wounding of something so sacred – my body – needs the voice it so beautifully deserves.

This particular story of mine can be shared in a beautiful healing way. The dirty facts don’t have to be what is said. It can be the feelings, the emotions, the dread…the leftovers stuffed into my body. These leftovers that for the past two years have steadily composted, and rotted into my energy and my mind. These are the things that need to be heard. Need to be released. Words of what happened precisely, aren’t always the most healing or helpful. In fact, they are proven to, at times, make PTSD worse. The memory can be transformed from something my mind shudders at the thought, to something my body can embrace. Embrace the wounds that were left, and step forward into the transformation and connection that these traumas bring.

Baby steps. That is what this is. Baby steps to see that the ease of connection is far greater than the pain of burying.

And with that, I hope that all the other thousands of women living with this pain or memory in silence, can begin to take those baby steps to connect with it too. Because together, there is something so beautiful about how such a haunting and fucked up thing, can unite and create a connection greater than anything else ever can. A connection that only we have, and a connection that can heal, empower and inspire.

This is a tender but exciting step on this particular road of healing. For me to acknowledge this event and this pain related to it, feels terrifying. But to do it like this, to be able to feel the pain within my body and not the chaos in my head, feels like healing might just have begun. And this terror is slowly becoming a habitual feeling…not a feeling that is actually there.

Love.

mezze platters & raindrops

So. Today is the first of firsts. I always read people’s blogs longing to post up about daily happenings and things I get up to. Instead I seem to just spill out the emotional ‘life’ stuff. But sometimes I just get bored of that cafuffle and want to share the little things. But I never quite know how…I don’t really know whether people will want to read it! But then I remembered the little vow I made to myself not long ago. It basically went along the lines of: try to start not giving a shit.

In a nice way.

So, here I am. Not giving a shit. ; )

Today has been so nice. It began with a bit of a lie-in – 9AM. Get in. Lately that has not been heard of. Not because I’ve had a crazy busy jam packed schedule. Nope. Just because my eyes have sprung awake at 7.30, or 7.32 on the dot every day this past week. It’s nice. I’ve been missing the days where mornings were my favourite time. It seems to be getting back to that way. And that’s a score.

Due to the rain, rain, rain that’s been falling from the sky, the allotment I was supposed to be starting work on and getting the keys for, was called off. So I was left a bit discombobulated. But then, thank the lord: I finally finished unpacking. It’s been over two weeks and I still hadn’t emptied all my bags into my new room. I think I just about have, apart from the few bags of crap shoved at the bottom of the wardrobe. They can hang out there for a bit. I don’t think I even have properly unpacked my rucksack from when I returned from California at the end of April…oops.

Made some quote and picture filled frames. A few quid from Ikea and a lot of nice memories – a nice mix for the walls.

I couldn’t help but notice myself really looking forward to being a housewife, or should I say, homekeeper. Mother. Girlfriend. Wife. Whatever it may be – I just think I am slowly really looking forward to gathering all my stuff together and making a home nice. One that I know is my own. That commitment bit gives me the heebyjeeby’s, due to the fact me and my itchy travelling feet have never lived in a room/house for longer than 8 months at a time…woah. I hadn’t ever typed that out before. But hey, that’s what being in your early twenties and late teens is about, right? Right.

I then went about editing some photographs from a wedding I worked at back in June. I rationed myself to twenty five minutes of editing. I have been feeling so overwhelmed by it, I couldn’t face it. Here’s a touch of comedy from the pack:

Some friends from Wales were in town, so I biked down the road to a cool spot I’d not been before. It was lovely. A fellow playing guitar, some cosy folk, a fantastic mezze platter…and my friends. Recently I’ve been really enjoying spending time on my own – away from friends. It’s weird. I feel like, in the cheesiest of most cheesy ways, the past couple of weeks I’ve been getting to know myself. Hehe. How Californian sounding of me. But it’s true. But I have been just so missing good solid easy-to-be-with and fun friends. They all live back in Wales. I need to find me some here. My friends here are friends with history, y’know? And that is amazing but because of the intensity of the past few months, I am really feeling that need for friends without that history. And just a history of ease. Right now I am feeling a weirdness and disconnection between me and my friends here. I have needed so much from them the past few months, and I guess I am somewhere inside, ashamed of that, embarrassed and wishing it hadn’t been so. And so I naturally lean towards taking myself away for a bit. But instead of that natural instinct being there in its sole being, I think I am also moving on slightly to new pastures – pastures with folk I feel more at ease with. But I really hope that doesn’t mean goodbye to these friends too. I think not.

Back to the mezze’s. We ate heaps and just caught up and it was lush. We then went outside for a cigarette, which I had been longing for for a month – I have this down to many episodes of Californication – he just makes smoking look so darn nice. But after two drags and me developing a slight swagger down the street, I passed the butt on. I remembered it’s not so nice after all. I phoned my friend in California for a catch up, which was wonderful. And then I biked home through the pouring rain and felt happy and ALIVE. And now I sit under the covers feeling ill, but accomplished and peaceful.

The food:

While I’m at it, I’m going to type about yesterday too. Because it was real nice too. The night before I switched medications to just taking one whole 50mg at night rather than 25mg in the eve and morn. And I think…I HOPE….I’ve hit jackpot. I really really hope. Maybe that’s why I want to start blogging full pelt, because I have a little inkling – a little candle of hope flickering inside, that this may just be the road upwards. I really really hope so. When I wonder whether it is, or wonder whether it’s not, I bring myself back to now. And now is going really well, so that is something to celebrate about. That seems to be getting stronger – that ability to live in the moment. And that’s such a relief. And it feels like an ever-growing gift. Mindfulness, I think, is right there in the grasp of my hand now – not just floating at my fingertips.

Since working a lot the past couple of weeks in a garden, back to my growing roots, I’ve been really finding the connection to the earth SO grounding. In all the mayhem of new medications, new homes, new beginnings, I have felt it really hard to connect to myself. And so every time I put my hands in the soil, to pull out a weed or plant a bulb, I have been really feeling that connection to something greater than myself. As cheesy as it sounds, it really is true – it works. Like wonder. Just to hold that connection to the world and the planet we live on, in my eyes, is one of the most healing things we can do. It offers a sense that you’re not alone, that there are so many other people and animals and creatures and plants in it with you – together. It  offers a sense of support and holding, which at times of struggle (and any time in life) is essential to feeling safe and protected. And so, enough of the tree hugging talk: I did a little doodle to explain it in a wee nutshell.

Back to yesterday. There’s not much more to say, apart from that I overcame two of my biggest fears…actually, hang on: THREE of them. Things that I have been just so overwhelmed and anxiety ridden at the thought of doing, I did yesterday with full swagger. I walked an hour and a half, with snippets of skateboarding inbetweeen, across the bustling city along a route I didn’t know, for a cranial sacral appointment. Something that just last week would have left my in stress hives. I then pottered slowly back, popping in and out of a couple of charity shops. Stopping in a healthfood store to buy some supplies. Both of these, but especially the latter would have left me crippled with overwhelm, stress and fear. I then did what I woke up wanting to do: sat in the afternoon autumn sun outside a cafe. It was so tasty with triumph, it was delicious.

Overcoming anxiety jackpot has been hit. And it felt so nutritious, I can’t even explain. And that’s not to even start on today or the day before yesterday. Here it is in a little nutshell: I biked, I got on my beautiful bike and rode around the park; I sat on the bench for fifteen minutes, just being with the moment and it felt flippin glorious; I walked to the shops and dove right into Poundland (the most bustling store of all where I live) and got what I needed without feeling like I was going to pass out or trip over the Everest sized mountain of anxiety rushing all over my body; I went for an early morning swim at the pool, involving a confident stroll through the dodgy neighbourhood; I walked across the same dodgy neighbourhood at night, to the pharmacy, but this before would have been the biggest NO GO of all; I cooked myself the tastiest breakfast and lunch today and yesterday….the list could go on.

Song of the weekend, that’s been on repeat 1,342 times:

How was your weekend?

Love.