The healing of an open heart

It feels like a weird old time at the moment. I feel like my life’s exploded – in a good way but I also feel exhausted and overwhelmed and worried…and incredibly excited. I keep getting these bursts of natural highs as I’m being published on a site – a very cool and very popular online journal/magazine – that I recently got an apprenticeship for, as an editor.

That feels bonkersly cool. Like so cool. It’s the first time I’ve felt this excited in freakin’ ages. And happy – actually warm and happy when I’m working and editing.

The other thing I’m feeling loads of at the moment, is grief. So much grief. Like a loss, a hole, that’s in my chest. Like a well of sorrow open wide and sitting deep. I feel able to hold it, though. My heart feels so open at the moment. Like, so open. It feels beautiful. Within the pain, I have so much warmth and tenderness for myself and others. And an openness too. But an openness with protection, with boundaries. That’s not like before.

My openness I think used to feel wide open without limits, or protection. I used to shower love and really believe I meant it – which I did – but now I see that I was also hurting like a motherfucker, and the openness was raw and too painful. It was excruciating, and the love I gave, and could give, from this place, was without boundaries or protection of myself. It never went inwards first.

But now it does. I feel like I’m continuing to master the art of loving number one, and then loving someone else.

And this last year or so, I feel like my hearts been somewhat out of protection for myself. I’ve needed to go inwards, because I was afraid of over giving, of over loving, and getting depleted. So I tried to limit my giving and my openness, my love and my warmth, because I was afraid. And, I needed all I could get.

I totes think this is fair enough, and incredibly healthy. And, even within that, I know I still gave. And loved. A lot.

But something’s changing. My heart feels open and it feels safe. It feels safe to love again, and love from a place of depth and protection, of boundaries and compassion.

It feels safe to tell someone I love them, from a place I really really mean it. It feels safe to hold protection and fierce care for those I hold close to my heart.

It feels safe to hold my power by the hand, and walk with it by my side. It feels safe to step into it and allow it to help me shine.

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Magic hedgehog hangouts

I haven’t seen a hedgehog for years and they are rare little things to see. Tonight I was stood on the phone in the garden and out-of-the-blue one was stood less than a metre from my feet, looking up at me. It must have pottered out from the hedge/fence thing marking the line between our garden and the neighbours’, beside me.

It then gently walked underneath the compost heap. I’m pretty sure it would’ve stayed a while longer had I not been (gently, and not so gently) squealing with excitement and disbelief. It was magic. I couldn’t quite believe it was a hedgehog because those guys should be asleep for the winter…but I’m guessing it was looking for food.

I’m not sure whether to leave some food out because I’m worried why this little fella is out on a January night…but I also don’t wanna step in when I’m not needed, and I don’t want it to get used to me feeding because I’m moving soon.

Hmm. Perhaps I’ll make some phone calls in the morn and enquire.

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2014, that was pretty magic. Yesterday I swum in the rain in an outdoor pool to welcome in the new year and honour my tradition of swimming outdoors on New Year’s Day (it’s always been the sea or rivers or a lake and last year was the FIRST year I didn’t and I think that goes to show how shit (intense) that year was gonna be…), and today I had a little hangout with a ‘hog. In all the intensity and the overwhelming feelings, the magic is pretty special stuff.

It’s funny how much joy, tenderness and compassion moments like this bring me. And my body. I feel like I can store the sensations and the pleasure in my bod to come back to…and the sense of joy, tenderness, connection, compassion and fulfilment is so strong, it’s overwhelming. But beautifully overwhelming.

And these moments happen so so often. There’s magic everywhere, we just have to look. I think the magic makes the SHIT bearable…that must be what it is. Lately my feelings have been so intense. Like, so intense. And my sense of hopelessness and anxiety has been blinding and pretty damn consistent…yet somehow I keep going. Somehow I have and find resources and a way, to keep on trucking through. And it’s moments like this that do it. They stay with me and fill me so full when they happen, that the sense of disaster and desire for self-destruction feels bearable and I feel able to resist it, steer away from it…watch it rather than be it.

Things have been so awful lately I feel like I’ve withdrawn myself as nothing, no connection or vulnerability or openness has felt safe. Everything and everyone has felt triggering, and in some ways still does. It’s felt like only surface stuff will do – writing and talking – any depth is unsafe because of the shit that comes with it, in myself…the projection and the disbelief of the love offered and the beliefs I hold within of what it means and what I am.

But maybe something’s different now, now that I can notice and be with this need for surface stuff and honour it…and know when to gently push through and find deeper connection, and know when to stick with it and honour my defences. Rather than only listening to one channel of my responses radio…instead I think I’m learning to listen to both. (I’ve got two channels…rational and irrational, reactive and centred, conscious and subconscious and so on.)

I will keep on looking for the magic. I seem to naturally do so anyway…it only gets really hard when I don’t. It kinda feels like when things are so intensely awful and my sense of doom and haunting from present trauma (here visiting from the past), things also feel even more intensely beautiful, magical, and overwhelming incredible too. It’s like my volume switch gets amped up a gear.

It can feel pretty nuts but the special, always feels pretty damn special.

The healing river

Sometimes I get scared at just how much trauma I’ve got. Like, HOW I am still alive – and sane – after all of that? I get flickers of memories, flashbacks that float in, realisings that drift by and it floods me with fear and regret, that I chose this life for me. That the unborn me decided to come down to earth and step down this route. But she obviously thought she could handle it, and that I could too. I know I can too, but I also know in moments of doubt I can take a leaf out of her book – the one that trusted this life to me – and remember that I must be here because I can handle it. I must be here because I am a motherfucking champion and my strength overflows me.

But I seriously do get deeply worried and full of fear, and also curiosity about just HOW you heal this shit? Like, HOW do you heal such undiluted and unimaginable terror? Like, HOW do you end up okay? And HOW the FUCK am I okay? Is this the beginning of me not being? Is this the ending of the okayness I have been seeing so far? Is this the beginning of it all going to shit? Of me going to shit? I have asked these questions continually this last year and a half…and perhaps I will continue to always, because there’s an element of hilarity amongst the fear, that I still won’t trust my strength no matter how deeply it has shown me that it is here. Like SO shown me.

The funny thing is that in all of this, I have these moments of terror and worry and self-fucking-doubt but then I notice how far fetched they seem too. I used to be totally swamped, completely flooded by the trauma that would fill me. The memory. The old stories. The images. The feelings. In other words, my days were constructed of
flashbacks and reliving nightmares. Now they’re different. Now they’re more subtle. Fuck, WAY more subtle. If I give myself credit I’ve stepped a million stones from where I was once, just last year. I’ve stepped a million stones along the river of healing, it just can sometimes feel so far from it…from that. It feels like I’m just getting deeper, the water is getting thicker, the stones are getting more scarce, my wellies have got holes in and I’m basically bare foot.

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I’m cold and I need a picnic but the nearest shop is a million miles away, and I don’t have a million stones to get there. Instead I realise that I’m not far from home. I don’t have to go to the shop. I don’t have to do what others do or follow others’ route. I can jump out of the river and onto the river bank, leaving my broken wellies behind to put on comfy slippers at the door of mine…my home inside me .I can light the fire and cook on the stove. I can nurture myself deeply and step away from the cold that was haunting me, but sometimes is just what I need. I can let my journey through the water, settle back to a dream and a distant memory. I can give myself a break and I can give myself a sense of place.

This metaphor feels just so like my journey with healing. I can now take comfort and refuge in a home inside myself, and I never could do that this deeply before. I still feel like I’m swimming and the river is neverending, with rest breaks seemingly miles away but compulsory…I fill with fear as though there are end goals and markers along my healing road that I am not getting to, or routes that others took but I am not. I’m not even sure where they came from apart from the judging head of my inner critic. I am beginning to see that I don’t think these milestones and goalposts even exist. There is no one perfect route or way to be like all the rest that have trodden this path too. The ambition and determination is my perfectionist trying to do her best, but she doesn’t need to. She is trying to make me heal as best I can, so I don’t feel like such a mess.

But perhaps to be a mess is to hit a million of the healing milestones (if they did exist) because I’m allowing for it. I’m allowing for what needs to happen in order to be free and in order to continue to be me. I am allowing for messy. And that’s basically as fucking healing as it gets.

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Healing rollercoasters

Sometimes with this mothering of myself, I make myself fucking knackered. I make myself stressed out ‘cos I just want to do the best, be the best I can be for myself. But sometimes I am starting to see that the gold dust is in the rest…in the not-trying-so-hard…in the having gentleness and compassion with myself…in the trusting that I am enough. Just as I am. Whatever that looks like and whatever that shows up like. Just so long as I am there for myself. That is enough.

I have been so aware the last few days, and week, of how we parent ourselves how we have been taught. It keeps on blowing my mind as I discover another way that I am mothering myself how I was mothered…it’s not just as simple as abuse, i.e. self destruct. It goes wayyyy deeper than that. I feel like I just can’t stop noticing patterns and things I do because they were shown to me. Like, my desperate effort to be perfect and be enough and be more than enough and to make up for the shitty bits in my life right now, by flooding myself with love and affection through the right food, the right ice packs for my weary back, all the right supplements and tinctures and teas and decoctions…because that is what my mum would do. She would suddenly get bursts of having to make up for all that she hadn’t been doing, hadn’t done, wasn’t doing, or abuse that she had laid upon me…us.

It’s a trait that ran clean throughout my years. The up down up down ALL OVER THE FREAKIN’ PLACE offerings of love…the fucked up and twisted love that I knew. It’s a trait I don’t want to know anymore. I want to know that I am nurturing myself because I want to. I want to know that I am nurturing myself because I can, and because I deserve it.

I don’t want rollercoasters, I want freedom from all that. I want stability and consistency – with the love I shower upon myself and in the life surrounding me. And in me.

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Cuddles with myself

Lately, moments feel like precipices I’m balancing on, about to fall and crash and burn and die, and when I do it’s fucking painful but it’s not as bad as holding back from the process of going through. Emotions feel like tsunami waves, changing direction every instance, isolating me slowly but connecting me to myself…Slowly…My heart feels ripped open but it thanks me for it, because it needs it. It needs the space to breathe and feel seen. It needs to know I’m here and I’m really listening.

I think I’m becoming/allowing myself to be more and more human, it just continues to terrify me. Somehow inside I know I’m continuing to be birthed into something new, all the shit that’s wounded is getting healed and as I go deeper I continue to find the me that was born before all this shit landed on top, but in the outer layers of me, I find terror and total resistance and desire to just fucking BE for a minute. Or an hour. Or a day. To just feel fucking normal. And then I remember – much to my frustration – that that doesn’t exist. I want to give this rebirth shit a break and just be able to feel free and be me. But when I try, I subside into darkness and self hatred. Tears and feeling feelings are the only way forward and where my growth seems to happen. Resistance doesn’t do that. But I figured I’d let myself have some because otherwise I’m super human and so that would mean I wouldn’t exist.

Support is what I long for and what I deeply crave, yet deep inside I tell myself I can’t have it and that noone really cares, because noone’s really family. Noone’s really mine. I am really noone’s. Noone’s really deeply connected and gonna bail me out of my pain. When in actual fact that’s a load of bollocks, and when I’ve gone searching for support its always found me. When I’ve reached out and asked, what I’ve needed has always come to me. Always.

I use the excuse of not having family as a reason to stop me asking for support. I use the theory that I’m worthless and undeserving because I don’t have family support, to not reach out and cry. I have this theory that my critic has built upon bricks of foundation-less sand. Upon bricks that were buried as a kid, in response to an abusive mother.

I long for the support around me – the physical connection. I long for the contact and the company and I yell deep inside because my BACK fucking stops me. I long to just get on a train and go and visit loved friends for a few days or a week. I long to just walk down the road and find people I need, but I fucking can’t. And when I can its so painful I feel so fragile and uptight and on edge, in protection of my back. Or the dizziness going on in my head.

So instead I give myself it, I give myself the cuddles I crave. I give myself the physical contact and emotional connection I deserve. And slowly as I do this, I notice it does come from outside too. If I meet the need myself, others will meet it too. As my touch disperses the traumatic chaotic and stressed out energy, others can do it too. But if I’m festering in a desperate silence and a desperate place of need, I’m all discombobulated and complex and my energy is too. When coming from a place of trauma and abuse, I notice the first physical touch that needs to feel safe, is my own. And then can come others. But first, I’m talking cuddles with myself.

And lots of them.

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Take a break

It’ll still be there tomorrow, what you haven’t faced today.

As in, you don’t have to do it all at once.

It’s okay to take a break.

To get some rest. To sleep. To do shit that doesn’t bring anything except fun.

You don’t have to figure it all out at once.

I don’t know about you, but I am constantly trying to figure everything out. Trying to heal stuff that’s deep and heavy in my heart, trying to write out shit that’s sat there at the forefront of my mind and dying to be heard. Trying to work shit through so that it’s not fucking me over anymore or taking me into all these patterns I see myself doing…

But it drives me nuts. It does the opposite of what I intend to do. Tonight I lie here longing to write and write and write, or talk and talk and talk, but instead I know I just need sleep. I have avoided writing since about 3pm because I know what I want to do is talk, and I haven’t got anyone here to talk it too. So maybe I should take the hint – if the outlet isn’t here at my fingertips, maybe it’s okay to take a break.

Because what happened twenty years ago, will still be here for the next twenty too. So it’s okay to take my time, to mix it up with a little Me. To trust that I don’t have to face it All At Once.

A lot of the time that feels impossible, and literally IS impossible because the feelings or memories are right there and NOT going anywhere else. But other times it just feels impossible because the idea of taking a break and feeling safe, calm, relaxed and at ease, is like the most scary and insane thing EVER. But it’s something, I’m learning, is allowed.

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Early retirement

For my whole life I thought I was in this world to look after my mum. From the age of three, that was my role and it continued right through until the summer of 2011, aged 24, when I was totally in the beginning phase of stepping away (I just didn’t realise it at the time). Last night during therapy I had quite a profound realisation…I realised that right now, there is a massive gap in my life. There’s a huge hole that makes me feel lost and without a home. I feel like I’m faking it but not making it yet. I feel lost and like my life isn’t complete and there’s a need, a huge need, that isn’t being met. And it’s the need to look after my mum. The need to fulfil this role I had for all my life. I feel like I’m playing pretend and trying so hard to play this kind of life – a life without the role I had for all those years – but will one day realise that it’s a ridiculous attempt, and this life is just not meant for me, and I’ll just wake up and go home. Go back home to the shit. Go back to where I belong. Or seemingly belong. Except however, none of those last lines are true. This life is meant for me.

Because I have stepped away to heal and to discover my own identity away from hers and the uniquely deep and twisted and fucked up ties we had together, I am in this life on my own, without a clear cut role that I had been given from such an early age. I am ‘lost’. The day I decided I would not speak to my mum for a long long time – the days following my overdose – were the days in which the hole began to open. The hole that had been filled to the brim, each corner crammed full of responsibility, worry, a weight of guilt and shame, and a lifetime of pain  to get space in order to be filled with something else, one day. But I didn’t realise that yet.

It’s like I no longer am working a job I had for 22 years. I’ve gone into early retirement. Or many might say, really late retirement. Or a retirement that should never even have had to happen in the first place. And I’m guessing that people who go into retirement, early or late, feel a massive sense of freedom and relief, but also lost and without a purpose or a home for a while. And like they have a huge hole too. But on the flipside, I bet they also feel like they can now live the life they have always dreamed of and feel they deserve, too. But I bet they have to battle with really knowing they deserve it. And then comes embracing it. And really living it.

So, that pattern or phase is what I’m in too. Except my job was one I had as a kid and a teen, and early adult, and the retirement has left me with literally my whole life ahead of me. And a whole life entirely able to be designed and devised and lived by ME. Solely me.

For the first time in my life (I have said that A LOT over the last year and a bit) I have no-one to look out for except me. It’s fucking weird, it’s fucking bizarre, but it’s fucking cool. It’s still taking me time to get used to it, and maybe – highly likely – I’ll just have to continue faking it for a while. And with time, I’ll get to the Making It stage…the stage where I really know that this hole I was once filling with a job that I should never have had, can now be filled with my purpose…my dreams…my job…my actual role in life.

The role that I choose.

One continuing choice, is the greatest gift to myself

Until now I think the excitement of this journey and the ‘getting to know myself’ path that I’m on, has felt somewhat out of my hands as to whether I have a choice about it. In my eyes I didn’t. I was teetering towards the floor, I spent a whole summer swimming in serious suicidal ideation, I desperately grasped to therapy that winter and then in the springtime I overdosed. In my eyes this meant I had no choice but to unravel this stuff, heal this stuff, discover the hidden bubble-protected stuff, heal myself, give myself all the attention, devotion and love I have, and learn ways to find a shed load more of these three things, in unconditional supplies, that I didn’t know was there. This felt necessary for survival, it wasn’t just because I ‘felt like it’. My entire life was there before my eyes, blinding in a way that I didn’t think I could have looked anywhere else. But I could have. I could have stared vodka in the face every day and started my waking moments with a shot. I could have snorted crack til it came outta my eyeballs and numbed the pain. I could have done what a lotta people do. Okay maybe not the crack, but definitely the alcohol. I could have taken up the two last self destructive coping methods that I had never tried. But I didn’t. They were never an option for me or a decision that I needed to make, in my eyes, but I still did. I chose not to, no matter how subconscious this decision was.

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The last six months a friend has often said to me that I have a choice and I made a choice and am constantly making that choice – the choice to follow this healing path. I have always looked at him as though that’s a load of total bollocks. I’m not. ‘I have no choice, you don’t know shit’, I have desperately want to reply, because the thought that I have CHOSEN this path just makes me want to vom. It makes me want to curl up with embarrassment at the thought that I decided to do this. I decided to put myself through hell when things felt shit enough.

But gradually something inside me has shifted and I am realising that this choice is the biggest gift I can give myself. Like, it’s the ultimate act of self love – to heal. And it’s mega exciting too. I’m getting to know ME! It hasn’t really clicked until today, but this is self discovery that I’m doing. That is fucking cool.

After realising this, the enthusiasm that has been there beneath this all, can blossom and shine even more. Until now I’ve struggled to not just feel demoralised by what I’m doing, and weirded out by how I have enthusiasm for it. I shouldn’t, should I? How lame is that. I’ve felt battered down at how relentless this healing game is. Resentment and a hatred has burned so strongly through the clouds of self care and self love, leaving me sunburnt in a way that turns pink instead of a beautiful bronzed brown.

But I think it’s because I’ve been seeing this time as healing. Just healing. Don’t get me wrong, this has also filled my heart with such warmth that tears flow and flow when I finally realise I’m getting the chance to heal. Something I’ve needed for about 23 years. (I’m only 26). But maybe I’m not just healing. Today I realised that I have been seeing this time as so focused on what’s happened in the past, that’s led me to this point. To be fair, that is totally legit because in that IS what’s led me here. But now I want to see this journey as also as self discovery too – getting to know myself inside out, regardless of the past stuff. The past is just an added gazillion layer to sort through amongst this journey. I feel battered and bruised and torn when I just see it as overcoming my past and healing my past. Not to mention the “UNFAIRNESS” that rips me at the seams. But I’m healing my self, my whole Self now. And the parts within that are wounded from the past. The actual past can go fuck itself. I’m healing what’s here now because what’s here now sure is wounding from the past, but it isn’t actually the past. The past is done for. I’m left with my beautiful, battered, knackered, wise and wounded, beautiful self.

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This might sound obvious but I’m getting to know myself. I’m doing what all those wise owls do. I have struggled to see why on earth I would spend all this focus on, and time with, myself when it’s just me. Plain old me. Why can’t someone else get to know me so well and I get to know them in return? Deal?

But I’m doing this for me, I’m not doing it for anyone else. And so noone else can do it for me. I’m so shiney and brilliant that right now I don’t want to share myself with anyone else. I want to dive deeper into me and keep on discovering all this territory that’s never been found. I want to walk bare foot on shores that have only ever been kicked up in a frenzy from some trauma before. I want to put on my stilettos (I need to buy a pair first) and strut through the corridors of my inner self, owning it all. I also wanna kick the fuck outta the shitty dark corners and put a bouncy castle there instead, but I don’t know if can afford one of those. Bouncy castles are costly.

Everything I’ve done before now has been for someone else – as a child, as a teen, as a young adult – but now this journey is my own. From day one I was born into responsibility and now, as of a year or so ago, I made the decision to have all this responsibility for just myself. My rucksack of responsibility is just mine. I kicked out the items that weren’t anymore (MY MOTHER). The weight of this rucksack is mine to get to know, sort through, sift through, buy better straps for, and gradually learn a better posture by which to carry it. And I’m getting there. But first I still seem to have a fuck load of sifting. I could just hand it over to the Goodwill stores here and get drunk and snort crack but I don’t think I want to, no matter how painful this sifting and posture learning is. It’s my sifting to do and it’s my posture to learn, just for me. For no one else. Anyone else I get to share this whole-of-me with, well…that’s just a bonus.

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This journey of discovery is where I am grateful for my sense of fun and humour. I have been this entire year. All the drawing of cartoons, all the mindful and playful walks in nature, all the journalling and excitement about the revelations I have and realisations I’ve put together…but I realise, I don’t think I had really set my ‘intention’ until now. Like, inside I know I’ve been healing but its mostly felt like surviving. The last few weeks I’ve noticed a big old shift happen with this and I really KNOW that I am healing. In every way. It’s like my body knows it, my mind knows it, my soul knows it, and my heart knows it. And so because of this knowledge I can allow for it more and give myself the time and the trust. This in itself is a mega hit of mega dope beauty for me. And now, as of today, and probably as of this healing revelation/shift too, I now can see this time as exciting and a right of passage and a beautiful brilliant project I’ve decided to give myself. It’s like the ultimate home work, except the only test I get is the one I constantly give myself. Thank fuck because I hate normal tests.

I have always looked at people in awe when they just so clearly are on their path of self discovery and so dedicatedly and enthusiastically doing so. They’re the cool kids in my eyes. And I realise that, if I just set that as my intention (which it so blatantly has been this entire time, I just didn’t realise it), I can let myself feel like one of the cool kids too. Because I am. And so are you.

Sometimes we just need to ‘break’ a bit

“The more I fall apart, the more together I feel.”

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Falling apart used to terrify me. The thought of it would bring me out in hives, imagining the worst. Imagining a life ruled by the falling apart and never knowing anything else. I can safely say that, as much as it still terrifies me and I still imagine the worst, I now let the Falling Apart happen and I trust it whilst it does. Or at least I trust it in the aftermath. I still put up a good fight, obv. Just not a patch on what I used to. I now ‘run’ from the falling apart for about a minute before I realise it just needs to happen. I used to run for like… 24 whole years.

I never thought I’d say it and it makes me cringe to see I am, but falling apart is actually kinda beautiful. But it’s still a motherf***er. Just a beautiful motherf***er.

I need to get me some curtains

I went to see my herbalist today – she’s so rad. It’s amazing when after so long of looking, trying, attempting…things do click into place. She’s ‘on it’. She’s taken my health into her hands and letting me let go. Until now I have been on it. Now it’s her turn. This is healing beyond words. For so long I have needed to have control, to keep the notes, to watch what’s happening from day to day or hour to hour. But now I can hand it over…let it go. Of course, I am aware and conscious to what’s happening and that is something we all need to be, but there’s a balance. There’s a balance of healthy awareness and overwhelming or obsessive awareness that both come from not enough support, or more importantly – not the right support.

Healing happens in so many ways. Words are just one element of the mix. There’s the nourishment that comes from movement, food, self-care, love, fun, connection, distraction/focus on your passions. As I dealt with the morocco trauma last EMDR session, I have noticed how with something like that – for me – I realise that actually the healing doesn’t necessarily come from sitting down and talking about it. In a way, this just lays the foundations. The buildings of healing that build themselves strong, and form a protective shell around you, come through all the other stuff too. I’ve been craving people, love, friendships, this week and now I realise why. That feeling of safety and that feeling of love is one of the most healing things out there. I have a felt a deep sense of unhappiness about the lack of Sofa Time happening in my life at the moment. I met up with an old friend, who’s more like a sister, yesterday. We hadn’t seen each other in at least 8 months, which is so freakin’ long. When we sat next to each and hugged, I welled up and could have burst into tears. It took all my might to keep the tears in and I almost ran out of the tipi we were in, to the toilets outside to sob. I didn’t. Instead I stayed there and just let the pain come in a wave and get shoved back down again.

It was a pain that was from a lacking, a longing, a missing. I miss that – I miss family like friends around me. I miss sitting on a sofa knitting and watching telly, or snuggling up in a bed and talking until 2am, or just lying in bed and rolling over and reading our books back to back until we drift off to sleep. I miss this closeness with friends. My old home town, where I have just got back from visiting, is the epitome of this for me. That’s what those friends do. Here we are so close but we don’t have so much of the snuggles. Snuggles are important. Maybe I need to initiate some.

It’s so amazing since working on Morocco, there has been a freedom in my body that has come. And there has been an inkling of awareness to the fact that someday soon it will just be something that happened to me. It won’t hold the charge or the disgustingness or the terror…and it is SO almost there, I can feel it. I feel like beneath it are layers of healing that kind of overwhelm me, but I see that even through this slight snippet of healing that has happened the last two weeks, the empowerment and connection in myself that has come is mega. So that is worth it, for sure.

In session today with my herbalist, we spoke of my sleeping. Which we often do seeing as it’s a bit of a bitch. It has been for a while – it’s the first thing to go, as she says. Well I’m not sure where the hell it went but I hope it’s having a jolly good time on its holiday. I sleep, but I go to bed late, midnight ish, and wake early, 7am ish. I am an early bird, we all know that is how I roll, but I am an early night bird too – I am certainly not an owl, although I feel like I’m becoming one recently. Anyways, to cut a long story short, it turns out I need to buy some curtains…I love not having any. Our windows are mega massive and when I moved in there was a shonky half-curtain with a safety pinned extra bit of fabric to the bottom…it looked shit. So I took it down and love the big wide window and the fresh light coming in in the morning. But I don’t like that I am not getting enough sleep. So maybe this is (one of) the answer (s). That and this healing game that is happening. I have a feeling (that has been there for a long while), and so does my rad herbalist, that all this physical palaver that is happening and has been happening for a long while, is so so down to all the trauma. I mean, it just makes sense. On paper and in my head. It was a nice pat of reassurance to hear my herbalist confirm this today.

Maybe in my new house, I’ll invest in some proper good cosy thick-ass curtains, and I’ll turn into a morning Robin rather than a groggy night owl. That’ll be nice.