I haven't left the house in seven days.
Seven days.
I've been sat here with the black dog.
Depression. I want to write about it, I keep typing out lines and deleting them. It all sounds contrived and false, it's probably the most real writing you'd get from me though.
I want to write about how beautiful depression is, about how exquisite it is to float in the blackness, how you breathe it in. It's a seductress, a haunting lover. How it feels like tinkling ivory piano keys or deep black velvet, warm and soft.
How it sings to you, just you, how you're so special, so utterly amazing and beautiful and wonderful you are.
That's what I let it say to me now.
Years ago it was a different story, years ago it tried to kill me.
I used to let the blackness in, I used to let it consume me, to eat away at me, to destroy my soul.
I drank, I tried cannabis, I tried self harming, I tried suicide. Anything to to block it out, cut it out or get me out of it.
Those where the days when the blackness was filled with faceless screaming monsters, when I couldn't look into it let alone look at myself. It filled my being, it drove icicles of fear right through my heart and I made so many mistakes, always running from the blackness that consumed me, emanated from me, was me.
It's broken my heart and torn me apart me than I care.
It's taken up so much of my life and I want it gone. I don't want this hold over me, I don't want this eternal dance of devoid emotion. I won't let it anymore.
So I dance, I put headphones on and I let the music wash over me, let the music wash it out of me. I dance with it, I love it, I don't let it go, I squeeze the life out of.
I'm too young to let this control the rest of my life, I'm going to tear it up, burn it up, blast it out of the universe.
It's not my friend and it's not faithful.
Tuesday 31 December 2013
Monday 30 December 2013
Breathe in more
Take me down
Upon the snow
Hand in hand
Feel the touch
Amber nectar
Liquid blues
Breathe in
Dont leave
Bend the rule
Lovers skin
Golden Hue
Rescue new
Killer line
Trace blind
Please please
Way upon
Swallows fly
Rubbed in
Tore apart
Pencil thin
Take it in
Upon the snow
Hand in hand
Feel the touch
Amber nectar
Liquid blues
Breathe in
Dont leave
Bend the rule
Lovers skin
Golden Hue
Rescue new
Killer line
Trace blind
Please please
Way upon
Swallows fly
Rubbed in
Tore apart
Pencil thin
Take it in
Lovers embrace
Darkness descends across the misty glen
Rest your boots in front of the croft
door
Lay your weary body down by the log
fire
Whispers of winds play beneath the
eaves
Snug inside by a roaring log fuelled
fire
Glowing light flickers across cushions
Haunting melodic music plays from
shadows
As two close figures sway across a
firelit room
Outside rain beats gently against glass
panes
Hands touching hands, bodies pulled
close
Feet dance together on the wooden floor
All the world fades away into the night
Sunday 29 December 2013
Weaving dreams
Long lazy highways
Cars rumble past
Lines flash in the
Headlights shine
Rolling past towns
And lonely diners
Darkness lighted
Windows down
Breeze teases hair
Arm catches nothing
Hands steer clear
Along the highway
Chasing the moon
Through midnight
Dark open road
Full of promises
Travelling onwards
Climbing mountains
Towards the dawn
Stars light skies
Breaking the morn
Over the road ahead
Straight through
The night slept on
Driving straight to
The open water
Sight catches sea
Journeys over
Cars rumble past
Lines flash in the
Headlights shine
Rolling past towns
And lonely diners
Darkness lighted
Windows down
Breeze teases hair
Arm catches nothing
Hands steer clear
Along the highway
Chasing the moon
Through midnight
Dark open road
Full of promises
Travelling onwards
Climbing mountains
Towards the dawn
Stars light skies
Breaking the morn
Over the road ahead
Straight through
The night slept on
Driving straight to
The open water
Sight catches sea
Journeys over
Monday 23 December 2013
Running Part 4
The man dived into the bush, beaking branches apart to reach the tiny girl curled up on the undergrowth. He bent over her, raising her limp body up into his arms, sweeping her hair back from her face as he screamed sobs of her name into the air.
The people of the town started to move toward the sound of the wretched wailing, concern and fear etched lines upon their faces. They looked to each other with searching, questioning eyes. They knew something was seriously wrong.
The first people to arrive at the bush saw the limp, ashen girl and called the emergency services. All they could stutter out from the fear clinging to their throats were choked sobs about a lifeless, bloody child. When the police swung into town with blaring sirens and swinging flashing lights, the townsfolk started to congregate in whispering, huddling crowds.
The arrival of a silent ambulance cut through the town like a knife. Faces huddled together looking ashen as the paramedics walked down the hill, one carrying a small body wrapped in a blanket, the other leading a blood covered man behind them.
The police cordoned off the path around the bush and started trying to disperse the crowd. Gently stating to the questioning faces that they had no information to give.
All the people could do was to head back to their homes, cradling their own much love children close to them. As the news of the death of a small child from their own town broke across the tv and radio many fell to their seats, hands held to their faces as their brains try to process the word murder.
That night many parents tucked their children up and lingered close by or held their childs hands as they fell into slumber. The parents found it difficult to find peace that night, the fears for their own children allowed childhood memories of monsters under the bed to mingle with the reality of monsters living and breathing somewhere close by.
The air over the town hung heavily in the stillness of the night.
The people of the town started to move toward the sound of the wretched wailing, concern and fear etched lines upon their faces. They looked to each other with searching, questioning eyes. They knew something was seriously wrong.
The first people to arrive at the bush saw the limp, ashen girl and called the emergency services. All they could stutter out from the fear clinging to their throats were choked sobs about a lifeless, bloody child. When the police swung into town with blaring sirens and swinging flashing lights, the townsfolk started to congregate in whispering, huddling crowds.
The arrival of a silent ambulance cut through the town like a knife. Faces huddled together looking ashen as the paramedics walked down the hill, one carrying a small body wrapped in a blanket, the other leading a blood covered man behind them.
The police cordoned off the path around the bush and started trying to disperse the crowd. Gently stating to the questioning faces that they had no information to give.
All the people could do was to head back to their homes, cradling their own much love children close to them. As the news of the death of a small child from their own town broke across the tv and radio many fell to their seats, hands held to their faces as their brains try to process the word murder.
That night many parents tucked their children up and lingered close by or held their childs hands as they fell into slumber. The parents found it difficult to find peace that night, the fears for their own children allowed childhood memories of monsters under the bed to mingle with the reality of monsters living and breathing somewhere close by.
The air over the town hung heavily in the stillness of the night.
Monday 16 December 2013
Running Part 3
Diving as fast as his can, he bolts into the undergrowth drawing the barking terrier into the darkness with him. He sweeps millimetres above the ground and towards the pale girl. The terrier pounds straight after him.
He reaches the girl and dives into the gap between her chin and the ground, coming to a sudden stop once he's behind her.
The terrier sees the girl and starts barking at her. He can smell blood and death close by but senses the an iota of life emanating from the girl. He barks louder and runs back to his owners then turns and runs back to the girl, barking constantly. H e can hear his owner on the path shouting for him. He grabs the girls top and starts pulling her but she weighs too much for him to be able to move her, he growls under his breath in desperation, his hackles raised, he doesn't like the smell coming from her, the smell of dying.
Dropping the girl, he runs back to the path and his owner. His owner sees him and shouts for him to come on. The little terrier barks and growls and runs back into the bush. He heads straight for the girl and starts trying to drag her out again.
He feels so hopeless as the tiny body barely moves beneath him. Desperately ploughing all his strength into his feet he almost stumbles backwards as the girl suddenly moves towards him as though pushed by an invisible hand. he drops his grip again and runs back to his owner. He reaches him and grabs his trouser leg, growling and pulling him back up the path towards the girl, a great fear of need to save the girl powering him on.
He drops his owners trouser leg and runs back into the bush, barking in what he feels is pure terror. He must save this girl.
Out on the path the terriers puzzled owner has turned back towards the bush and is trying to look through the foliage to see what his dog is doing. He has to break the branches open to get a good view, all the time thinking his daft weee dog has caught a rabbit or something.
As a gap opens up beneath his arms and he sees his terrier pulling something, it takes several minutes for his brain to recognise what is lying on the ground.
He takes a step backwards, clutching his hand to his face as he gasps a sob out loud.
"Oh dear god, no, not Jolea".
He reaches the girl and dives into the gap between her chin and the ground, coming to a sudden stop once he's behind her.
The terrier sees the girl and starts barking at her. He can smell blood and death close by but senses the an iota of life emanating from the girl. He barks louder and runs back to his owners then turns and runs back to the girl, barking constantly. H e can hear his owner on the path shouting for him. He grabs the girls top and starts pulling her but she weighs too much for him to be able to move her, he growls under his breath in desperation, his hackles raised, he doesn't like the smell coming from her, the smell of dying.
Dropping the girl, he runs back to the path and his owner. His owner sees him and shouts for him to come on. The little terrier barks and growls and runs back into the bush. He heads straight for the girl and starts trying to drag her out again.
He feels so hopeless as the tiny body barely moves beneath him. Desperately ploughing all his strength into his feet he almost stumbles backwards as the girl suddenly moves towards him as though pushed by an invisible hand. he drops his grip again and runs back to his owner. He reaches him and grabs his trouser leg, growling and pulling him back up the path towards the girl, a great fear of need to save the girl powering him on.
He drops his owners trouser leg and runs back into the bush, barking in what he feels is pure terror. He must save this girl.
Out on the path the terriers puzzled owner has turned back towards the bush and is trying to look through the foliage to see what his dog is doing. He has to break the branches open to get a good view, all the time thinking his daft weee dog has caught a rabbit or something.
As a gap opens up beneath his arms and he sees his terrier pulling something, it takes several minutes for his brain to recognise what is lying on the ground.
He takes a step backwards, clutching his hand to his face as he gasps a sob out loud.
"Oh dear god, no, not Jolea".
Saturday 14 December 2013
Running Part 2
She curls up into the warmth of the undergrowth as big, strong arms gentle enfold her. She sighs slowly and snuggles up into the warmth of the body protecting her. A tear rolls gently down her upturned cheek and falls slowly from her chin onto the leaves below.
A hand moves across and with thumb outstretched, carefully wipes away the tear stain from her grubby face. A face leans forward and places a long, gentle kiss on forehead.
As the girl slumbers the presence holds gently onto her, cradling her in their arms.
The sun starts to rise and glints through the broken bracken onto the sleeping child.
She stirs in her sleep, nuzzling herself further into the warmth of the body next to her.
A bird flutters onto a nearby branch and quizzically tilts it's head as it looks down upon the girl lying alone in the undergrowth.
She looks cold and still, blood has pooled around her and run out onto the leafy debris. Her chest barely moves as she breathes. A tiny little broken body.
The bird looks up to the sky and opens it beak to sing out to the world.
A mournful eulogy of pain and fear and worry no one can understand as the world awakens and people start to move around the town. Footsteps upon footsteps walk past the child sleeping in the undergrowth, children laughing and adults gossiping, all going about their everyday business. Just like normal.
The bird moves closer to the street, singing out his mournful cry as he keeps one eye on the barely moving girl. He bursts from the bush singing loudly and dashes to and fro beside the people walking by.
A child running past starts to laugh and point at the funny little bird dancing around. His mother impatiently drags the child away toward the school.
The bird stops and looks down sadly then turns to gaze back at the child laying still in the bush.
Suddenly thunderous footsteps and slobbering breaths pounce upon the bird who flits into life straight into the sky. The dog pounces upward as the bird turns midflight and swallow dives straight into the bush.
A hand moves across and with thumb outstretched, carefully wipes away the tear stain from her grubby face. A face leans forward and places a long, gentle kiss on forehead.
As the girl slumbers the presence holds gently onto her, cradling her in their arms.
The sun starts to rise and glints through the broken bracken onto the sleeping child.
She stirs in her sleep, nuzzling herself further into the warmth of the body next to her.
A bird flutters onto a nearby branch and quizzically tilts it's head as it looks down upon the girl lying alone in the undergrowth.
She looks cold and still, blood has pooled around her and run out onto the leafy debris. Her chest barely moves as she breathes. A tiny little broken body.
The bird looks up to the sky and opens it beak to sing out to the world.
A mournful eulogy of pain and fear and worry no one can understand as the world awakens and people start to move around the town. Footsteps upon footsteps walk past the child sleeping in the undergrowth, children laughing and adults gossiping, all going about their everyday business. Just like normal.
The bird moves closer to the street, singing out his mournful cry as he keeps one eye on the barely moving girl. He bursts from the bush singing loudly and dashes to and fro beside the people walking by.
A child running past starts to laugh and point at the funny little bird dancing around. His mother impatiently drags the child away toward the school.
The bird stops and looks down sadly then turns to gaze back at the child laying still in the bush.
Suddenly thunderous footsteps and slobbering breaths pounce upon the bird who flits into life straight into the sky. The dog pounces upward as the bird turns midflight and swallow dives straight into the bush.
Sunday 8 December 2013
Running
She fled down the darkened street, hair streaming wildly in the wind and the rain, feet splashing barefoot through puddles, arm swaying frantically, heart pounding.
She turns to look behind as she runs, forever fearful of footsteps behind.
Rains drives down as the wind howls whilst she flees through intermittent rays of light spraying down from the street lamps above.
Car headlights swim up out of the blackness and rain and speed on past the fleeing girl. She turns off the main street and out of the streets vision.
Hurtling past gardens, of houses sleeping in the night, she runs down by the river, through the undergrowth and falls down upon the pebble shore next to the flowing river.
Laying there, gasping for breathe, she bends over, double up in pain as cramps tear through her body. She holds onto her stomach and raises her hand up to the moonlight to see it covered in blood.
Voices shouting in the night cause her to look around and she scrambles up off the pebble beach and into the trees beside the bank. She presses herself into the blackness of the undergrowth, pulling every part of her out of the moonlight.
The voices grow nearer, calling out her name, asking her to come home, telling her they love her as another cramp surges through her stomach and she bites her own hand to stop herself screaming out loud.
Footsteps come nearer down the path forewarning of the torch light they bring with them. She gently slides back toward the bank, ready to dive into the icy water should the feet find her. She cries silent tears, cascading down a dirty, tired face.
Voices now span across both sides of the water, there is only one way out as she looks wistfully at the moonlit dappled water. The footsteps move past her, they move past her undergrowth. She leans her head back against the tree stump and breathes a quiet sigh of relief, shoulders sagging, arms going limp.
The voices trail off into the darkness.
She pulls her tops off and separates her t-shirt from her jumper. Tearing it along the seams she constructs a make shift bandage across her wound and pulls her jumper back. She rubs her feet to warm them up then slides into the icy water and back tracks her way up stream.
When she has walked for half an hour in the other direction she pulls her near freezing body out of the river and lays quietly behind the houses edging the banks. When she hears no noise she moves furtively forward, hiding behind the coal bunkers at the back of the buildings. Moving quickly now she breaks out onto the street again, once more intermittently splattered with the orange glow of street lamps, glooming hazily out of the rain and the wind. She bends her head into her and walks briskly up the street, taking a short cut through the back of the houses and up on to the main estate.
Hidden out view, halfway up the hill is a den made by the local kids, everyone knows it's there yet no one knows it's there. She crawls inside, where it's out of the cold and the wind and finds a comforting nest of leaves and pine needles. She lays down and pulls herself up into the fetal position, wrapping her arms around her legs and against her stomach to hopefully stem the bleeding.
As she falls sleeps she hopes her friends find her in the morning before the others do.
She turns to look behind as she runs, forever fearful of footsteps behind.
Rains drives down as the wind howls whilst she flees through intermittent rays of light spraying down from the street lamps above.
Car headlights swim up out of the blackness and rain and speed on past the fleeing girl. She turns off the main street and out of the streets vision.
Hurtling past gardens, of houses sleeping in the night, she runs down by the river, through the undergrowth and falls down upon the pebble shore next to the flowing river.
Laying there, gasping for breathe, she bends over, double up in pain as cramps tear through her body. She holds onto her stomach and raises her hand up to the moonlight to see it covered in blood.
Voices shouting in the night cause her to look around and she scrambles up off the pebble beach and into the trees beside the bank. She presses herself into the blackness of the undergrowth, pulling every part of her out of the moonlight.
The voices grow nearer, calling out her name, asking her to come home, telling her they love her as another cramp surges through her stomach and she bites her own hand to stop herself screaming out loud.
Footsteps come nearer down the path forewarning of the torch light they bring with them. She gently slides back toward the bank, ready to dive into the icy water should the feet find her. She cries silent tears, cascading down a dirty, tired face.
Voices now span across both sides of the water, there is only one way out as she looks wistfully at the moonlit dappled water. The footsteps move past her, they move past her undergrowth. She leans her head back against the tree stump and breathes a quiet sigh of relief, shoulders sagging, arms going limp.
The voices trail off into the darkness.
She pulls her tops off and separates her t-shirt from her jumper. Tearing it along the seams she constructs a make shift bandage across her wound and pulls her jumper back. She rubs her feet to warm them up then slides into the icy water and back tracks her way up stream.
When she has walked for half an hour in the other direction she pulls her near freezing body out of the river and lays quietly behind the houses edging the banks. When she hears no noise she moves furtively forward, hiding behind the coal bunkers at the back of the buildings. Moving quickly now she breaks out onto the street again, once more intermittently splattered with the orange glow of street lamps, glooming hazily out of the rain and the wind. She bends her head into her and walks briskly up the street, taking a short cut through the back of the houses and up on to the main estate.
Hidden out view, halfway up the hill is a den made by the local kids, everyone knows it's there yet no one knows it's there. She crawls inside, where it's out of the cold and the wind and finds a comforting nest of leaves and pine needles. She lays down and pulls herself up into the fetal position, wrapping her arms around her legs and against her stomach to hopefully stem the bleeding.
As she falls sleeps she hopes her friends find her in the morning before the others do.
Rolling up to christmas
Trigger
It's that time of year again, of festivities and familes and friends, where everyone joins together to eat good food and swap presents, where children play with the boxes rather than the toys and grandma falls asleep snoring in the chair after having one cooking sherry too many.
It's a time of glossy adverts and cutesy songs, of films only shown at this time of year. Of turkeys and cranberries and baileys. Of socialising, putting up with the family, nativities and midnight mass.
It's a wonderful time of year, cosy and heart warming.
Hopefully this year will be similar for me.
Albeit, without the socialising and extended family but I hope for the peace and goodwill and spending time with my little family, however small it is.
My childhood memories aren't of the glossy, cutesy, once a year, lovey type of memories. The stark facts of my childhood Christmases were of fear, violence and trying not to be noticed.
And it still goes on today.
Too many children are still living in fear at christmas, too many are going to be spending the day treading on eggshells they can't see, hear, or predict.
Too many will think themselves lucky if they get through the day without a bruise or a tirade or a bloody face.
We need to stop turning a blind eye to this, to stop being controlled by a corporate, commercial brain washing of what christmas should be and start thinking, no, start doing something to see no child, no family lives in fear this christmas.
If it's not good enough for you, it's not good enough for anyone.
It's that time of year again, of festivities and familes and friends, where everyone joins together to eat good food and swap presents, where children play with the boxes rather than the toys and grandma falls asleep snoring in the chair after having one cooking sherry too many.
It's a time of glossy adverts and cutesy songs, of films only shown at this time of year. Of turkeys and cranberries and baileys. Of socialising, putting up with the family, nativities and midnight mass.
It's a wonderful time of year, cosy and heart warming.
Hopefully this year will be similar for me.
Albeit, without the socialising and extended family but I hope for the peace and goodwill and spending time with my little family, however small it is.
My childhood memories aren't of the glossy, cutesy, once a year, lovey type of memories. The stark facts of my childhood Christmases were of fear, violence and trying not to be noticed.
And it still goes on today.
Too many children are still living in fear at christmas, too many are going to be spending the day treading on eggshells they can't see, hear, or predict.
Too many will think themselves lucky if they get through the day without a bruise or a tirade or a bloody face.
We need to stop turning a blind eye to this, to stop being controlled by a corporate, commercial brain washing of what christmas should be and start thinking, no, start doing something to see no child, no family lives in fear this christmas.
If it's not good enough for you, it's not good enough for anyone.
Wednesday 4 December 2013
Homage
Trigger
I am writing this with a heavy heart while I wait to hear news of whether another survivor who is begging for help is ok, I really fear the worst and wish I could have done more for them so this place wasn't reached.
I have the utmost respect for all survivors. The path we walk is one filled with so much pain. Unbearable, devestating, pain.
When I started to deal with the abuse I had gone through and all the implications of what it meant to me, to my life, to the people around me I endured what felt like insurmountable pain.
I felt like I had been run through by an articulated truck and my entire being was nothing but a raw, gaping, bleeding hole. I was heavily sedated on anti depressants and all I could manage each day was to put one foot in front of the other.
I felt raw and pain.
I felt like I was ripped to shreds.
I felt like I was bleeding out.
I never want anyone to feel like that and I don't know how I managed to survive.
Today I got myself a tattoo, I have never been a tattoo person, it just isn't my thing. It's not that I don't like them, I just don't feel either way about them. I never thought I would get one.
I was inspired though, by the tattoo of another survivor, it was simple, beautiful and full of meaning. So today, whilst I'm waiting to hear if they are ok, I got the tattoo.
The tattooist said I'd regret it, my colleagues made innuendos about it but it speaks mountains and worlds to me.
It is an homage to every survivor, those who are no longer here, gone but never forgotten, those who are still here, fighting the fight every day, even when they feel beyond weary and those survivors yet to face this.
To you all, you are the bravest people to walk this earth, you'll never realise how special you are.
"Strength"
I am writing this with a heavy heart while I wait to hear news of whether another survivor who is begging for help is ok, I really fear the worst and wish I could have done more for them so this place wasn't reached.
I have the utmost respect for all survivors. The path we walk is one filled with so much pain. Unbearable, devestating, pain.
When I started to deal with the abuse I had gone through and all the implications of what it meant to me, to my life, to the people around me I endured what felt like insurmountable pain.
I felt like I had been run through by an articulated truck and my entire being was nothing but a raw, gaping, bleeding hole. I was heavily sedated on anti depressants and all I could manage each day was to put one foot in front of the other.
I felt raw and pain.
I felt like I was ripped to shreds.
I felt like I was bleeding out.
I never want anyone to feel like that and I don't know how I managed to survive.
Today I got myself a tattoo, I have never been a tattoo person, it just isn't my thing. It's not that I don't like them, I just don't feel either way about them. I never thought I would get one.
I was inspired though, by the tattoo of another survivor, it was simple, beautiful and full of meaning. So today, whilst I'm waiting to hear if they are ok, I got the tattoo.
The tattooist said I'd regret it, my colleagues made innuendos about it but it speaks mountains and worlds to me.
It is an homage to every survivor, those who are no longer here, gone but never forgotten, those who are still here, fighting the fight every day, even when they feel beyond weary and those survivors yet to face this.
To you all, you are the bravest people to walk this earth, you'll never realise how special you are.
"Strength"
Monday 2 December 2013
Circles
I've written and deleted this several times now. I don't know what to write. Again, unedited and raw.
I want to say thank you, I love you, I feel alright. I'm being so paranoid about everything, I feel like my brain has lost it completely. I'm reading too much into everything and I feel so alone.
I keep playing Rihanna's Diamonds over and over, my brain is totally addicted to it. I want to have that. I want to feel that with someone. I want to love and be loved, to hold and be held. I want to be something to someone.
More than just a thing, more than just a friend. I want someone to care for me, to want to be near me, to want to share things with me.
I feel whiny and selfish typing that but I'm beginning to realise that the voice inside my head telling me I'm unlovable is the voice of ghosts and not what is true or right to feel.
No one has a guide book to tell me how to get through this, no one knows what damage I have had or how the scars have formed, so no one can start to help me work through it.
All I can do is learn from you guys, is learn what is right and what is wrong and hope that I make the right decisions, move in the right direction, fight for something better, something that is worth me.
I can choose to let the good things in, I just need to fight the monsters out of my head, banish them to the depths of hell and not allow them to control me any more.
I can be happy, I can laugh, I can love.
The ghosts in my head don't have any right to me anymore, I escaped, I got free. I ran as fast as I could away from all of that even though the chains bound me for years and kept me close to it all. Like I was still attached by a bungee cord pinging me back every time I got too clever for myself. That cord started fraying though, with every run too far it frayed and now it's hanging by a thread, remnants of ghosts who never wanted anything good for me, never chose to see me, love me for the person I am.
It's hard to realise that I've never been loved, that all I was, was nothing.
The biggest step I have to take is telling myself that I love me, I want the best for me. I need to love myself.
I've spent the last few years learning how to do that, I've had to learn that it's ok to do that, that I am allowed to do that.
It's hard to do, it's hard to do when all your learned behaviour is rejection and violence. When every instance you've needed love has been met with a turned back or a punch.
It's hard to know that that is wrong, it takes strength to know there has to be another way.
And another way comes from you, from your souls, from your words, from your feelings, from the way you talk about the people you love.
I'm fighting a conflicting battle within and I need you to keep talking, to keep shouting, to keep screaming about how you love, how you feel, how those who love you keep you strong, keep you real, keep you alive.
I feel so scared and alone fighting this but I deserve more.
I want to say thank you, I love you, I feel alright. I'm being so paranoid about everything, I feel like my brain has lost it completely. I'm reading too much into everything and I feel so alone.
I keep playing Rihanna's Diamonds over and over, my brain is totally addicted to it. I want to have that. I want to feel that with someone. I want to love and be loved, to hold and be held. I want to be something to someone.
More than just a thing, more than just a friend. I want someone to care for me, to want to be near me, to want to share things with me.
I feel whiny and selfish typing that but I'm beginning to realise that the voice inside my head telling me I'm unlovable is the voice of ghosts and not what is true or right to feel.
No one has a guide book to tell me how to get through this, no one knows what damage I have had or how the scars have formed, so no one can start to help me work through it.
All I can do is learn from you guys, is learn what is right and what is wrong and hope that I make the right decisions, move in the right direction, fight for something better, something that is worth me.
I can choose to let the good things in, I just need to fight the monsters out of my head, banish them to the depths of hell and not allow them to control me any more.
I can be happy, I can laugh, I can love.
The ghosts in my head don't have any right to me anymore, I escaped, I got free. I ran as fast as I could away from all of that even though the chains bound me for years and kept me close to it all. Like I was still attached by a bungee cord pinging me back every time I got too clever for myself. That cord started fraying though, with every run too far it frayed and now it's hanging by a thread, remnants of ghosts who never wanted anything good for me, never chose to see me, love me for the person I am.
It's hard to realise that I've never been loved, that all I was, was nothing.
The biggest step I have to take is telling myself that I love me, I want the best for me. I need to love myself.
I've spent the last few years learning how to do that, I've had to learn that it's ok to do that, that I am allowed to do that.
It's hard to do, it's hard to do when all your learned behaviour is rejection and violence. When every instance you've needed love has been met with a turned back or a punch.
It's hard to know that that is wrong, it takes strength to know there has to be another way.
And another way comes from you, from your souls, from your words, from your feelings, from the way you talk about the people you love.
I'm fighting a conflicting battle within and I need you to keep talking, to keep shouting, to keep screaming about how you love, how you feel, how those who love you keep you strong, keep you real, keep you alive.
I feel so scared and alone fighting this but I deserve more.
Friday 29 November 2013
Unstable
Trigger. I have just written the following passage to try and get some of the anguish I'm going through out of my head. I haven't edited it or read it. I talk about suicidal ideation but I guarantee I will not do that. I have my child to stay here for. I apologise if it makes no sense.
I don't know where I am at the moment. So much has been going on and so many things have changed.
I can't tell how I feel, I feel everything and nothing.
I have returned to work after 5 years out doing hterapy, finally someone offered me a job and the sheer bliss of working with people who knew nothing about me and just took me for who I am has been unreal in such a positive way. It wasn't a perfect environment but it was an environment where I was just me, in my role. I did the work and chatted away, I was just me.
Roll on a few weeks and I don't know what's happened. Well that's a lie, I do know what's happened. Reality bit and she's bitten hard.
I know this is how my life is meant to be, I know when I live in a small town rural area and have a gagging order from a well known business person that this is how my life is meant to be.
I'm so sad and angry.
I spent five years doing therapy not to kill myself, I'm fighting an internal battle against all the conditioning of self hate and loathing I endured during my childhood, all the ghosts of the negativity I caused in the adults around. All the failures of not being good enough, of not being what they wanted me to be. Of being the wrong child, the personality, the one who could never get anything right, could never be right, could never give the adults around me what I thought they wanted.
I fought to beat that and when I reached out for help, no one connected, again. Like when I was a child. I open my mouth and tell my story and there's nothing there in the people whose ears I try to reach. I fail again, I fail to make you hear me. Something about me closes you to me and you don't see me, you don't hear what I'm telling you.
I didn't imagine this would happen. I didn't imagine when I told people that it would set me apart, the first time in my life I'm not running anymore and I want to build my life, to be accepted and I'm still outside.
I fight daily between what I what from life which I see other people achieving and what I actually get. I get that the majority of people are groomed to belive people like me are wrong and hateful. I get that.
But I want to scream I was a CHILD.
I was a child and I went through hell and you failed me.
You didn't see the abuse.
You told me off for not wearing a uniform and gave me detention when the reality was I wasn't given a uniform by my parents. I wasn't allowed a uniform and you you punished me for it. You held me back in school to care for my sibling and you punished me for not behaving properly, you denied me an education to care for my sibling and punished me when I found the work too easy. I wasn't a teacher, it wasn't my job to teach my sibling. It was yours and you left it to a CHILD.
Or how about the police, how about the nights I slept in the office in police station whilst you took photographs of the beatings my mother sustained whilst my step father screamed down the hallway how he was going to fucking kill her. Of the nights you would all turn up to take him away for breach of the peace and you'd look at me staring out of the window, you'd comment there was a child in there and you did NOTHING.
Or the judge, the judge who told my mother she had provoked my step father into hitting her, just another judge in line of judges from the south coast of england to the heart of scotland who told my mother and his wife before that the broken arms and broken faces they suffered were because they had provoked him.
All I can see now is the night I was in the kitchen with him and my step siblings and he flipped into a rage, smashing his own childs head into the oven.
That's what I'm fighting against, that level of violence, that the community and society around us told us was our fault.
Of nights running away and sleeping on strangers sofas because my mother was too scared to go.
Of the night I tried to escape by taking an overdose, of having a tube shoved down my throat, my stomach pumped and in the morning being taken back home.
I learnt from that. I learnt no one would help, no one sees, so I left myself. Mentally, physically I left myself. I woke up and I drank, I took pills, I slept where I fell and I overdosed more times than I care to remember but it never worked. I couldn't even do that properly.
I was a piece of meat, a thing for who ever to sleep with and I don't remember because I drank.
I had no out.
And now, now I'm older and people tell me that I was abused, that that was rape, sexual violence, trauma, wrong.
And you turn your back again, you blame me for being wrong, for not being of the right character, for being........... I don't know.
I don't know why other survivors are more succesful. I don't know why I keep meeting people who blame me for what happened.
Maybe I do know why but that thought scares me and isn't one I'm mentally in a place to process at the moment.
All I can do at the moment is try to stop my brain wigging out with escape plans and fantasy. Of dreams of living in world where people help and support survivors to bring the perpetrators to justice and stop more child being abused.
It isn't going to happen, we live in a country where children are raped and abused and the system still fails. The reality is grim.
I don't have an out.
And now, now I'm in a situation where I have told people before and they reacted badly, they bullied me then put a media gag on me and continued to harass me in my home through rumours and fear and their desire to make it with the celebrities.
But I took a pro active approach with my new job and told them. Telling strangers you are a CSA survivor is the hardest thing to do, especially when they have no experience of it but they know what you mean. Seeing two strangers one with tears in their eyes and the other closed off and thinking inwardly is tough. It's tough to look them in the eye. When they sit around chatting about their own kids and go inwardly quiet when they look at you, when they show their distress for you on their face.
When you know that you can't say too much for fear of ........... scaring them, one word too much and their brain will close off, they are not in a position where their life allows them to think of it.
But maybe I have on hope, one who does actually see me, who maybe won't close the door....
and I'm scared in case I'm wrong.
I don't know where I am at the moment. So much has been going on and so many things have changed.
I can't tell how I feel, I feel everything and nothing.
I have returned to work after 5 years out doing hterapy, finally someone offered me a job and the sheer bliss of working with people who knew nothing about me and just took me for who I am has been unreal in such a positive way. It wasn't a perfect environment but it was an environment where I was just me, in my role. I did the work and chatted away, I was just me.
Roll on a few weeks and I don't know what's happened. Well that's a lie, I do know what's happened. Reality bit and she's bitten hard.
I know this is how my life is meant to be, I know when I live in a small town rural area and have a gagging order from a well known business person that this is how my life is meant to be.
I'm so sad and angry.
I spent five years doing therapy not to kill myself, I'm fighting an internal battle against all the conditioning of self hate and loathing I endured during my childhood, all the ghosts of the negativity I caused in the adults around. All the failures of not being good enough, of not being what they wanted me to be. Of being the wrong child, the personality, the one who could never get anything right, could never be right, could never give the adults around me what I thought they wanted.
I fought to beat that and when I reached out for help, no one connected, again. Like when I was a child. I open my mouth and tell my story and there's nothing there in the people whose ears I try to reach. I fail again, I fail to make you hear me. Something about me closes you to me and you don't see me, you don't hear what I'm telling you.
I didn't imagine this would happen. I didn't imagine when I told people that it would set me apart, the first time in my life I'm not running anymore and I want to build my life, to be accepted and I'm still outside.
I fight daily between what I what from life which I see other people achieving and what I actually get. I get that the majority of people are groomed to belive people like me are wrong and hateful. I get that.
But I want to scream I was a CHILD.
I was a child and I went through hell and you failed me.
You didn't see the abuse.
You told me off for not wearing a uniform and gave me detention when the reality was I wasn't given a uniform by my parents. I wasn't allowed a uniform and you you punished me for it. You held me back in school to care for my sibling and you punished me for not behaving properly, you denied me an education to care for my sibling and punished me when I found the work too easy. I wasn't a teacher, it wasn't my job to teach my sibling. It was yours and you left it to a CHILD.
Or how about the police, how about the nights I slept in the office in police station whilst you took photographs of the beatings my mother sustained whilst my step father screamed down the hallway how he was going to fucking kill her. Of the nights you would all turn up to take him away for breach of the peace and you'd look at me staring out of the window, you'd comment there was a child in there and you did NOTHING.
Or the judge, the judge who told my mother she had provoked my step father into hitting her, just another judge in line of judges from the south coast of england to the heart of scotland who told my mother and his wife before that the broken arms and broken faces they suffered were because they had provoked him.
All I can see now is the night I was in the kitchen with him and my step siblings and he flipped into a rage, smashing his own childs head into the oven.
That's what I'm fighting against, that level of violence, that the community and society around us told us was our fault.
Of nights running away and sleeping on strangers sofas because my mother was too scared to go.
Of the night I tried to escape by taking an overdose, of having a tube shoved down my throat, my stomach pumped and in the morning being taken back home.
I learnt from that. I learnt no one would help, no one sees, so I left myself. Mentally, physically I left myself. I woke up and I drank, I took pills, I slept where I fell and I overdosed more times than I care to remember but it never worked. I couldn't even do that properly.
I was a piece of meat, a thing for who ever to sleep with and I don't remember because I drank.
I had no out.
And now, now I'm older and people tell me that I was abused, that that was rape, sexual violence, trauma, wrong.
And you turn your back again, you blame me for being wrong, for not being of the right character, for being........... I don't know.
I don't know why other survivors are more succesful. I don't know why I keep meeting people who blame me for what happened.
Maybe I do know why but that thought scares me and isn't one I'm mentally in a place to process at the moment.
All I can do at the moment is try to stop my brain wigging out with escape plans and fantasy. Of dreams of living in world where people help and support survivors to bring the perpetrators to justice and stop more child being abused.
It isn't going to happen, we live in a country where children are raped and abused and the system still fails. The reality is grim.
I don't have an out.
And now, now I'm in a situation where I have told people before and they reacted badly, they bullied me then put a media gag on me and continued to harass me in my home through rumours and fear and their desire to make it with the celebrities.
But I took a pro active approach with my new job and told them. Telling strangers you are a CSA survivor is the hardest thing to do, especially when they have no experience of it but they know what you mean. Seeing two strangers one with tears in their eyes and the other closed off and thinking inwardly is tough. It's tough to look them in the eye. When they sit around chatting about their own kids and go inwardly quiet when they look at you, when they show their distress for you on their face.
When you know that you can't say too much for fear of ........... scaring them, one word too much and their brain will close off, they are not in a position where their life allows them to think of it.
But maybe I have on hope, one who does actually see me, who maybe won't close the door....
and I'm scared in case I'm wrong.
Friday 4 October 2013
TW : PTSD, Body Memories and Me
Going through therapy, as a survivor, you learn that all those weird aches and pains you have are connected to the abuse you went through.
I have spent years suffering from neck pain, I have spent years having this investigated from a+e admissions to specialists to scans to physiotherapy with nothing being found to be wrong.
Absolutely nothing, no infections, no abnormalities, no degeneration, nothing.
But, the medics still investigated it, still treated me with care and respect. All because these neck problems stop my breathing.
Yes, you read that right, these neck problems stop my breathing. My breathe is cut off, I cannot breathe.
It isn't asthma, it isn't abnormal swallowing or apnoea or any other physical, treatable condition.
It is a body memory.
My abuser attempted to strangle me, as a kid, when he abused me. He placed his huge adult hand around my tiny child neck and pressed his thumb hard against my windpipe.
Re read that.
I survived that, for some reason. He was disturbed doing it and dropped me to the floor.
That experience I blocked out for a long time. I simply could not remember it. Even when, as an adult, I had moments of being unable to breathe followed by gasping chocking fits. Even when I stopped breathing in my sleep, awakened by the chocking fits.
It wasn't until I had a mental breakdown and started remembering the abuse and learnt about body memories, that I was able to connect all my neck problems to the abuse I endured.
I have had to relive the abuse during therapy. It isn't pleasant to do this. To work through flashbacks.
Body memories are physical flashbacks rather than mind flashbacks and therapy needs to help you understand, cope with and work through both types of flashbacks.
I have spent the last five years doing that and now, when my breath stops I can calmly deal with it.
I look after myself, give myself a wee hug, tell myself I'm safe now, that it is no longer real, no longer happening.
Of course it still causes problems, I still have problems with eating and drinking. Dribbling tea everywhere is hazard but I can laugh it off now. I can wake, chocking from sleep but calm myself and try to sleep again.
I survived
Sunday 22 September 2013
How not to eat people, hatchling level
The Trials of Graduating from Hatchling Level
Here at the Dragonista Academy you have to learn how not to eat people. It is a basic requirement of graduating to fledgling Dragon Level and beyond until you are at Dragon Master Level.
I have failed.
Unlike a lot of other dragons this basic requirement is something I just cannot quite grasp. People are just so tasty and yummy.
You can pickle them, toast them or pop them in a stew. They can be drizzled and griddled and barbecued. You can fillet them, mince them and dice them. The multitudinous ways to eat people make it incredible difficult to concentrate on not actually eating them.
No one would notice if I just sidled up to the back of a group and picked one of them up with my claws would they?
Or I could hide behind a chimney and in the middle of the night, just ever so gently open a bedroom window and pop one in the roasting pot.
With a bit of rosemary and sage.
Woe is this life I lead with some many tasty humans around. All scuttling and rushing this way and that. Oh how to choose the most scrumptious specimen.
I'll just have to try them all.
Here at the Dragonista Academy you have to learn how not to eat people. It is a basic requirement of graduating to fledgling Dragon Level and beyond until you are at Dragon Master Level.
I have failed.
Unlike a lot of other dragons this basic requirement is something I just cannot quite grasp. People are just so tasty and yummy.
You can pickle them, toast them or pop them in a stew. They can be drizzled and griddled and barbecued. You can fillet them, mince them and dice them. The multitudinous ways to eat people make it incredible difficult to concentrate on not actually eating them.
No one would notice if I just sidled up to the back of a group and picked one of them up with my claws would they?
Or I could hide behind a chimney and in the middle of the night, just ever so gently open a bedroom window and pop one in the roasting pot.
With a bit of rosemary and sage.
Woe is this life I lead with some many tasty humans around. All scuttling and rushing this way and that. Oh how to choose the most scrumptious specimen.
I'll just have to try them all.
Monday 16 September 2013
Apple Farm
Chapter One
Tolly peeps out from between two slightly soggy leaves and sticks her nose up in the air, sniffing left and right and back and forth.
When she smells nothing but earth and grass and rain she pokes her head and shoulders out of the tree and taking a deep breath she dashes out of the tree and darts across the grass towards the gray standing stone.
Arriving at the stone she presses her back flat against it and quickly looks all around. The wind ruffles her fur and whips blades of grass around her paws. Whiskers twitching and ears listening, she leans into the wind, peering hard to see if the big mean crow was slinking around.
Looking this way and that way she senses a dip in the wind, gathers herself up and dashes out across the field.
Her little body streaks across the grass, legs almost a blur, fur slicked back by the wind, eyes barely open, heading across the open patch of grass straight towards the bramble bush.
She spies a gap in the undergrowth and turns her body to aim for it. Her heart pounding, exhilaration running through her entire being, she speeds up as huge, juicy, luscious berries grow bigger in her eye line.
Diving into the undergrowth she leans against a bramble and takes a moment to catch her breath.
She cannot wait too long though as the deep, sweet smell of blackberries permeates the air all around her. Looking up and around she spots a particularly juicy berry almost bursting at its seams.
Gently climbing up to the berry she finds a comfy spot as close to the berry as possible and wiping her mouth carefully she leans in and sinks her teeth into its flesh.
Gloriously divine juices burst in her mouth and down her throat. She tears off a mouthful and devours it, savouring every last drop.
Sunday 8 September 2013
Scotland in a frame
Myths and Legends in the Wild Scottish Wolds
Glancing through the snow lashed trees, across the frozen loch, where, rumour has it, a monster fish lurks, even rarer than Nessie.
Mary McDonalds river of eternal youth, shrouded by the Cuillins of Skye (taken during hurricane Bawbag).
Tucked away on an island shore, carefully tended to, lies the amber liquid of the Angels, who always take their 10% share.
Down long disused roads you'll often find faeire cairns and standing stones.
Be careful when you reach the beach for there the Selkies wait to charm any mans soul.
Sit by the loch sides edge and watch the mist roll swiftly across the water.
Hidden Depths
Glancing through the snow lashed trees, across the frozen loch, where, rumour has it, a monster fish lurks, even rarer than Nessie.
Mystical River
Mary McDonalds river of eternal youth, shrouded by the Cuillins of Skye (taken during hurricane Bawbag).
Hidden Gems
Tucked away on an island shore, carefully tended to, lies the amber liquid of the Angels, who always take their 10% share.
Faerie Cairns
Down long disused roads you'll often find faeire cairns and standing stones.
Selkies
Be careful when you reach the beach for there the Selkies wait to charm any mans soul.
Mists of Auld
Eilean Doonan
Across the bridge the Castle lies beneath the snow blanketed mountains.
Saturday 7 September 2013
In the still of the forest
In the still of the forest
Another therapy photo.
I used to go camping a lot but with my nreakdown I was too scared too, too overpowered by flashbacks and hyper vigilance.
This is from a selection of photographs taken when a couple of people camped out with me, just yards from my home, on the edge of a loch.
It was a wonderful night, especially watching the mist roll in across the loch and the moon dappling on the waters surface.
Friday 6 September 2013
Swallow Roof
A few hours ago a few swallows started trying flying onto the roof and windows trying to get away from the wind and rain.
Then a few more arrived
Chatting to a Swallow
And a few more
And a few more
Hanging out by the window
These were mostly fledglings
Sitting on the edge
Hundreds all over
They covered my roof and the power lines but not any of the other roofs
Just after this shot they all fled after a buzzard dropped out of the sky on them.
It was a bizarrely amazing experience to see them all flying onto the roof and around the house and watching them watching me.
It sent the cats into a mad chirruping frenzy though!
Sunday 1 September 2013
Of small hopes and floating boats
Curls spurl on a whitened raft
Of waves and salt and spray
Take winds of blowing breath
Freshen pools of blue and green
Long tides swish in to sandy shores
To return to darkness deep
Leaving swathes of seaweed
Pebbles and driftwood still
Floating arms dapple surface
Of crystal waters calming
Bathing warmly in sunlight rays
On rocking rafting wood
Lie peacefully here as one
Watching gulls circling high
Fishes darting beneath hands
On coral beach sands
Of waves and salt and spray
Take winds of blowing breath
Freshen pools of blue and green
Long tides swish in to sandy shores
To return to darkness deep
Leaving swathes of seaweed
Pebbles and driftwood still
Floating arms dapple surface
Of crystal waters calming
Bathing warmly in sunlight rays
On rocking rafting wood
Lie peacefully here as one
Watching gulls circling high
Fishes darting beneath hands
On coral beach sands
Thursday 29 August 2013
You are not worth it
Part of being a survivor is relearning social interactions to exclude negative and abusive people.
It can be difficult to do when abusive relationships are all you know and learning about red flags and how abusers can charm you is fundamental to seeing through those who don't really care about anything but their own power.
Bullies come in all shapes and sizes and have the insular goal of bringing you down to their level.
Red flags involve such things as stating what issues their target has whilst denying they themselves have issues.
This is a screaming red flag.
Every single person has issues, everyone has things to work through and no one person is free from continual self growth, healing and development.
An abusive person fails to see that they are not perfect and projects their issues onto the target they deem to not have these issues.
It is not difficult to see this behaviour once you realise what is happening and it's at this point you can say "you are not worth it" and, at least, walk away emotionally, even if it is physically not an option.
It takes great strength of character to admit your faults, love yourself and work your own faults through.
It takes an abuser to blame other people.
Sunday 25 August 2013
Smacked Down
Hospital walls, floating floors,
bouncing around,
Smacked down, flung back,
Melting faces, sterile places, can't
stop, sides hurting,
Laughing,
Colours stream, brain screams, can't
breathe,
Smacked down, flung back,
Laughing,
Can't stop, drum beats, crawling the
walls, strobe lights,
Laughing,
Sides splitting, tears streaming, Doc's
laughing,
Smacked down, flung back
Stomach hurts, can't breathe, won't
stop, brain screams,
Lights stream, floating curtains,
sterile sheets,
Laughing,
Brain crawling, people folding,
electric beeps,
Smacked down, flung back,
Laughing,
Can't stop, Can't breathe, Can't feel,
Brain screams,
Smacked down, flung back,
Laughing,
Psyche.
I wrote this in a+e in 2008 after a horrible reaction to anti depressants, I couldn't stop going from hysterical laughter to horrendous feelings of suicide. There wasn't anything the medical staff could do, I had to wait for the pills to wear off which took about 2 days. I was kept in a+e for about 6 hrs and then babysat at a friends house. It wasn't a good experience but has taught me the value of starting in small amounts for any new medication and then increasing the dosage if I don't react.
This experience really annoys me because I could have not sought help and actually committed suicide, leaving my child on his own. I have had suicidal tendencies but I do not want to die, that's not what my suicidal thoughts are about. I was unable to live with the trauma I'd received and I had no coping strategies. After therapy and learning how to care for myself by providing the love I wasn't given as a child I have overcome most of the suicidal tendencies and, although often grumpy, I do love being alive and being a mum.
Saturday 24 August 2013
Duvet days
Some days are not worth getting out of bed, they're wrong, you're wrong, the bleak endless monotony of failing over and over again growls at you like an angry black monster hiding under the bed, so you pull yourself back in, tucking the duvet all around you and pull it up over your head.
You're engulfed in softness and fluffiness and comfort, cocooned by a great warm marshmallow, keeping all the dark and growliness away.
And off you go, down a make believe well of your own choice, where you are the heroine and you can have all that you want or need.
You can speed down a flower filled path through a woodland on a galloping gray horse, hair flying wildly behind you as you duck beneath branches and jump over fallen trees. The birds singing loudly from the canopy.
Before you the path opens up onto a meadow and smoke billows from the chimneys of houses scattered around the middle of the clearing. The hustle and bustle of people working and children playing replaces the singing of the birds.
You slow your horse to a trot and then a walk and slide deftly from her back. Your friend Cara rushes up to greet you as you sling the rabbits from your back, dropping them at the feet of your horse.
You hug Cara and tell her how you caught the three rabbits in the forest as she picks them up. She heads over to where other people are preparing meals and starts to skin the rabbits. Turning back to your horse you unsaddle her and brush her down then turn her out onto the meadow to rest with the other horses.
Children rush past you in a haze of dust, screeching and laughing and shouting with each other.
The sun basks warmly in the sky as you take a rest upon a stump bench by the gently crackling fire.
Suddenly the childrens laughter turns to screams and the thunder of hooves comes thickly from the dark wood. Out of the trees come pouring hoards of men upon giant horses, slaying people with swords and spears as they stampede through the meadow.
You rush from the bench, crying out for Cara, as you watch a horseman heading straight for her. She dives under the table just as the sword sweeps down inches from where she stood. Running over you take hold of her arm and pull her to you.
Grabbing a large axe from the kitchen table you turn to help the other villagers fight off the dark horsemen.
Leaping across tables you jump high in the air and swing you axe low, cleanly slicing off the head of one of the horsemen. You spin round and run towards another, screaming a warrior roar, as you see them about to slay a child. Pulling your arm back you use your full force to throw the axe straight into the heart of the horseman and sweep up the child into your arms. The horseman falls from his steed as you grab the horses mane and leap into the saddle with the child. Grabbing a long spear resting against a table you turn to the rest of the horsemen and help the others to banish them from your village.
The meadow lays in ruins and people are strewn around crying over fallen loved ones and shouting for their families. A mother runs towards you and the child cries out for her. You lift the child into her arms as they embrace each other.
Jumping down from the horse you run back to Cara and start helping with clearing up the dead horsemen and preparing for the villagers funeral pyres.
Late into the evening the village works, dragging the horsemen into a forbidden part of the forest and laying curses around blackened marking stumps.
In the village several pyres are prepared for the villagers and the people lament a mournful song of loss whilst goddesses lay blessings on the fallen villagers.
Altogether the fallen villagers are raised onto the burning pyres and as the flames lick up towards the sky the villagers slowly fall into slumber.
You're engulfed in softness and fluffiness and comfort, cocooned by a great warm marshmallow, keeping all the dark and growliness away.
And off you go, down a make believe well of your own choice, where you are the heroine and you can have all that you want or need.
You can speed down a flower filled path through a woodland on a galloping gray horse, hair flying wildly behind you as you duck beneath branches and jump over fallen trees. The birds singing loudly from the canopy.
Before you the path opens up onto a meadow and smoke billows from the chimneys of houses scattered around the middle of the clearing. The hustle and bustle of people working and children playing replaces the singing of the birds.
You slow your horse to a trot and then a walk and slide deftly from her back. Your friend Cara rushes up to greet you as you sling the rabbits from your back, dropping them at the feet of your horse.
You hug Cara and tell her how you caught the three rabbits in the forest as she picks them up. She heads over to where other people are preparing meals and starts to skin the rabbits. Turning back to your horse you unsaddle her and brush her down then turn her out onto the meadow to rest with the other horses.
Children rush past you in a haze of dust, screeching and laughing and shouting with each other.
The sun basks warmly in the sky as you take a rest upon a stump bench by the gently crackling fire.
Suddenly the childrens laughter turns to screams and the thunder of hooves comes thickly from the dark wood. Out of the trees come pouring hoards of men upon giant horses, slaying people with swords and spears as they stampede through the meadow.
You rush from the bench, crying out for Cara, as you watch a horseman heading straight for her. She dives under the table just as the sword sweeps down inches from where she stood. Running over you take hold of her arm and pull her to you.
Grabbing a large axe from the kitchen table you turn to help the other villagers fight off the dark horsemen.
Leaping across tables you jump high in the air and swing you axe low, cleanly slicing off the head of one of the horsemen. You spin round and run towards another, screaming a warrior roar, as you see them about to slay a child. Pulling your arm back you use your full force to throw the axe straight into the heart of the horseman and sweep up the child into your arms. The horseman falls from his steed as you grab the horses mane and leap into the saddle with the child. Grabbing a long spear resting against a table you turn to the rest of the horsemen and help the others to banish them from your village.
The meadow lays in ruins and people are strewn around crying over fallen loved ones and shouting for their families. A mother runs towards you and the child cries out for her. You lift the child into her arms as they embrace each other.
Jumping down from the horse you run back to Cara and start helping with clearing up the dead horsemen and preparing for the villagers funeral pyres.
Late into the evening the village works, dragging the horsemen into a forbidden part of the forest and laying curses around blackened marking stumps.
In the village several pyres are prepared for the villagers and the people lament a mournful song of loss whilst goddesses lay blessings on the fallen villagers.
Altogether the fallen villagers are raised onto the burning pyres and as the flames lick up towards the sky the villagers slowly fall into slumber.
Friday 23 August 2013
Crazy is as crazy does
You asked me to meet you on the sandy beach,
Bitter-sweet memories of camels and typewriters,
Of bullies and bullied and broken oven doors.
You asked me to meet you on the sandy beach,
I baulked and I walked, not knowing too,
Now I don't know pandora's key hold,
Where do you reside with memories lies,
If I move forward will you live behind,
Or is it better where you fly,
It's a triangle in a pentagon,
Where the horses eat pears,
Of gremlins and witches,
Flooded ceilings,
Heart breaks,
For you,
Three out of five ain't bad,
Four out of five ain't sad,
Five out of five ain't had,
Will you meet me by the sliding stair doors.
Unsureity and made up words
I haven't posted anything for a while.
However, I have a back log of drafts in various states of completeness awaiting either the delete or publish button.
I haven't posted because I've had a mental fall-back. A fall-back to the darker days of my breakdown when I was trying to deal with being a survivor by researching everything I could about child abuse.
It was a never ending rabbit warren of victims, over and over, failed and punished by those around them.
It lead me to some stark places of paranoia and despair in the darker recesses if my mind and I don't know how I managed to crawl out of it, but I did and I don't want to go back to that place.
If I do, I know I won't make it back and will spend the little life I have left, dribbling into a metaphorical straight jacket.
The thing which comforts me and brings me back to a level I can cope with, is that, through the entire history of human writing, these things have been written about.
It's all there in plain view once you are willing to see it.
The great literatists of eons past have repeated over and over the murky cycle of abuse which permeates throughout the centuries.
They knew, they wrote.
They told it in fantasy and legends and myths.
They explained everything and that's why they're the greats.
And still today, the great writers come, concocting fantasy realms integrated with the present to give you the escape, comfort and comeradiree to know you aren't alone, you aren't the only one and sometimes, the only way to cope, the only way to exist, is through make believe.
It's less painful than the truth.
Saturday 10 August 2013
Jam, Jam, not the Jam
A non-cook's approach to Jam making
(This blog comes with a warning about cats and "presents")
Last year I tried learning how to make jam. It was a disaster.
I over cooked the jam to the point of cement and added citric acid. To be fair, the recipe I had, said to add citric acid but, never again will I use the evil stuff.
(Teen even banned it after I mistook it for sugar and added it to his cuppa. Whoops.)
So, a year has passed and the time to make jam has arrived again. I have been putting it off but my freezer is now full of raspberries and I still have to forage for brambles. There are twice the amount of bramble bushes than raspberry bushes so I really need to do something with them.
So here goes, this is how I made jam.
Ingredients
1 cat undertaking a bizarre insanity episode where it forgets it knows what anything is, this is to distract you from jam making whilst you google "Cat has suddenly gone insane" and read lots of replies stating "erm, that's normal for cats".
1 cat coming home with a "present", this is so you can practise praising said cat whilst pathetically screaming "is it DEAD".
1 further cat playing with it, (it was dead and not wholly entire), this gives you the opportunity to get trapped on the corner of the sofa whilst said cat throws around a disintegrating "present" whilst you scream "PLEASE won't somebody remove it, there's bits EVERYWHERE".
(I did wash my hands before commencing with the jam making)
Sterilised jam jars, you can sterilise them in boiling water (and wash your hands at the same time).
Twitter, so you can get badgered by LucyMooFace into actually making the jam.
A teenager (much needed taste tester, there is no way, after last time that I'm going to be trying it) + (is easy to designate them "present remover")
Numerous recipes and on line comments, this is so you can learn other peoples mistakes and not do them.
Numerous book recipes, which then get used to prop up the phone so you can listen to some tunes.
8oz of frozen raspberries, they aren't meant to be frozen I just forgot to get them out of the freezer.
4oz of sugar, all the recipes stated equal amounts of raspberries to sugar but after reading the on line comments it said to halve it. I like to keep a used vanilla pod in my sugar as it adds a lovely flavour.
Utensils
Stock pot, I use a huge stock pot, I needed to as I managed to splash the jam everywhere.
Face guard and overalls, because I managed to splash the jam everywhere.
Rolling pin, to mash the frozen raspberries.
Wooden spoon, it is easier to stir the jam with a spoon than with a rolling pin.
A bowl, this is to warm the sugar.
Method
Put the raspberries in the pot and bash with the rolling pin whilst heating.
Warm the sugar in the microwave, keep the microwave next to the stove so you don't have to stretch whilst stirring.
Boil the raspberries, not full heat, and lob in the sugar.
Stir whilst boiling and using eye protection.
Put a spoon in and drip the jam off the spoon. If it is runny it isn't done.
Repeat spoon test, whilst boiling and stirring, until the jam drips off like honey, runny honey not solid honey. You could use a jam thermometer but where's the fun in that!
Pour into jam jars, wait until they have cooled before putting the lid on otherwise you get a crusty top. I discovered this as I did this.
Viola
(This blog comes with a warning about cats and "presents")
Last year I tried learning how to make jam. It was a disaster.
I over cooked the jam to the point of cement and added citric acid. To be fair, the recipe I had, said to add citric acid but, never again will I use the evil stuff.
(Teen even banned it after I mistook it for sugar and added it to his cuppa. Whoops.)
So, a year has passed and the time to make jam has arrived again. I have been putting it off but my freezer is now full of raspberries and I still have to forage for brambles. There are twice the amount of bramble bushes than raspberry bushes so I really need to do something with them.
So here goes, this is how I made jam.
Ingredients
1 cat undertaking a bizarre insanity episode where it forgets it knows what anything is, this is to distract you from jam making whilst you google "Cat has suddenly gone insane" and read lots of replies stating "erm, that's normal for cats".
1 cat coming home with a "present", this is so you can practise praising said cat whilst pathetically screaming "is it DEAD".
1 further cat playing with it, (it was dead and not wholly entire), this gives you the opportunity to get trapped on the corner of the sofa whilst said cat throws around a disintegrating "present" whilst you scream "PLEASE won't somebody remove it, there's bits EVERYWHERE".
(I did wash my hands before commencing with the jam making)
Sterilised jam jars, you can sterilise them in boiling water (and wash your hands at the same time).
Twitter, so you can get badgered by LucyMooFace into actually making the jam.
A teenager (much needed taste tester, there is no way, after last time that I'm going to be trying it) + (is easy to designate them "present remover")
Numerous recipes and on line comments, this is so you can learn other peoples mistakes and not do them.
Numerous book recipes, which then get used to prop up the phone so you can listen to some tunes.
8oz of frozen raspberries, they aren't meant to be frozen I just forgot to get them out of the freezer.
4oz of sugar, all the recipes stated equal amounts of raspberries to sugar but after reading the on line comments it said to halve it. I like to keep a used vanilla pod in my sugar as it adds a lovely flavour.
Utensils
Stock pot, I use a huge stock pot, I needed to as I managed to splash the jam everywhere.
Face guard and overalls, because I managed to splash the jam everywhere.
Rolling pin, to mash the frozen raspberries.
Wooden spoon, it is easier to stir the jam with a spoon than with a rolling pin.
A bowl, this is to warm the sugar.
Method
Put the raspberries in the pot and bash with the rolling pin whilst heating.
Warm the sugar in the microwave, keep the microwave next to the stove so you don't have to stretch whilst stirring.
Boil the raspberries, not full heat, and lob in the sugar.
Stir whilst boiling and using eye protection.
Put a spoon in and drip the jam off the spoon. If it is runny it isn't done.
Repeat spoon test, whilst boiling and stirring, until the jam drips off like honey, runny honey not solid honey. You could use a jam thermometer but where's the fun in that!
Pour into jam jars, wait until they have cooled before putting the lid on otherwise you get a crusty top. I discovered this as I did this.
Viola
Whilst you're waiting for it to cool build a cat den in the kitchen with the picnic blanket then write a blog whilst waiting for insanity kitty to decide he is insane enough to sleep on the keyboard.
Get distracted by kitty cuddles and state "I'll update the taste test tomorrow after baking scones" that's "sc-on-s"
p.s. I love glass lidded jars, you can probably tell from the picture, they are so handy and useable for anything, get some,
Bye
Wednesday 7 August 2013
It is not inappropriate language
There has been a child sexual abuse case brought to the headlines recently after it transpired the offender was given a suspended sentence due to his victim being labelled a "sexual predator".
A thirteen year old girl being abused by a forty one year old man is an abuse victim not a sexual predator.
The forty one year old man was given a suspended sentence.
Even though, on top of abusing a child, he was charged with MAKING, yes MAKING images of abused children.
Yet his VICTIM was accused and his sentence suspended.
This is absolutely disgusting, abhorrent behaviour on the part of the judge to agree with the victimisation of a child and ignoring the man had also MADE images of abused children.
The only conclusion I can come up with is the judge themselves sees children as sexual beings and not as children capable of being ABUSED by paedophiles.
A judge calling a child a sexual predator screams red flags as a non abuser would not be able to comprehend a CHILD as a predator.
A judge making observations like that should not be allowed to preside over cases of sexual abuse which involve children especially and an investigation should be made into the images the man made.
Where are the children abused in the images?
Who did the man supply the images to?
This case is a sad and dangerous situation, sad that there could be more than one victim and dangerous because it shows there are more paedophiles and victims involved.
The justice system needs to acknowledge the abusers and abuse apologists within their industry and enforce a standard of behaviour set to ensure that abusers and apologists are not allowed to work on cases where they can further abuse victims.
This is why victims do not come forward. There is no protection in the justice system.
Monday 5 August 2013
The Great Distraction
Or .....
How I would do anything not to talk on the phone.
I have had to overcome many fears over the last few years, fears which came about with my breakdown.
I'd been pretty bomb proof before my breakdown, I could go to work, to a pub, shopping, away for the weekend, out with friends. All the normal things everyone does on a day to day basis.
When I had my breakdown suddenly 99% of life experiences scared me to death. I couldn't go out, I couldn't sit by the window, I couldn't go near the front door. I was a useless, fear frozen mess barely able to overcome the fear enough to go downstairs every day. I literally jumped at shadows.
It's not a place I want to go back to.
Through therapy, and because I had no one else to do it, I've managed to overcome most of those fears. I'm still not 100% and doubt I'll ever be but by using coping techniques and not pushing myself I can pretty much function, even if it means doing the task as quickly as possible. I don't even need medication anymore.
The one thing I can't do is answer the phone. I have no idea why I fear the phone, I don't know if it's connected to any abuse. I do know that every time the phones rings I jump out of my skin, I feel sick and I want to cry.
I think it's to do with having someone talking in my ear, it's obviously to do with having my abuser do that to me. Whispering in my ear, even thinking about it makes me cringe and my skin crawl. It makes me feel sick.
I don't know how to get over this fear, this issue. I really, really can't cope with phone calls. Some days I'm glad I don't have friends as they'd want to call and that would keep triggering me. It's not a normal trigger, there's no image or flashback, it's just a sensation of dread.
The only way I've found of getting around it is by missing the call, calming down and then phoning them back using speaker phone. This I can cope with but then I still can't make calls of my own back. I can't just phone someone I'm acquainted with and make up chit chat.
This I think stems from my family, from them either constantly calling or being funny if I called them.
I know I need to leave them behind but it's really difficult. These are the people I've known all my life and none of them want to have anything to do with me. That hurts too much. It makes the non abusive parts of my childhood seem worthless. It makes me feel like I have no base, no foundation.
I have to make my own foundation but the older I get the harder it seems.
Everyone has their own foundations, built with their own friends and family they've known for years. The desperate stranger hanging in the wings is invisible, not in a nasty way just that peoples lives are already as full as they need or want and I just feel stupid for trying sometimes.
I need other people though, I think. Maybe I just need the parents I didn't have, maybe I just need someone to have my back once in a while, to moan to when life's grim, to laugh with when life's good.
Maybe there's a lot of people out there who don't have it but do have a masquerade of having it.
Maybe my next post will be about loneliness.
How I would do anything not to talk on the phone.
I have had to overcome many fears over the last few years, fears which came about with my breakdown.
I'd been pretty bomb proof before my breakdown, I could go to work, to a pub, shopping, away for the weekend, out with friends. All the normal things everyone does on a day to day basis.
When I had my breakdown suddenly 99% of life experiences scared me to death. I couldn't go out, I couldn't sit by the window, I couldn't go near the front door. I was a useless, fear frozen mess barely able to overcome the fear enough to go downstairs every day. I literally jumped at shadows.
It's not a place I want to go back to.
Through therapy, and because I had no one else to do it, I've managed to overcome most of those fears. I'm still not 100% and doubt I'll ever be but by using coping techniques and not pushing myself I can pretty much function, even if it means doing the task as quickly as possible. I don't even need medication anymore.
The one thing I can't do is answer the phone. I have no idea why I fear the phone, I don't know if it's connected to any abuse. I do know that every time the phones rings I jump out of my skin, I feel sick and I want to cry.
I think it's to do with having someone talking in my ear, it's obviously to do with having my abuser do that to me. Whispering in my ear, even thinking about it makes me cringe and my skin crawl. It makes me feel sick.
I don't know how to get over this fear, this issue. I really, really can't cope with phone calls. Some days I'm glad I don't have friends as they'd want to call and that would keep triggering me. It's not a normal trigger, there's no image or flashback, it's just a sensation of dread.
The only way I've found of getting around it is by missing the call, calming down and then phoning them back using speaker phone. This I can cope with but then I still can't make calls of my own back. I can't just phone someone I'm acquainted with and make up chit chat.
This I think stems from my family, from them either constantly calling or being funny if I called them.
I know I need to leave them behind but it's really difficult. These are the people I've known all my life and none of them want to have anything to do with me. That hurts too much. It makes the non abusive parts of my childhood seem worthless. It makes me feel like I have no base, no foundation.
I have to make my own foundation but the older I get the harder it seems.
Everyone has their own foundations, built with their own friends and family they've known for years. The desperate stranger hanging in the wings is invisible, not in a nasty way just that peoples lives are already as full as they need or want and I just feel stupid for trying sometimes.
I need other people though, I think. Maybe I just need the parents I didn't have, maybe I just need someone to have my back once in a while, to moan to when life's grim, to laugh with when life's good.
Maybe there's a lot of people out there who don't have it but do have a masquerade of having it.
Maybe my next post will be about loneliness.
Sunday 4 August 2013
Poetry and other animals
Battle
Torn
A
devilled hallowed place
upon a breathless wind
took hold of beauty deep
choked a barren lifeless soul
upon a breathless wind
took hold of beauty deep
choked a barren lifeless soul
Brought
down upon a trestle
laid on cold and squalid earth
dire waves of darkness roll
to keep its secrets close
laid on cold and squalid earth
dire waves of darkness roll
to keep its secrets close
Deathly
tendrils hold a grip
with vice like lethal charm
madness, calmed with logic serene
speaks a solemn mantra call
with vice like lethal charm
madness, calmed with logic serene
speaks a solemn mantra call
Flowing
robes billow round
white faces born of angels
shackled down with sins of old
creased, wizened, wicked holes
white faces born of angels
shackled down with sins of old
creased, wizened, wicked holes
Low,
rhythmic voices chant
to weaken more the strength
pull tighter on the hope of fear
lock down lost dreams eternal
to weaken more the strength
pull tighter on the hope of fear
lock down lost dreams eternal
Raised
up a speck so tiny
as seen by none but those
whose life give never in
fight with nought but challenged soul
as seen by none but those
whose life give never in
fight with nought but challenged soul
Slowly
lifting up the body
encasing all so brightly
shines an effervescence divinity
breaking bonded demons whole
encasing all so brightly
shines an effervescence divinity
breaking bonded demons whole
Falling
down discarded waste
blown into ashes, specks of dust
living now with hope of love
an everlasting heartbeat drums
blown into ashes, specks of dust
living now with hope of love
an everlasting heartbeat drums
Resonating
through body fibres
sensations coursing, splitting whole
exploding rays of sunlight shine
destroying all that drags and holds
sensations coursing, splitting whole
exploding rays of sunlight shine
destroying all that drags and holds
Brought
forth to answer no mans call
standing barefoot, tall, alone
power swirling, lighting coldness
Amazonian wins once more
standing barefoot, tall, alone
power swirling, lighting coldness
Amazonian wins once more
I wrote this in the months leading up to me having a breakdown. It was a time when I could write without have flashbacks or dissociating. I used to love writing, I'd lose myself in the world my mind was creating and my pen would flow across the page as though the images in my head were real. I've always written like that and have done since I was little. My very first novel, I wrote when I was eleven, was torn up in front of me by my step father and I was ridiculed for even trying, but I kept on writing even though I did it in secret.
I haven't been able to write like that since I had my breakdown. As soon as I try to enter the imaginary worlds in my head the past comes streaming in full force and it's all I can do to just hold on. Now my writing is disjointed and short, often just a sentence and I feel it as a great loss, my biggest sanctuary was writing, it was my biggest pleasure.
I wote this during my breakdown :
Thud thud thud
Bang the fists on the wall
A body broken
Thud thud thud
Bang the fists on the wall
A silent token
I feel like my mind is stunted now, maybe I'm not allowing myself to write because I'm scared of failing, I don't know, I hope by blogging about these things I can chase the demons from head, it's worth a try, isn't it?
Art Therapy
Part of getting through therapy and staying as sane as possible saw me using photography to express myself when I couldn't find the words to say what I was feeling.
I have had space offered to exhibit these but haven't yet had the courage to do this as these photographs represent such a personal journey to me. I'm not worried about criticism, I'm worried they'll give an insight into my soul to people who will be able to see how scarred and damaged I am inside.
I chose to do these photographs in black and white. To represent the past, a journey, a moment in time of healing.
This is Cocoon
I really enjoyed doing these photographs and they helped me to focus away from some of the horror I was reliving.
This is the moon surrounded by clouds taken during a time when I couldn't face sleep because my mind was constantly reliving the abuse and sleeping made the bridge between reality and memories feel non existent. I feel this photograph represents that by how the moon and clouds don't have a distinct separation.
I have moved on so much from that time and hope never to return to that place, the mind is a funny thing and not least because you are never really that far from madness.
Part of getting through therapy and staying as sane as possible saw me using photography to express myself when I couldn't find the words to say what I was feeling.
I have had space offered to exhibit these but haven't yet had the courage to do this as these photographs represent such a personal journey to me. I'm not worried about criticism, I'm worried they'll give an insight into my soul to people who will be able to see how scarred and damaged I am inside.
I chose to do these photographs in black and white. To represent the past, a journey, a moment in time of healing.
This is Cocoon
I really enjoyed doing these photographs and they helped me to focus away from some of the horror I was reliving.
This is the moon surrounded by clouds taken during a time when I couldn't face sleep because my mind was constantly reliving the abuse and sleeping made the bridge between reality and memories feel non existent. I feel this photograph represents that by how the moon and clouds don't have a distinct separation.
I have moved on so much from that time and hope never to return to that place, the mind is a funny thing and not least because you are never really that far from madness.
Saturday 3 August 2013
The hardest image to face
TW self harm
On my journey through therapy I've faced many challenges, many obstacles and much internal diagnosis alongside trying to understand the motives and reasons behind why and how I became an abused child.
One of these therapies has been incredibly difficult for me to do. It has caused me fear and pain and stomach churning repulsion.
I hadn't realised before that I had been living the majority of my life with this enormous part of everybody's life excluded to the extreme from mine.
The lengths I've gone to, to remove this "thing" from the world around me has been surprising, shocking but most of all incredible sad.
Sad that I have denied an amazing thing from my life just because of the legacy of the abuse I had gone through.
I haven't been able to do this one thing because when I do all I hear are echos of ghosts running through my mind, flashes of images of the ghosts behind the words.
Negative, hateful words all directed at me, all used to build the foundations of the person I came to see myself as.
For years I had no mirror in my life.
I could not bear to look upon the vile creature who stared back at me.
That's all I used to see when I caught even a glimpse of my reflection. A vile, dirty, ugly, disgusting non person.
The first time during therapy when I tried to look at myself in a mirror I just wanted to cut my face up it was so ugly. I didn't, though I did cry.
Everyday I have been trying to look at my reflection, everyday over-riding the ghosts in my head by saying out loud that I am beautiful, wonderful, amazing.
It makes me cringe to write that but I also laugh a little. I'm pretty plain, bordering on ugly but I no longer care. It is my face, it is me and I'm slowly but surely drowning the ghosts in my head and looking with care and love at the face staring back at me.
Rape threats, death threats and how twitter is a safe place for me
There has been a lot of publicity around twitter abuse recently so here's my take on it.
I've spent the last few years living that abuse off line.
I've had property damaged, threats to have my throat slit, a hammer swung at me and intimidating sexual advancements.
Just for being female.
Involving statutory agencies including police, council and anti violence charities has resulted in me being told I'm making a fuss over nothing, when the perpetrators already have previous convictions for violence and being told I have mental health issues.
Nothing has been done.
I come on twitter as it's safer for me on there than it is to leave my home.
There are women suffering physical assaults every day because we live in a culture of abuse, objectification of women and dehumanisation of people.
This abuse is not the sole responsibility of twitter, this abuse is prevalent every day in our communities, from the top to the bottom. From the privileged to the marginalised. Combatting this abuse by making twitter responsible for policing it is like putting a plaster on a gaping wound.
Tackle how abuse is tolerated off line in all communities, give those who are targeted the tools and resources and support to tackle it and charge those who commit offences.
I won't be boy-cotting twitter.
It is safer on here than having the threat to slash my throat carried out on my door step.
Friday 2 August 2013
Another Child Victim
TW
Daniel Pelka, 4 years old.
A young child murdered at the hands of those who were supposed to love, care and protect him.
I haven't been able to read much about Daniels case. It's been incredibly triggering to say the least. For me it's brought back memories of being forced to drink salt water and scrabbling in bins for food and begging.
I was an older child though. Old enough to run away, old enough to escape.
Daniel wasn't.
He relied on his mother and step father for everything. All they gave him was pain.
Where there failings in the system? Could more have been done? Whose responsibility was it to see what was really happening?
We live in a culture where people don't speak to people they don't know, or have a different language or culture or social standing to. Yet child abuse happens in all cultures, classes and communities.
We need to stand up and talk to each other. We need to involve everyone in our communities, reach out to families, to children.
Society failed Daniel.
Daniel Pelka, 4 years old.
Thursday 1 August 2013
Welcome
Hello,
Welcome to my blog.
I'm a survivor of childhood abuse and am writing this blog to help me heal and maybe help other people going through similar things or help those working with abused children and adults have an insight into what I went through.
My blog comes with "trigger warnings". A trigger warning is to show there may be content which is upsetting to other survivors or may cause them to have flashbacks. Survivors please remember self care, http://ptsd.about.com/od/selfhelp/qt/Self-Care.htm and ensure you are safe to read on.
As a survivor I have PTSD and some dissociation, along with depression and anxiety.
Dissociation can be as mild as having small episodes of feeling disconnected from the real world to having "multiple personalities". My level of dissociation is having a "little". This is my "inner child", the part of me who broke away during the abuse in childhood. It is a coping mechanism for the harshest parts of the abuse I went through and helped me survive.
My little is about 9-10 years old and a girl. She often comes out when I feel scared or triggered by something. My healing process is to work through things and make her feel safe and protected and loved. This is something she didn't have as a child but is something I can now give her and hopefully it will give me the same so I can move forward and start becoming a thriver. She may post occassionally so say hello, I will post a note if this happens.
The different stages of healing I'm going through are moving from victim to survivor to thriver. A tactic I picked up from the charity HAVOCA, their website is here http://www.havoca.org/HAVOCA_home.htm with the laid out table showing the journey from victim to survivor to thriver. It might help you, it might not, it does show to non survivors how we can move through the healing process from the pain to something positive. I have moved on from victim to survivor, it has taken about 3-4yrs but I am happy that I've taken the time to heal. I'm not all the way there and fall back often, but each little step forward is an achievement I can work on and work through to ensure I have the power over my life now and those who abused me no longer have that.
I will also use this blog to talk about things in society and the news which affect me. People keep telling me I survived for a reason so I want to use that for a positive and maybe give those working with children today the courage to speak out if they feel something is wrong with a childs situation. My opinions on this are my own, coming from the current place I am at in my healing.
I'll also be discussing therapy and how I use that to heal, being unemployed and hopefully moving into work and how being a survivor affects me in everyday life.
Thanks for reading through and hopefully you'll enjoy my blog,
Yours
Iliana
p.s. All photo's on the site are be myself and available for purchase as a framed print, please email for details.
Welcome to my blog.
I'm a survivor of childhood abuse and am writing this blog to help me heal and maybe help other people going through similar things or help those working with abused children and adults have an insight into what I went through.
My blog comes with "trigger warnings". A trigger warning is to show there may be content which is upsetting to other survivors or may cause them to have flashbacks. Survivors please remember self care, http://ptsd.about.com/od/selfhelp/qt/Self-Care.htm and ensure you are safe to read on.
As a survivor I have PTSD and some dissociation, along with depression and anxiety.
Dissociation can be as mild as having small episodes of feeling disconnected from the real world to having "multiple personalities". My level of dissociation is having a "little". This is my "inner child", the part of me who broke away during the abuse in childhood. It is a coping mechanism for the harshest parts of the abuse I went through and helped me survive.
My little is about 9-10 years old and a girl. She often comes out when I feel scared or triggered by something. My healing process is to work through things and make her feel safe and protected and loved. This is something she didn't have as a child but is something I can now give her and hopefully it will give me the same so I can move forward and start becoming a thriver. She may post occassionally so say hello, I will post a note if this happens.
The different stages of healing I'm going through are moving from victim to survivor to thriver. A tactic I picked up from the charity HAVOCA, their website is here http://www.havoca.org/HAVOCA_home.htm with the laid out table showing the journey from victim to survivor to thriver. It might help you, it might not, it does show to non survivors how we can move through the healing process from the pain to something positive. I have moved on from victim to survivor, it has taken about 3-4yrs but I am happy that I've taken the time to heal. I'm not all the way there and fall back often, but each little step forward is an achievement I can work on and work through to ensure I have the power over my life now and those who abused me no longer have that.
I will also use this blog to talk about things in society and the news which affect me. People keep telling me I survived for a reason so I want to use that for a positive and maybe give those working with children today the courage to speak out if they feel something is wrong with a childs situation. My opinions on this are my own, coming from the current place I am at in my healing.
I'll also be discussing therapy and how I use that to heal, being unemployed and hopefully moving into work and how being a survivor affects me in everyday life.
Thanks for reading through and hopefully you'll enjoy my blog,
Yours
Iliana
p.s. All photo's on the site are be myself and available for purchase as a framed print, please email for details.
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