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Thoughts about That woman who is me
I’m the woman who feels her mind unravel every single day. I’m that woman who will drop (almost ) anything to be loved, liked and to try and be there for people. I am that woman who thinks I am one step away from insanity. One meal away from sitting with others -in the cafeteria suffocating with all the beldam and discourse of those who have held all their pain and confusion inside for too long.
I am terrified I am losing my mind. I have panic attacks, social anxiety, Chronic Anorexia and Bipolar. I’m am that woman who sees every one I love (or now)know that I do love get sick or die around me. Drop-dead.
The black sheep. I forget what I want to say. I doubt my self. I think too much. My biggest secret is I want to be grounded. I do! I seem to be caught up in the cycle of escapism. Escapism not in the form of writing, dancing or talking or being cool with me, but I feel myself inching closer towards ‘the dark soul of the night’.
I want to be saved. I question my faith. Did I ever have faith in anything other than toxins that would take me away from my current emotions?
Yet… even though I am the girl shunned by family and friends, I seem to reel it back in. I wind my mind and wrap it into a neat little bow. Always a different colour. I survive. I don’t know how or why.
Well.. I do. I am a mother, woman, daughter, friend and I have a purpose to fulfil. In my most delirious moments, I find myself inching towards praying to my own mother’s version of God. That biblical character. It frightens me to conform. I don’t want to be brainwashed by society and religion and politics. I don’t want to fit in. I want to be accepted.
I find joy in music and dancing. I find sense in writing. I write to recover.
Did I do a Faustus? I did. A long time ago, in between going to a catholic nun run a school, having Jehovaha’s witness lessons after school and then going to get “drunk” in the Lord’s spirit with, my mates, in the evening. I sought out Satanism. I asked it to take me and I lost my way.
That sounds crazy. I’m running empty on spirituality. Mortality is harsh and fleeting. I cry every day for me, my family, even those who hate me so.
I have to move on and let go. Many say I’m too hard on myself. Do we all feel like a fraud?
Knocking on doors for help. What’s the worst that could happen? I end up alone? Forced to be content with this body, this mind, this personality.
I can’t go back. It’s easy to want to go back when the future is so uncertain. In the distance it reveals that is is not benign. It is a vast tumour. There is no way to stop time. It’s an entity independent of reality.
I’m told I need to look within. look after me. Find my place in this world. I’m still here.
I wanted to die. I nearly did.No bright lights.No memory of the ambulance, the police smashing down my door, the room in Intensive Care.
I’m still here. Every time I think I can’t get through with my day or be with myself, time passes and I’ve survived. I’m reminded of Alan Watts famous clip’ What do you desire?’
Be happy or die trying.
To be continued…
Second Life- Mort tell et tea
* This Borderline poem was written a week before I attempted to take my life (again).I ended up in Critical Care in a coma for 5 days & in ICU for a further 6 days. I was discharged from hospital on the 21st of May 2020 *
Please, make sense of reality.
Use a stream of consciousness
words to vent,
rant,
rave,
A discovery in recovery
Fathom out sense because words are only as good as the interpreter.
Could add literary success to a Gravatar profile in an ebook
Add few drafts poured into that fulminate crunched up chaos.
This doesn’t invoke a feeling of literary success.
Trying
Struggling to convey all words .
Reciprocated words are often misinterpreted
Misheard
Another attempt to convey these words
Perhaps one person will see this array of affray spread its torment defecating the inner spiral case of the
Mind,
It swirls descends these steps in every way.
The moment to call it a day
This draws an outline forever have to have the last say.
Hear me proclaim
This
Is
My
Life.
Don’t want to carry on living this way
Shame lingers
It overstays — the bailiff texts for rent arrears
Read,
What is laid down?
Listen
I’m not done yet.
Hanging by a thread it’s tethered
Seen many days to identify as weathered
Hanging by a thread
This is my life purpose!
Final chance to meet my fate
Waited for this all my life
A mystery date with a severed soul mate.
Taught & tethered & weathered is this rope
To late
convinced
I’m no tight rope walker.
I’ve become my own word stalker
Shoulda, coulda, woulda arrested these rants before my digress
Covert corner
Wait in this hidden corner.
Evidently I’ve learned that survival is innate.
It ain’t easy to digest the days I’m not blessed to eat from a plate.
keep rising up despite a life times worth of trip-ups.
Until I die
One fine day
I’ll face the final exit of my mortality
I’ll know the truth
Either way it’s gonna end up with a body
Fatality.
Subconsciously know why I feel
It’s called humanity
What do I know about that damp dark corner entertaining souls I’ve yet to meEt?
Going to have to wait for a future promising chance we haven’t dreamt of taking yet.
If I lose all memory
Forget those words
soggy, wet, lost to another realm of the bereft
Lest I forget.
I write to recover.
Be happy or die trying.
Simultaneously a resilient species & inconveniently inept
Pluck my feathers.Watch me fly.
Life is not a list to check off.
Have goals .
Have dreams.
Don’t allow bitterness and the pursuit of wealth or the desire to look like a touched up picture of a model detract from the meaning and the true purpose of your life.
Easy to do. I do it too.
Figure out your purpose.
If you are not dead yet and have tried killing yourself many times.
You have a purpose.
Life is a gift and a curse and today and tomorrow may not ever be the same.
One moment, one word, one test result, one decision can shake your core and world from the inside out.
A Career- is doing something I love.
Money is a means to an end.
I can’t take all my material belongings with me to another world.
Stuff is just stuff.
Everything is replaceable except for a life and your health. Houses are demolished by hurricanes, weather freaks of nature every day.
Happiness is….. whatever the fuck you make it.
Make each day count. my Uncle taught me that saying.
If money is your God. Make sure you have a good deal with the money God or make sure you are that God.
Chances are you won’t permanently succeed over toppling that son of a biaatch.
Happiness -now that is a choice.
Choices are hard to make at times. We can convince ourselves we have no choice.
See this world through the eyes of a child, an elderly person or someone who is ill or someone who is grateful to have a bed to sleep on.
To the person who told me all homeless people are homeless because they are drug addicts or alcoholics.
WOW!
I recall a time when said person was made homeless because they couldn’t pay their rent. No drug issues apart from an Eating disorder, diet pills and codeine and junk food and an illness and no support from anyone to help her.
I was 5 years old and I came home from school,I was told to sit on the step while I watched 2/3 men throwing our stuff out.
Literally throwing our stuff out the window.
The weekend before it was beautiful sunny day. I swam and we sat around the swimming pool. I don’t know how I knew or who told me that the landlord was going to throw us out.
I left said person to sunbathe and I decided to fight for our home.
I’ve always been a trouble maker. Some one who has the audacity to challenge people bigger than me.
I don’t shut up.
My Mother made sure I knew how to write my name and read before I was in kindergarten. She taught me how to read and write.
I wrote him a letter and posted it to him.
I asked him to not throw us out. Give us more time. We promise we will pay the rent.
I guess we can all be dickheads and worry about money and looks.
YUP- they are and will fade.
I’ve seen people I love become millionaires then become paupers over night and then millionaires again and die with nothing.
Not even their dignity. A papers funeral.
Money and looks are in a constant state of flux
Make sure you have character to back you up. HarDships make character – It’s easy to be bitter, its easy to be hard and emotionless.
Its easy to moan because I walked in the rain (again) in england.
I decided to put my face to the sky ,watch the birds fly and allow the rain to soak face and hair.
I smiled and smiled – in spite of not having cent to buy food or anything until next Thursday.
I’m not a fool.
I looked like one walking in the the rain with a grin on my embracing the rain and the cold.
Just like I did when I was a child.
Not comforming to looking downwards ,scowling -at the damn British weather.
Look for signs of life. Flowers are blooming again.
I’m scared.
I have to have hope.
Hope is the only thing that keeps me going.
My mother refuses to tell me she loves me. We argue. She’s ill.
I tell her I love her no matter what.
LOVE BEAUTIFUL SOULS, FLAWED SOULS. Help those who can’t see past a dollar bill or the next selfie or the this day to get through life. YOU WILL NEVER LOOK OR BE AS GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL AS YOU ARE TODAY.
Don’t let the bastards whether family, friends or foe blame you for their problems and for making mistakes.
We are all human.
I don’t need a God to pray to for strength .I have love in my heart and I don’t give up on the people I love. I include my Dad in that.
These are my words
Ma petit fripon
via Ma petit fripon
Death rattle
Reminiscent of an uprising of crickets ready to battle
Stare at a puffed updiamond heart
Drumming inside an empty cage. Birds ripped apart.
Gargoyle stares ignored.
Folk bumble about unaware what is in store for us all- eventually.
The breathe of Hades-
Lingers then makes a dash for scant flesh and bones.
Meat is not this gods instrument. Lust causes call for more drones
Sponge, moisten parched parted lips
Raven signals the ire of its whips
The ones who don’t loose it in bedlam excite
Death.
Invites all loved ones to rally round
Stands by door. Stands back.Admires its ownpower.
A moment to savour for a while more.
Every door closed, each breath cloys
Begs for enough fare to cross the distance to embrace elysium air.
Today everyone shall know how close we are to parting from brown soil
Lamb,hatched chickens,babies born in Cumbersome air.
the cycle must complete before we can emerge reborn
Death is inevitable as necessary as life is to the Cumbaya
of springs first show of petal.
When you look at the beginning of this new dawn
Know that when you stand back in awe
It is because you have felt the chill of winters soul depart
Shed a tear for the snowman who brought our youth so much joy.
Appreciate death. Stare it in the face
The sun chants
count in rosary beads
tomorrow never dies.
Trying to type something while listening and watching my grandmother dying.
Rasp
Gasp
I support the assisted dying law. This is inhumane.
A selfish farce.
Happy mothers day
Wherever you go
Wherever you roam
I hope that it is a place as magnificent as earths revellers make it out to be
Ma petition fripon. J’taime xxxx
* What I wrote waiting and comforting my ma and my gran before she passed over.
seasons lies life’s mystery
This is the moment where I should embrace the wintery-powder snow to come.
Under-wraps.
We all delight to create snow angels.
So too do the most damaged pimped out hoes
The death of everything I know.
Yet,
I
don’t
know
if
I’ve
ever
known
Even one thing for certain.
Always,
I thought
I blew according to the way the wind doth blow.
until I walked right into the eye of the
C.louds
I.ntelligance
A.ir
shouted them down-
No, I won’t go slow.
Voice ricochets seeking a target
breathe exterminated-
The managers above cloud corporation hear my
costly,
cerise
commotion —
derogatory
delirious
temper tantrum.
speech
pressurised protests-
Attacks of panic.
I got what I was owed.
Hitch hiked a lift with a passing tornado.
Whirlwind dropped me off in a place with no directions to the Republic of sense-at-ors of common.
I walked along the the uneven, cobbled path — another independent equality free flowing feminist ,
juggling with digits and exchanged words with third eye chakra chemists
Paper –
trees-
All alternate in form — it ends for the same means.
Or is that me unravelling myself from being stitched up — picking away at the seams?
I didn’t mean to lose my way — countryside hikes are not my governing zodiac sign indicating
I’m in my element.
This body contains still waters wrapped in layers of skin.
No teasing trickle or babbling brook
nor a wishing well to reassure my hearts confidence within.
Summertime- the livings never easy
not when you’re a weed on self destruct,
especially when the sun shines on and makes blossoming
a gift without the morning sickness
That sense of queasy.
Rudimentary realisation.
Desolate
Deception.
Dark sunglasses can’t make me incognito to —
Looking back-
I should of clapped my hands
, in breathless awe when the sunset—
lowered gently against the abstract backdrop
Tropical orange salmon, pink sprayed skies.
Pay my respects —
Let it rest when it his time to slip down and fall.
Reap what you sow.
I deal with every blow.
Turbulent Winds commands my flight against common ground
I find myself high up and all alone
the comedown — finds me face down in muddy bog marsh — eyes arrested by a facetious fog —
Not even a bird to sing me an ode of encouragement to aid me back home.
we come into this world alone and we die alone.
Money, stuff — the acquisition of property
— it all gets left behind when we lift the veil to step into the next body of energy-
stagnation left in a cadaver —
this is our vessel —
Our only claim to earth’s throne.
Seasoned Cycles of
life,
death,
regeneration,
rebirth.
Change –
it’s contradictory to our nature.
Wearily wallow over wilted, dead plants — tomorrow I’ll throw them away.
procrastination
Embrace the opaque
the possibility of a welcome winter
undisturbed silence-solace only to be found in untouched fallen snowflakes.
Trigger the cycle to fall — this is autumn.
Death and decay I feel implacably broken.
This idea of pressing flowers, dried
Into bookmarks is a nostalgic notion.
Shouldn’t I let it go and embrace the tremors, the blast of the callous cousins cold and colder
A gift of this perilous season?
anti climatized.
I live on an island full of tall trees in treason for being out of season.
Let these words be enough.
Be my reason.
On my knees begging for hands to let go of me-especially those who touch are rough.
Grant me sight to see-
permit my body and soul to feel the spectrum
exhilarating and painful emotion.
Facing forward to a future
smelling the unsullied scent of rebirth
A possible sight spotting of Tigger
ready to uncoil and bounce into spring
For the awakening of the blessed bees, Lilly white lambs and a hereuse holiday closer to the ocean.
HAPPINESS TIP:Like sand through the hourglass…..
SECRET TO HAPPINESS TRADITION: Accept and celebrate the impermanence of LIFE
DATE: Any time
CELEBRATED: Tibet
Before I carry on writing when I came up with this title I couldn’t help but remember the famous and cheesy American Soap opera and that man’s voice completing the ‘………. and so are the days of the our lives.’ All non-Americans CAN WATCH IT HERE. The thing is that quote is blindingly accurate.
I think I might of mentioned this in a previous post on this page, but westerners (that’s us) tend to have this idea that we are ‘the centre of the universe’. We live in a non spiritual and materialistic society where success and praise is about the individual. We are so preoccupied with our our own sense of blazing importance.
Many people move to cities that is where the money is and forget that their is a navy coloured sky above t so vast above us, which puts into perspective what a smidgen we truly are in this imperishable universe.
Tibetan monks have a rather splendid way of creatively interpreting this in escapable fact,by making intricate and rather vivid and stunning mandalas with grains of sand.
They pour sand out of metal funnels and skilfully make complex patterns and spectacular symbolic forms of animals, spirits, demons
These mandalas take days to make but when they are complete, the Tibetans, scoop up half of this fantastical creation made of sand and put it in an urn. Half of the sand is shared with the audience, to circulate and disperse its healing among the people. The rest of the sand is then poured into a river or some body of water.
Bizarrely, celebrating our mortality and perish-ability, can be peculiarly soothing.
How can we manifest this in our own lives? If you have ever watched ‘Mary Poppins’ why not draw chalk pictures on a path then stay and watch it deteriorate or be washed away by the rain or swept away with the wind. There is a part in the movie where they bring the chalk pictures to life by jumping into the pictures singing ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ and create this fantastical life around them.
The children are so sad when it start to rain and they have to come out from the pictures created and watch that creation of life be washed away by the rain. Remember how as children we used to lie on our backs and make symbols out of clouds? Do that. Watch how the clouds change from a face to a duck!
Make a sandcastle if you are lucky enough to live near the ocean. This celebration is about permitting yourself to admit and accept the fact that nothing lasts- relish the peace and unity that comes with it.
Daisy in the willows 