The Urge to Write, to Love and to Heal.

For some reason I just feel like writing.

There are whole sentences and chapters of true tales and made up stories flowing through my head but they’re just not tangible yet.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately…and I am realising, in this very moment, often when I do that, I start to tell a story to myself in my head about some kind of magical, dizzying love that I…want? remember? am copying from a movie? Like I said, it’s intangible. But I can feel it.

Ah! – (I’m realising now) – that’s why! – someone in my family just got engaged. That’s when it bcrazy loveegan. The tales and the words.

I still believe that the true, true love story of my life has not yet arrived. Though I have been in love multiple times…those loves didn’t come with the words and the story of movies and theatre and novellas. Or maybe they did, I just didn’t realise it at the time. No…no, I think it just wasn’t…wasn’t the fairytale.

So, I believe that it’s all still coming my way. Is it still a fairytale then? I’m not sure. Perhaps it is until proven otherwise. But that’s the attitude of realists, scientists, pessimists even…and I’m none of those.

I’m the believer. I believe in magic first and what is ‘real’ second because I feel it. I feel the magic and only watch the ‘real’ (I.e.”real life”, “real truth”…someone else’s “real”…) I feel it on the tips of my fingers, I feel it running over my hands and into the bones of my wrists. And I’ll believe until it cascades through my body and overflows into my world.
Then it won’t be ‘magic’ any more. It’ll just be….it will just be.

the doctor hopes

– The Doctor (Me too, Doctor. Me too.)


I have great, massive capacity for love and I think that’s why my idea of love is so different to other people’s (it seems) and why I haven’t been satisfied by my past experiences when compared to the stories of love that roll through my head. It’s because this fairytale love is the love that I give to other people, but they don’t see it, they can’t see it because they’re not ready for it.
I think in the past when it comes to love, I have unconsciously ‘settled’. As much as I massively love others, I somehow have come to believe that I don’t deserve the same. On a surface level, I do, which is why I am not satisfied by past experience, as aforementioned…but in truth…because I have never received the huge, deep love that I give to others in return, I have come to believe that I mustn’t deserve it. Something is wrong with me, that must be it.
Where, why and when did I learn that? Let me guess…childhood.
We really are all just emotionally wounded kids that we pushed together to create ourselves as ‘adults’.

I know in my childhood I was….hmm…I always get stuck when I try to go deeper into these things. Okay, try again.
I was ‘the over sensitive one’.
I once wrote online that I have experienced childhood trauma. I was unsure about writing it because I know that people would not consider anything that happened to me spectacularly ‘traumatic’…like, my ‘not really traumatic, you’re just being over sensitive’ experience does not allow me the right to use that term relative to me and my childhood.
However, in this moment I’ve decided I’ll take it. I’ll take it and I’ll use it. It feels a bit uncomfortable as I write these words…but right at the same time. That uncomfortable feeling is actually just fear of the aforementioned judgement.

{Here is something that helps me with all that:

The dictionary defines ‘trauma’ as: a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.

The dictionary defines ‘traumatized’ as: subject to lasting shock as a result of a disturbing experience or physical injury.

I most like this description from Wikipedia: Trauma is often the result of an overwhelming amount of stress that exceeds one’s ability to cope or integrate the emotions involved with that experience.}

Anyway, so. I seemingly believe that I don’t deserve love, or at least, the kind of love that is similar to that which I believe I offer to others. This issue has to do with self-worth. Trust me on this, I’ve done three pages of shadow work (‘shadow work’: identification of detrimental core beliefs, with the intention of changing them into something positive, or at the very least, neutral) that led me to figuring that out…

It is a daily occurrence for me that I have intrusive thoughts and flashbacks about things that happened in my childhood. I haven’t done anything about it because just contemplating the idea of ‘dealing with them’ makes me feel…basically nope nope nope nope nope and so I nope the hell out of there, every single time. Even now. I’m noping. I’m noping all over the place.
At the same time, this, just writing this, is a break through because it’s the longest I’ve thought about all this (as I write this, the things from my childhood that I’m referring to are flooding through my brain).
Here are some things – and here is the issue – a lot of them seem like nothing to be traumatised about – but I am traumatised by it (because of the inability to integrate or cope with the emotions involved in the experience – hence why I like the Wikipedia definition).
I’m still typing because I’m putting off writing them out. Procrastinate is my middle name. No it’s not, I lied. Anyway:

I have a memory of my brother taking my bright blue, flower shaped clock that I looooooved so much and smashing it on the tiles in the hallway near the front door. I think I was about 10-11? But actually, in this memory, I can’t remember….I think there was an orange clock that looked the same…but it was orange? Maybe I had two? Anyway. Smashing of the clock. There. I said it. And see? That seems like nothing. But there it is. I remember he wanted something, or wanted me to do something for him and I said no and I don’t know..I know there was yelling and I was really upset, screaming that I hated him and crying. I suppose it must have been more than him just wanting me to do something? Dunno. Yea, so, that. He smashed it. I remember he was laughing and smiling. Um…and I was like, “I hate you!” and…that’s all I remember. ….Hmmm….?

Being in the kitchen around age 7. We had just had dinner at the kitchen table. My brother had done something, or said something really bad and was getting in trouble. (He was two years older than my twin sister and I, by the way). The kitchen table is bright orange and is actually a bench, come to think of it. That’s a better word. It’s an orange bench and there’s three chairs on one side and the inner bit of the kitchen with the cupboards and the kitchen sink Etc. on the other side. Mum and dad sat on that side. My brother sat at the ‘head’ of the bench, and my sister and I sat on the other side.
Dad had stood up to approach my brother to smack his hand as punishment I.e. my brother would hold is hand out in the air, palm down, and dad would hit the top of his hand really hard. I think.
My brother obviously didn’t want that so he started backing away, away from dad and where he was sitting, around to me and my sister’s side of the bench. Dad was coming forward towards him. I got up off my chair and backed away, ended up standing near the wall at the opposite end of the bench to where my brother had been sitting. Dad grabbed my brother’s wrist, making him hold still and then hit the back of my brother’s hand with his other hand. I remember the feeling/just know that my eyes were welling with tears.
I remember that I must have said something about how dad shouldn’t have done that, and dad turned and looked at me and said, “Do you want a smack too?!” I burst into tears and backed all the way up against the wall. I was either crouched down or I’m just thinking that because I guess it would kind of seem like that if I’m looking through the eyes of my short 7 year old self and comparing that perspective to me and my height now…
I remember being really scared…my brother ran up the stairs and slammed his door. My dad sat back down at the bench and continued eating his steak and peas…or I’m just remembering that’s what he was eating. ….Yea, so, there’s that one.

Intrusive memory three:
Mum hemming my skirt for high school and very indirectly suggesting I would look “un-ladylike” if she put it as short as where I wanted it (which isn’t really true in my now grown up opinion, it would have just been the tiniest bit above the knee which was not allowed at our school). I took this completely the wrong way, thought she was calling me a slut and started crying and yelling at her. She stopped hemming my skirt, left the house and either drove away somewhere or was just sitting in the car outside…not sure.
I went upstairs to my bed and cried for two hours, thinking that I was a bad daughter and mum hated me so much she had to drive away. I called her phone and she didn’t answer (I think? Or did I just add that in? Oh well), so I was like, “come back, come back!” in between my sobs. I think Dad came in and said she just needed some time out and basically tried to tell me it would be alright and that I was over reacting.
When she came back I said sorry and cried in her arms and she sort of stood there a bit emotionless and was like, “it’s alright” – like, she was still mad and didn’t want to have to comfort me at that moment. She still does that a little bit sometimes – I mean, something upsets her and she is like, “it’s fine. I’m fine” but she looks weird and her mouth is just a straight, expressionless line and no matter what you do you can’t hug it out of her for the rest of the day/trip. As I’m older, I do see that’s a coping mechanism. At the time of the argument I didn’t realise that kind of reaction is more to do with her and not me, so concluded that she still sort of hated me/thinks I’m a bad daughter for a while longer.


Okay, I think that is enough for now. Whoa. Shit is cray.

And anyway, as The Doctor says:


doctor who quote amy



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