Inside there is a swollen
pulsing mass.
It is repulsive.
I am being unkind again.
It is fragile
And I’ve got to keep it all in.
If I leak, horses and men
will do no good.
So I tiptoe around myself.
Hushing shushing shooing
away sound.
When it is quiet
when there is only
me thinking
myself moving
the hurt stops.
I can walk from one room
to another.
Point the tv remote.
Make toast.
A cup of tea.
I forget about the sticky mess
The embarrassing tightness
in my brain.
I cling film my ears
and nose and mouth.
Wrap the thin plastic
around and around.
My head needs to be
swaddled, bandaged.
Only problem is I can’t breathe
and every time I have to
talk to someone
my work is undone
and I feel my skull crack.
The swelling is a simmer.
A bubble.
An eruption.
My brain seeps out of the
transparent bandage.
I’m falling apart.
Spilling over.
There’s just too much
in the world.


Finding me

Does anyone know how they arrive at a destination that prior to one’s arrival seemed so implausible? Days used to plod along and life was ok and I thought we’d just keep going. Ok so it was a bit awful sometimes but generally things could always have been worse and yeah I thought life was liveable.

Only it wasn’t ok.

I thought I was happily married. No actually I really did believe. I wasn’t pretending to friends and family. I didn’t feel I was living a lie because when big things that were fucking awful happened I told a few people but in a ‘haha can you believe this guy?’ kind of way which in hindsight undermined the severity of the situation. Somethings I just absorbed the misery through my skin and felt it poison then become part of my blood stream. I survived by holding onto tomorrow. And to the memories of a distant past. And that made the today of it all, the constant tension, a little less piercing. But you know the funny thing is that despite seeing myself as ‘happily married’ I sort of suspected that I was not happy. The me in it all had disappeared and didn’t matter because the married part of who I was had consumed my individual sense of self. I battled to make family and marriage and home work even as my husband sought to destroy it all. I gave me away. My happy was irrelevant. My despair and sadness just sat in the pit of me and I forgot I existed. I didn’t know that I mattered and had a right to happiness. It was all about him.

Now I look in the mirror and see myself for the fist time in years and I see lines and 15 years of trauma written across my face. I see ageing and time lost. And I fret and see no hope of love because I’ve lost the commodity of youth. And I fight with myself not to look back or forward but to see ME in the mirror now. Limb by cell by thought I pull myself out of the grave I have been buried alive in. Each day I hope to see a little more daylight. Each day I hope that I will find who I am again. I hope too that it happens before I die a real death so that I’ll at least have known and loved myself a little in this lifetime of mine.