Juxtaposed into my life. By lines of black & white. Are all the garish coloured strokes that shatter through the night. 

By straight and clear and well defined lie waves and murky mess.  I fall apart then grow again an ever moving quest. 

I focus on the checkerboard with moves and rules and pawns. Then turn the glass before my eyes and shine beyond their claws.  

The lens is multiplied for me and fractals make the whole. Where broken seems to dominate a vacant lonely soul. 

With walking contradictions that balance on a ledge. A complicated tapestry has woven in my head. 

I have to choose to live it all. The black, the white, the grey. Yet not forget the colourful that breaks along the way. 

For broken did not close me in or keep me to a path when garish coloured strokes survived and grew within the dark. 


A life worth living?

My therapist says from her chair, over there. 

To create a life worth living. 

I move out the door, at the end, and then I’m gone. 

Words echoing in my head. 

I drive my car. Look around. See the rain. See the clouds. The red lights from the traffic. 

A life worth living?

I think – It’s not quite where I’m at. 

I park my car and run to class. Late. And I’m the teacher. 

Smile and nod. Say my lines. Finish up. I’m out of time. 

I look around. See the people. See my students. Wonder why. Wonder if. 

This is it? 

Is this the point. From this moment on? Is this my life worth living?

Drive my car. Get my sons. Back. Back to me from him. I look at the buildings he chose over me. Over them. 

Shut the door. Now we’re home. Is this the life? Is this the life worth living?

Say goodbye. They’re gone again. I cry inside. I feel the pain. I dull the pain. 

I try my hand at art and craft. It holds me. For a moment. 

I sit with friends. And laugh with family. And cry myself to sleep. 

Is this it? 

Is this the life?

Is this the life worth living? 

She tells me that I have my sons. 

I love my sons. I try my best. I work. I sleep. I eat. I fight the darkness every time. Because I love my sons. 

I know one thing for sure.  

I don’t know what, 

if I could choose and wave a wand, 

a life worth living looks like. 

I hear you

I hear you. I say to my son. As he asks for a pile of money for a game he doesn’t need. 

I hear you. 

And the phrase reminds me she said that to me the other day. When I told her, my counsellor, for the umpteenth time that “it’s so hard”. 

I hear you. 

And I think as my son settles down and I say that I know, I’ve heard his request. 

That she says that to me. 

When nobody did before. 

Because she knows I say things over and over again because I was never heard.  

He curls up with his sad face and I smile and hug him close. Run my fingers through his hair. 

I kiss the top of his head and say “you really want that game, huh?”. He talks to me then of games that he has and other chitchat follows. He leans right in and changes the topic. 

He knows I hear him. He knows he can ask for anything. Right at the top of Maslows triangle of needs. 

I wonder how I got this right. I think, for a change.

I wonder how I knew what to do and how is it that I meet his needs so he is free to explore and return to me. 

Whenever he wants. Whenever he needs me. 

He is eleven now. He doesn’t snuggle as much anymore. He yells at me and stomps up the stairs. Or spitefully disagrees with me. 

He knows he is safe. He knows I am here. I will listen to him. He is important. 

His voice is equal to mine and if I am wrong I will let him know. I’ll tell him I’m sorry when I yell and spitefully disagree. 

And he does too. With a note on my bed or a “sorry I yelled mum” 

And I wonder how I knew what to do. How did I get this right?

In the absence of something I yearned for ~ I created it. All on my own. 

What I did not have, or see, or feel. 

I gave to my sons. 

Something, from nothing. 

I stop. And I notice. Right now. That I did this. I give to my sons what I needed and maybe that’s how I knew. 

What to do. 

For them. 

And I think maybe, just maybe, I am separate from my past. 

I can’t hold all the pain

I can’t hold it, she whispers, I cannot. 

She holds her hands out. 

Please, she whispers, take it from me. 

She sits, with open empty hands. Eyes pleading. 

Please, she begs as a single tear falls, I cannot hold it anymore. 

She moves her body. Slowly. 

And lays along the floor. 

Her cheek against the tiles. Cold and still she cries.   

Please, she mouths. 

She does not know. That no one can help her. No one can take it from her. 

She does not know. It’s part of her. 

I pick her up from behind and carefully embrace her. 

My arms enfold her and she shrinks into them. 

I will protect her and maybe her hope will survive. 

We move from the floor as one. 

And I carry on from there. 

When she returned…

My therapist was away for 47 days – or six weeks worth of sessions where I normally see her weekly. We survived. It was a very hard time for us.

Her return, two weeks ago was equally hard. With small, younger splits not sure and untrusting her. It’s been quite awful. Expecting to feel relief when she came back & almost the opposite occurred. We went into a bit of a spiral pattern.

This is my attempt at processing it…


She free fell through the atmosphere. 

She lost her breath. Her heart beat. 

Her hope. 

Her stomach twisted and tears stung her face. 

As she fell. 

The parachute had been ripped from her back. 

Fear. Pure unadulterated fear. 

Then. She heard someone call out. 

You’ve got another. 

But she couldn’t feel it or see it. 

So she fell. And fell. And fell. 

Wham. She’s hit by the other skydiver. Tackled and struggling someone else pulls her chute. 

She slows in the air. The pace is different. The fall is different. 

The parachute is different. 

But she is not free falling anymore. Her heart slows. Her hope returns. 

Are you gonna jump again?

Her parachute is back and she jumps. 

But she is scared. More scared than before and as it opens she clings to it, draws it near, lest it leaves her. 

And she is suddenly tangled and hurtling to the ground. 

Fear like she’s not felt before engulfs her. 

Everything is wrong. 

It’s not working like it did before. 

She screams and holds on tighter but tries to free herself at the same time. 

It’s not working right. 

She thinks to let it go entirely.

And plummet to her death. 

You need to let it go so it can support you. 

She listens, and trusts for that moment and moves her arms releasing the fabric and ropes 

And it arcs up above her like a fabulous wing and her free fall plummet slows 

And she is safe again. 

Does it ever get better?

I feel like there is no recovery from this that I am permanently broken. 

The damage goes far too deep for me to ever be ok. 

Where life will always swing me deep below. 

They tell me, it’s not happening now, you are safe now. And I do hear it, but, as though, from a distance. 

I am safe now.   

But I do not know it. I do not feel it. I respond and keep reacting to years of abuse & neglect. I’m tired.

I am safe now even if I do not feel it. My therapist wrote that somewhere for me. 

Am I safe? If I don’t feel safe? 

I’m not being abused or raped or hurt anymore. 

Does the fear and the pain live on forever. I see an endless road ahead. 

My very existence, my split mind, forever a reminder. I exist like this because I was broken. 

I am broken. I have many parts in a tangled mess. 

I want an answer to my screams of “is it going to be okay?” 

What do I think? 

I don’t know. 

Sometimes, in a moment, I think ~ yes it’s going to be okay. 

Sometimes – no, it’s too late. 


Unfixable she stands surrounded by the water. 

The storm rages through her. 

She knows of a place below where it’s still. 

Where it is safe and calm. 

But she stands there.

Unfixable. Unable to move. 

Lessons from the past swirl in her head like bitter toxin. 

It’s all she can see and taste and know.

She’s unfixable. She lets the water take her deeper. 

And deeper. 

She cannot reach out.

She swallows water. 

And closes her eyes. 

She’s. Unfixable. 

Brief check-in

My therapist is away. I don’t feel much like anything. It hit me a lot worse than I imagined. But actually I don’t think I even imagined because it was too hard. 

I’m seeing her supervisor in the time she’s away. 


Cos my head has been a very dark place. 

When we get triggered it usually involves a couple of splits/parts of me. And it’s hard and I work through it. I manage. 

This. This feels like everyone in my head is triggered and sad and scared and hauling up old emotions, cos why not? 

I don’t think I’ll be blogging much for a little while. 

I am just living one moment by one moment. We are not getting much sleep and our appetite is shit. 

Mostly just trying to distract ourselves and trying to not self harm. Or go down worse paths of thinking. 

I am really aware of just how fucked up we are. And it makes me angry as well. At how far reaching childhood abuse is. 

Fuck this.

With a dream

There is a girl with a dream. 

She’s little. 

So very small, 

she’s the littlest of them all. 


She has a dream 

It’s blue and pink and green

It’s all the colours 

she’s ever seen. 


It keeps her safe 

It gives her hope

She wraps it all up,

little girl with the dream. 


She learns to read

As her world closes in

Stories build dreams 

So she reads them all 


She is a little girl 

Who creates her escape

With a dream of her own 

With a world inside her


Little girl with a dream 

She saved us. 

Without her we wouldn’t 

Be here 


Strong, brave & fierce 

Against all the odds, that 

Broke her. Little girl.

With her dream.