Channelling power

 

I am always growing. Even when I feel static, I am heading in an upwards direction. Learning, changing, creating.

Sometimes the lessons are unexpected.

My whole life lesson seems quite unexpected. I have taken so many detours, and sometimes my plans are completely off, and my lessons lie elsewhere.

I am closing yet another chapter.

I worked at a place that was like a kindergarten for me, where dreams were born, but also ended.

I had wanted to be an Emergency Physician, and life decided to throw me a choice. One I gladly took.

And maybe it cost my marriage, or maybe that needed to happen anyway.

I needed to return and see this dream through.

What have I learnt?

I genuinely like my work.

But I like my life better. The fulfilment I feel from friendships, relationships with my family and fur family are so much more valid and experience-full.

I cannot ever sacrifice that, and after all these years, it has confirmed the choice I made: to sacrifice my training to become a good, dedicated mother.

A job so fulfilling, that it keeps on giving.

The most important thing I have learnt about myself this year is that my nurturing spirit is alive and well, and that is one of my greatest assets. The most valuable rewards yesterday were the hugs from people who have appreciated that spirit, and that has touched me. The patients who have benefited from my patience and communication,  and the staff who have felt that depth.

I may not be the smartest, and I may not know as much as others, but I have awareness and therein lies my special power.

As far as lessons go, not a bad one to learn.

I have also realised that the first step in gaining respect from others is to give it to yourself and have pride in the knowledge and skills you do have, and not devalue it because it comes with different letters

We all have strengths and weaknesses,  and some are just much better at camouflage.

So I leave with just under a year of experience,  but it feels like consolidation of 16 years of living.

Putting a chapter to bed,  tucking it in to rest. Done.

Free for the next challenge.

 

Planet yellow fluff

 

The true illusion of adult life is that everyone will be an adult.

The truth of life is that most of us fumble our way through the way we landed on the planet and never think twice about evolving or becoming more adult.

The same conflicts that plagued us in primary school play out in our workplace and the same bullies and bitches we encountered in the playground pave our way to success or failure daily.

Even those who try hard to be adults have to navigate the herd of imbeciles that populate the majority of our lives, and go back on promises and dogmas, rely on little white lies or say things they don’t really mean.

If only every single being took some responsibility and tried to see using all of their senses, then maybe the world could actually become a better place for generations to come. Rather than doing the same thing over and over again and expect a different world to form at the other end.

What happens to all those lessons? Do only some absorb them, or reserve them for dinner conversations, or dating profiles. To sound wise.

But do you use these lessons to be better, to be wiser. Do you risk your position to keep to your principles?

Do you sometimes bully someone else because everyone else does, or that person is a soft target due to their quiet demeanour?

I struggle daily to be more assertive and take on the role of a team leader.  It does not come naturally. And yet I am expected to learn it, role play. And I try. But do it with kindness and quiet humbleness. Because this is who I am and I can’t change the fabric I am sewn from.

Maybe some people are just made from Hessian sacks and stay that way forever. If only they wore a tag so I could avoid them, or have a stronger role play ready, despite tiredness and life.

And yet they will succeed in this world. I would like to think that truth and authenticity win above all, maybe in some circles they do. I continue to hope, and continue to be me and forge forward with optimism and kindness. One day it will be recognised as a noble following. And if not, at least I will live with the conviction and knowledge that I have advanced our society and not fossilised it in instinct.

Even if I make a very small mark in a very small quiet circle, I will be content.

The purpose

 

Love is so complicated. But it is also so easy. I find loving people and animals one of the easiest things to do.

Especially as I have gotten older and dealt with my trauma, I have found love to be easier than ever.

When I was about 13, my father gave me a book called “The art of love” by Erich Fromm. It was a book that was pretty heavy for a 13 year old. At the time, I understood very little of its content. It described love in all its different forms: romantic, mother love, love for friends and fellow humans.

It is one of those books that needs to be revisited over the years, like the little prince. Every time you read it, you understand another insight as it resonates to your own life. I don’t think I had any experience of true love at the age of 13.

I thought I was in love with some boy at school, and I loved my parents and sisters.

But the true understanding of love has only come after decades of experience at living and loving.

Love is the most important thing in my life. And I don’t mean that in a gushy way.

I love daily, deeply. As I have dealt with my demons and won, it has become deeper and calmer.

My ability to love has grown somehow,  even though I didn’t think that was possible.

Last night I dreamt I had a newborn again, and I left it behind sleeping, which seemed unusual even in the dream, and my breasts were leaking, and I felt the milk in my breasts again as if it was yesterday. The tenderness and feverish obsession for my baby  came back. The absolute conviction that I would give my life for this human, over and over again, without hesitation.  The task of feeding every two hours around the clock, a true labour of love and effort. Driven by hormones, yes, but affirmed with true frontal lobe conviction: to protect and serve and love forever. Whatever the challenges and whatever that child becomes in time. And I continue to love unconditionally, unwavering and with renewed strength every time they need me. And I suffer when they do, I rejoice in their achievements and miss them with no less intensity now that they are adults.

I dreamt the night before that I gave a friend a hug. A heartfelt hug.

My friends are so important to me. They have become my proxy partners over the years, in the absence of a romantic partner. They are people I can truly be myself with. Vulnerable and bare. Open and raw. It is a scary love that is only bestowed with great care. I collect these people to travel with by feel, those who will respect me enough to care for my heart and make sure I’m okay. Those who know they can hurt me but choose not to.

Love was difficult as a child.

I have not talked much about my trauma before, mainly because I don’t like to upset my mother. But also because I had not yet processed it properly and I had yet to understand it.

And I apologise in advance to my mum. I know my parents tried their best given their abilities as humans, and I understand that. I love my parents. I have had to make a mental cubicle where I keep my love for the wonderful parents they are and what they did give me. And then there is another cubicle that houses disappointment, hatred, pain and resentment. They are now separate and this division allows me to enjoy a relationship with my remaining parent and have fond memories of my father.

But what did I learn about love from them? Love had conditions. I was loved if I was good, if I behaved, if I was quiet, and didn’t make noise. I was loved when they felt good and were in the mood to love me. I was loved if I got good marks and didn’t upset or disappoint my father. It was not okay to be who I was. I was wrong, and bad. And my destiny and my body, my life did not belong to me.

As you can imagine, my idea of what love is was very tainted by this experience of love. The first love anyone ever experiences, the purest form, the one that should be the example to follow as I grew up, was faulty. And once again, this was not their fault, but nevertheless, that’s what I got.

So what did I think love was? Love was the feeling that you were being reeled in and then suddenly neglected and ignored. The draw was to men and friends who were fickle and cruel, who hurt me and I craved it, because it was familiar, it was what I thought love was. Someone who loved me ignored me for days at a time,  had very little time for me when they were tired, respected me when I was “good”, and disrespected me the rest of the time. But this was okay because they loved me. What else could I ask for? Someone who loved me was allowed to use me, my feelings, my body and my life whichever way they saw fit, as I was theirs,  their property. And someone who loved me didn’t wish to hear about my needs, as they are inconvenient and annoying. My needs always come second and don’t matter. My needs are annoying and too much. I am too sensitive and need to change. And if I can just be exactly what the other person needs me to be, then life will be perfect.  At least for a while.

This is not love. This is a plea for approval, a game of cat and mouse where the mouse always gets eaten.

I have learnt to love. Myself, mostly. I’ve learnt that cliches about love are true. It really is the best feeling in the world, it really does matter and you really do need to have self love to love another.

I have not been fortunate enough to find the love of my life, whatever that means. But what I do know is that I am capable of a depth of love that is not a transaction, that is not expectant and does not require someone to do anything or be anything.

I love my friends. I love them and do anything for them. I listen to them, I counsel them, I let them cry on my shoulder. And that comes with the full knowledge that if I need the same, they will rise to the challenge.

What is romantic love? I think the movie industry and fairy tales have convinced us that it is falling head over heels with someone the moment you see them and then you live happily ever after.

Love is a bit more than that. It is giving love and care and nurturing and support without ever expecting anything in return. It is compromise, acceptance, tolerance without judgement, allowing freedom of choice and thought, as well as action. Allowing the other person to be who they are without limits. And accepting that without needing to change it. It is needing someone without ownership, allowing them to shine and achieve what they need to achieve and yet still be in their corner cheering them on.

And more than anything, it means that person is free to choose someone else to love. And even a friend might choose someone else to love romantically.

I am still working out how sex really does fit into this romantic love equation. I would like it to be an extension of love and care and affection. Intimacy that is special and a coming together of souls who affirm their love by sharing this special moment. That might be a fantasy that doesn’t exist....most people just view it as a bit of fun. I don’t know, I’ve been there and done that, and I think I am ready to only bother with sex from now on if it is an expression  of romantic love and the knowledge that this is a person I want around, and who deserves to share my body as well as my time, and my soul, and my thoughts. Someone who appreciates who I am inside and out. Someone who sees me clearly and knows that I am enough for them and they are so lucky to have me in their life. And who wants the best for me, in the same selfless way.

I have loved a number of men romantically. That love hasn’t always been mutual. But I have learned that love is not in vain, and is not useless. I no longer see it as a means to obtain someone’s time or attention. It just is and I give it willingly, whether it be returned or not. Just loving is its own reward. Being loved back is the tip of the iceberg.

So I will not stop loving, I don’t think. Appreciating someone’s physical appearance is not love. You can find someone appealing to look at, but you take a deeper look at their morals and views and the way they love others,  and ugliness drips off them like thick pus.

And I have met some beautiful people in my life who are not much to look at. But that is who they are and how they interact with the world. And that is enough. That makes them beautiful. Sexual desire is so secondary to all that. Maybe it is the fact that hormones fade as we age and our brain takes over a lot of those functions. And so “getting off” is no longer the whole purpose nor the be all and end all.

Love is complex, and yet so simple. Allowing it to happen is no longer frightening to me, it’s good. So what if we love some people in our lives who don’t love us back, or some who used to love us and no longer do, or some who love us as friends. Loving is OK, it’s good and it’s its own end.

It is not a tool to “get” someone, or to trap them, or to hurt them. It should just be.

That’s what I think love is.

 

 

 

I am beautiful, I am worthy

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that bullshit that people tell kids and are supposed to live by. And when you date as an adult, it all falls apart, to be honest. 

I am probably guilty of it too. I don’t like to date obese men. But that comes from a place that is deeper than skin deep; I do not want to be with someone who has bad habits and I will then follow suit and all my efforts at good health will be undone. 

It seems to me that women in their 40s and 50s are forgotten. Divorced and separated men at our age look for 20 somethings. The pretty girls with little waists and tight buns.

Some of us have equally tight buns, but they are overlooked because we have stretched skin on our bellies from bringing life into the world. We have raised those children that are supposedly our future. We have grey hair from living.

I just hope that I have at least created two humans who will use their upstairs brain to choose their partners or companions. 

Everyone wants to be near us older women, because we are warm and nurturing, and we provide wisdom, and can cook and look after ourselves.

But somehow we are still undesirable and old. Those two words somehow equal. 

Older men want to have us around when they are old and require care, but while they have life in them yet, they do not want us, they chase the younger ones. 

If you tell I am wrong, then why have I been waiting for 17 years to meet a man who sees me?

And I was only 31 then, so what am I missing?

Maybe what I should be asking is why have I missed the right men? Where are they? Do they even exist? 

Are they all married, in successful relationships that have somehow passed me by?

Or is it that I have been so discerning that I am not happy with just any man?

In a way, I have been.

I have been waiting for a man who adds to my life, not detracts. Someone capable of sharing, giving and taking. A friend who also wishes to be my lover. A companion who wants to debate and talk, and delve into the deep recesses of my mind. Those meaty parts that make me who I am. 

Some of my friends tell me I am looking for a woman, that men like that do not exist. Why would I be so heterosexual and be in love with women’s minds? Born in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe? Who knows?

I sure don’t. 

What I am certain of is that I am at a great place in my life. I understand myself inside and out. I have looked into the darker areas of my mind and conquered them. I have survived depression, anorexia, marriage, divorce, loss, children and their ups and downs. And I am still here. And the most refreshing part of that is that I still have hope for humanity and that we are heading in the right direction. 

I know people who have given up, even those in my inner circle. Who no longer have hope for people. 

And I write in the hope that I can reach the small percentage of people who think like me. The world is small if you reach out. 

We can all be beautiful, if we believe we are. We all have worth beyond measure. 

And yet the young seem to believe that lip fillers and make up will add up to substance. That skin products will make them happy. 

Just express whatever makes you happy, at the end of the day. As long as YOU enjoy it and love it, and you are not doing it so that someone else will like it or comment on it. You do you. 

Time

You are a thief. Stealing life from those who want you and from those who need you.

A thief who is unscrupulous and cruel.

A thief who takes indiscriminately.

No one will be spared. For the need to devour is ever-present.

You are a greedy beast.

Eating away at us.

At me, as I barely manage to get out of reach,

you take big bites in one fell swoop.

You munch away carelessly.

You fatten your own comfort.

You greedily devour away at our achievements and our glories.

You obesely and shamelessly keep at it.

You are an aloof lover.

You pass me by, I remain unrecognised.

Emotionally detached, you measure our relationship as a transaction.

I give, you take.

You pass, I age.

You accelerate, I die.

You are untouchable,

ephemeral,

untouchable and thin.

You dissolve into the air,

you pass unnoticed, unheeded, untaxed. Unashamed, unbidden, unhinged.

When you want to,

when it suits you,

you stay, you firmly attach yourself and adhere to the ages.

You remain, and cling, and cloy.

You sit and lounge,

you loiter and stare.

You hover and stink.

When you are wrong, you are really wrong.

You collude and steer people towards each other,

at your own will.

You scheme and plot, and take pride in the experience.

You are a gossipy meddler,

a player in full garb.

You are so powerful,

all consuming.

You laugh as we miss you and cross your path in the wrong way.

You enjoy watching us flounder and fall.

You cruel, cruel maker.

You magnetic and powerful drawer of energy.

You gather up the ages,

you sew together events and visit unheeded.

You can stay in one place or move faster than light.

Your mettle is undiscovered and your matter unfound.

You hurt me every time the hands pass me by.

You tick away at my soul as I age and wrinkle away.

I want to kill you and yet I want to embrace you,

for your are wise and powerful and true.

When will you be right?

Can you truly answer that?

My life has missed you, ever accelerating at different speeds from me.

`Would you consider synchronising and just waiting for me?

Would you just stop so I can catch you,

so that we can walk together just this once.

Because I really want this.

For once.

I want to stop you on your tracks,

I want to spend you like a dollar,

I want to enjoy you like a holiday,

I want to feel you like a dream.

I want to stop with you and set like jelly in your arms.

Don’t be hasty, don’t rush.

Don’t slow down so much it hurts,

but consider my heart.

Tick tock on my mantle piece and ever pulsating on my left wrist.

Hush, little baby and go to sleep.

For I am waking you tomorrow and you will tell.

The nature of dreaming

 

When I was a child, a very bizarre child, I read poetry. When other kids were preoccupied with cars, celebrities, the latest trend or fashion, I was worried about Gustavo Adolfo Becquer and Pablo Neruda.

Reviewing those verses and finding beauty in the words, how they were constructed and the experience that ran through those syllables, like thick nectar that stuck to me and kept me awake at night. Writing something beautiful and listening to rhythms and sounds clip clopping against the roof of my mouth became an obsession. I had no life outside of my head, I was not allowed to have friends or go anywhere, so I constructed an inside world beyond my imagination.

I travelled to Machu Picchu with Neruda, and watched Condors glide along the snow capped cordillera. I was enthralled by Gustavo Adolfo Becquers’ verses of love and fervent passion, I longed for someone (anyone) to show me that they cared that much about me. So misdirected was my self esteem and self worth, so squashed was I that some dead dude was more important than the here and now. I clung to anything for survival. But I am not saying this to be pitied. It has resulted in a depth of passion for poetry and literature and music that continues to accompany me every day of my life. I have probably created neuronal pathways that others don’t possess.

I am simply invigorated by words that sound like thunder while they speak of thunder. I am moved to tears by words that exude hunger and passion and lust; I am drained of tears when deep unconditional love is proclaimed and spent, simply spent emotionally. I am convinced that I feel much more deeply than other humans. Accused as I have been of being “intense”. That’s ok. I like my intensity. It will keep me alive until the actual day I die, rather than wither in old age and bitterness. I’d rather be dead, for sure.

I love descriptions, turning images and feelings and networks of senses into words. To express the unbelievable rush of nature, or the fugue state we briefly experience before we find out our crush is only human and incapable of communication. The delight of ice on our tongue, or the height of an orgasm. The rush of knowledge and the gratitude of teaching another human.

Helping someone out of love, the absolute tide of love I feel when my children say they love me. How to express the layers of emotion. Not only the love, but the regret for my lost childhood, the pride of breaking cycles, the overwhelming joy of being in their presence, and the knowledge that I am important.

The calm of love never-ending that has no conditions, no payment. Not transactional, or guilty, or bad.

How do you encompass all of your feelings and memories and reasons into one image. How do I tell of those whales and what it meant to be gazed at, so briefly. Like I was touched by every era and time period. Like I was going back and forward in time. It was a memory and an experience and a dream that was real and fleeting, and yet cold, and wet, and dark, and light, and invigorating, all at once. Like a flash of alluring music, like a taste of the heaviest whisper. Like a touch from a song that hung in the air and embraced me in a blanket of cosy freedom.

How do I explain that I could almost hear their song, I could almost see their desires and their journey. I needed to follow and be in that moment. How can I recall and be present at the same time? That is how time travel is possible. By reviewing and playing in our neuronal paths. Eagles flying alongside swimming whales, and kisses falling into the deep ocean beneath me. Lost in the darkness of eras of wasted days.

Culled by experience and age. Tainted by years and digested by nature. I can’t hold these things all at once. I am unbalanced by the clashes and the dichotomies of sound, image and emotion. The memories of beauty and dread and violence and sin. The height of passion and the depth of despair competing to elevate and depress at the same moment in time.

Paradoxes that bind me to this world and stir a hurricane within me, a whirlpool that shall be extinguished while persisting to the end. Futile, and yet so worthwhile. Pursued by few, and yet guarded by centuries of thought and wonder. Arise and create. Forgive, accuse, pardon, aid, compete, revise, refrain, regret, attune, portray and light a roaring fortress of explosive life. Words are like peppery chillies in the deepest pathways of my brain.

Poking and setting alight my senses. Awakening dormant lies, as well as revealing truths laid bare by the day. To be repaid in life would cleave the stones of madness in my mind, would restore the statues of Anubis I carved late at night. Would redeem the demons and guard my dreams.

Writing

The world rotates at the same rate 

no changes perceptible to minuscule beings. 

No reprieve in sight, 

no break from the silence.

The final curtain a certainty. 

My companion ever present.

Loud in its absence.

Fill the void with musings and stories,

moments past and imagined. 

Love.

Beauty

Everlasting breath.

Construct security and boost the fragile scaffold.

Straw, matchsticks, wood, bricks and steel in the future. 

Surrounded by life, 

striving to allow life to continue every day,

holding on to the grips of strength,

challenging the certainty and ceasing the moments of terminal certainty for those I care for.

And yet I know that inevitability leads in the same direction.

The bookends are certain,

the books are a variable. 

Write in them daily.

Draw in them,

record hymns, 

feel the beats and warmth of the sun.

The softness of skin,

the tingling of adventure,

the pain of muscles in action,

the softness of animal fur.

The cogs turning

to give meaning and pleasure.

To cement the walls you build.

Yes, they will crumble.

But pass a worthwhile baton.

That will endure.

Write a book that will proudly keep .

On a dusty shelf.

Yes, forgotten. 

But well read, well leafed, well handled, well loved. 

Every day resurface from the earth

and face another empty page.

They sometimes feel pre-used.

Sometimes I am certain I have written in them before.

Or others before me.

I resent having to write the same page again and again.

Like a naughty child in school.

I must not waste my time,

I must not chat incessantly,

I must not cry,

I must not be me,

I must not try so hard to turn the pages in a hurry.

I keep wishing to turn the page and find the paragraph that was written for me,

frustrated by the thought and knowledge there is no such thing.

Clutch at straws laid out by others would be convenient.

Read that book that is meant as a guide. 

That nebulous trap that binds millions.

Yet I have long rejected that code,

dressed as it is in robes of hypocrisy.

Abandoned as I was 

when the dark was darkest and the pages were most empty.

Reading is easier than writing.

But boredom is not my strongest ally.

I strive to create and recreate,

reinvent and innovate.

Could it be that someone will one day 

turn the pages at the same time as me.

That the timing and the writing could one day be synchronised,

in tune,

calligraphic in every sense,

copied from the same mysterious cloud.

The hope will always be alive

always copied down and reiterated.

That wish to be seen never ending.

Or will I be like Miss Austen?

Ever clinging to the page 

Mr Darcy everlasting.

Ever admired for ideas,

never embraced for softness and held close.

Never precious to one,

but valued by many.

Never sure of my worth,

always seeking to assign it.

What I know

 I used to believe that life was fated. Everything that ever happened to us predestined and unchangeable. I used to think that life gave you choices and if you missed the right ones, then there were no others. You were doomed. I used to think that if you didn’t go to Uni you had no chance of a career and success. I used to think that I was meant to love one man forever. I used to think I would be a terrible mother because I was hurt before. I used to think my body was defective and wrong, along with my personality and everything about me. I used to think that I had no choice in life. Life happened regardless of what i did

I used to believe love was endless and there was nothing that could break it.

I know I was wrong.

I know that love is endless if it is true. I know success is defined by years of effort and not simply by academia. I know who I am and what I can do. I know the power of words and communication. I know that my life is up to me and I own it and I get to choose every day where it is going. I know now that I am pretty fucking awesome and I own my destiny and everything ahead of me is up to me. I know love is endless if it true love.

I know why I am here and I shall keep that secret, because the treasure is in its discovery.  I know that I will not need to repeat this life for I have learnt its lessons well.

I know that people come and go but some stick and they are true and valuable and so real.

I know that I am powerful and weak and strong and pathetic and soft and hard and harsh and pessimistic in my optimism. And that is OK. I am OK. I know that I am good at some things, and suck at others. And that is OK and it makes me a good flawed human. 

I know that I will always be OK now. I know I don’t know everything but I have the tools to find out. I know now more than anything that I will survive this life. And enjoy it, live it, cherish it, mark it. 

I know my power lies in my ability to empathise and love. I know  what my weaknesses are and there are some that are genetic and I can’t alter. I have learnt to accept those.

I think destiny is a myth. We make our own, plant seeds and later reap what we sow. The misplaced seeds sometimes feel like destiny. But they are just learning.

I know that I have much to learn. I know life is short and it feels like it is too short. I know the meaning of life. I know everything I say and do has an effect. I know how to keep my mouth shut and how to open it when needed. 

I know how to love most of all. True love. Unconditional and giving and self respecting.

I know I keep learning every day.

My house

 My story when I was a kid was just like those pictures I drew. A house on a hill, a horse in the paddock, 3 children, a chimney and a hay bale by the door. Birds in the sky and a single tree overlying the house.

Life is so much more complex, and I wish we were born with knowledge to tackle it and insight to mature and ferment as we grow older.

The twists and turns of life are like a tumble dryer of emotions. Hot and intense, disorienting. I watch others go through similar experiences, and realise how lonely I have been through some of it, how well supported in others. It has been a really worthwhile journey so far. So hard, and yet I still have so much more to learn.

Mainly about relationships. The one thing I think I am getting better at as I navigate my own emotional roller-coaster and learn to understand how I land myself into hot oil everytime I jump from a frying pan.

Let me get off my metaphors for one minute and get real.

Failing at relationships is success.

I know that sounds silly, but hear me out.

A very long time ago, I fell in love with a soul who was also in turmoil. They told me that a relationship ended because it was successful.

I always go back to that thought when I think about relationships. Relationships serve their purpose and then end. Some friendships last a lifetime because they have a role to play throughout our lifetime. Like the relationships we have with family. 

Romantic relationships have always been so much more complex for me. For someone to stare directly into an abyss I hadn't even delved into was the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced. So I hid my abyss and covered it up. With leaves and sticks that were invisible to my partner. But I kept falling into the abyss and not even realising where the holes were. Over and over again. And then covering the gap, only to fall right in as soon as I had surfaced. And all the while not letting anyone see what I was doing. All is well here, folks. I am a capable grown up, honestly.

The truth of the matter is that my internal world is very fragile. Getting stronger with time, as I learn about what is in the abyss and why the holes keep surfacing. Instead of waiting to fall in, I've cleared all the leaf litter and stared at all the holes. Explored every one of them, cleaned it out, and cemented it for good. Cracks remain that I have to patch up as I go.

As I learnt about me I learnt valuable lessons about relationships. My friendships and relationships with colleagues, my children and my family have grown in leaps and bounds. I have learned about healthy boundaries and protecting my emotional world. Caring for me never entered the equation in my past relationships. I thought I cared, but I didn't give a shit about me at all if it meant keeping my partner happy.

I have learned to care with compassion, care with sacrifice when appropriate, invest in those who are worth investing in, and forget those who are not healthy themselves to protect my newly raked internal world. 

I have learned to love wounded souls through my animals and how to heal through them. They are such great teachers when it comes to healing trauma and loving yourself through the process. How to love and care genuinely for a fragile helpless soul. The child I carry within who is now cradled in my arms as I walk forward.

My children are priceless angels who were sent to heal me through love and hard lessons. The most worthwhile lessons I have ever learnt. And keep learning. I hope I have taught them a bit in return. At least how to love, as I adore them with all my being. I carry them with me, and learn every day to let go of these strings as they make their own way and continue to lead their own journey.

I  am looking forward to the next step.

I have met someone really special. And while I have no illusions at all about what may or may not happen in my future, for I am a wise old woman who knows life hardly ever goes to plan, it gives me hope that I may find a friend in the future who could be a lover and companion. Someone to journey with. In a different way from my past. Without the intense burning that I have been addicted to, but with genuine mutual respect and admiration, love and care for wounds, and a keen interest in learning through their life lessons. 

I guess this is me telling the universe that I am ready just to peek in that last hole in the abyss that I have been avoiding. 

Yep, I am being real and honest. Avoiding a romantic relationship is a big one for me. I don't want to be hurt or used again. I don't want to be everything and nothing to someone else. I will be a friend and a genuine companion, but only to those who are worthy of me and allow me to feel that. I have no time for anyone who is out there to hurt me, or use me and discard me. I would love to have a partner who is one of my best friends. Like the people I carefully selected and kept over the years. Probably reading this, I would guess. 

I am staring at the abyss now and I am scared shitless. But for the first time in a long time I have hope that maybe I will find that special someone. I know that I am okay without them, but also finally aware that I would probably welcome them. Big steps.

My childhood picture now looks pretty funny. A misshapen house with added rooms, 11 pets scattered throughout, 2 kids, no horse, but a lizard. No hay against the house, but in the house leaning against the bunny cage. No windy driveway that leads away surrounded by flowers, but a steep shitty driveway with dead weeds around it. And so clunky and messy. So higgledy-piggledy. And I really love it.