Archives for category: Writing

I’m absolutely incredulous at the amount of time it is taking to move out of this phase. I can tell you how I got here: physically, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually, philosophically, sociologically, economically… I have done the reading as a means of trying to find my way out of it.

The last time I healed an emotional wound I looked back and I could list accomplishments like ‘got a degree’. I clearly could not have been doing ‘nothing’ in that time. It’s just that then, as now, I did it all in a haze of dissociation. I was completely overwhelmed by my circumstances whilst refusing to bow to them.

I have to some extent let life wash over me. Sometimes believing that I was giving myself a kind of spiritual once over. I think that’s probably bunkum. I’m just immensely lonely, and very sad. I can not tolerate how deeply I feel that life is passing me by. One year rolls into the next, and I think with each passing year, “you’ve never been so fat”, “so lacking in energy”… and think of all the things that I could have done.

I was the first in my family to get a degree, I was the first to have a career, I went sailing, I engaged in the arts, I actively threw off the shackles of poverty and went to get mine. And now capitalism is functioning like it aught to, the middle and upper classes are squeezing me out of work and maintaining their privilege. And I miss my life.

Knowing this is what’s happening doesn’t make it easier to cope. It highlights the injustices and reinforces my lack of confidence. It successfully gaslights me into compliance. I am the only one complaining. The only other person that understood how this feels, declines to talk to me.

So here I am. Equally loathing myself for feeling sorry for myself, and trying to pep talk myself into taking the least awful routes out of this impasse. I already gave up on taking PIP to tribunal AGAIN, because of the fucking psych evaluation that I had done. The one that confirmed that other than depression (because of my circumstances) I am in fact perfectly sane.

In the long run, this long line of CPN’s and psychiatrist’s and counsellor’s stamp of sanity will be beneficial, but right now, it feels like chains. I am running out of ways to defend myself self against the social. I am living in terror that eventually they are going to sanction me, and that my worst fear will come true: I will end up homeless again.

I can’t handle the pride I feel, and the shame that lives with it. I hate to admit to anyone that knows me that I am out of work. It’s the worst kept secret I’m sure everyone knows, but it’s my Achilles heal. I got a degree, just to end up on the dole. Just who did I think I was anyway.

I haven’t felt Christmacy in years. Can’t say I’m excited, but I am looking forward to spending time at the female parental’s. Change is as good as a rest.

My dad was in hospital again: pulmonary embolism, pneumonia and left lung lower lobe collapse. I’m pretty sure there is a poem in there somewhere. He’s home now, and oddly happy. Then again, people do find relief when they feel heard. He’s had a sore nose for 14 months (this is an understatement) and they are going to have a look and see what damage was done when they had to pack it (that was one severe nosebleed!).

I’m thrilled to bits with the new diet, despite the problems that it’s causing me. The lack of pain is a major bonus. Combine that with the sleep that I have been getting and I’m feeling quite alert. And hopeful. Ish. (Let us not jinx this).

I’ve been making a shirt. I made my own pattern for it. I’m feeling really accomplished, or I will do when I sow the arms on and figure out how to make a neck line…

I don’t have much to say: things have been incredibly intense and I’ve been worried about all the stuff. I wanted to make a post that was a bit more positive and uplifting. I don’t know why… but I feel light and I’m not going to look too closely into that.

I’m going to wrap myself in a blanket and read a book. I’m not going to do anything else till after Christmas. That feels like a very normal and peaceful thing to be able to say. Hurrah! The calm after the storm. Hope the next one passes me by, I’m all stormed out and hoping for better weather.

Which reminds me of a poem I wrote many years ago:

Batten down the hatches

We’ve headed for stormy weather again

Close all the latches

Before you see my shame

I’ve studied all the catches

And still they’re all the same

Still batten down the hatches

And we’ll see if the weather will change.

I don’t think it’s a particularly strong poem, but it’s nice to look back and recognize how much growth there has been in these years of relentless destruction and destitution and hopelessness.

My writing group came to an end, but there are plans afoot to reinstate it next year. I’m also looking forward to being arm deep in clay. Might there be other wonders on the horizon yet to be uncovered? Imagine that? Things to look forward to rather than feel like I have to cling to scraps to survive.

Yes, I am feeling gratitude and that is a joyous thing.

So, dear friends, I wish you all Joyeux Noel and hope that the coming year brings you a lot of what you need, and a little of what you want. Dare I say, I hope you see a glimmer of things that you had not thought to hope for.

I got flashed, people, that’s what happened. I had to hit that man to get him to leave me alone (he started to follow me). I told him I was going to hit him, and then I popped him, twice. My wrist was sore for weeks. When I asked you who the Boss was a few posts back, I meant my answer, I’m the freakin Boss.

I have to clear a few things up… It wasn’t my stepfather that stopped the counselling it was my mother. My mother went out of her way to make my 40th Birthday a bit of an extravaganza. I start the writing course in two weeks, and I am going to resurrect my book. I’m volunteering for two projects and I’m applying for a writing internship, a paid one! I am learning to make my own clothes.

After living in dire straights for so long a little money goes a long way. So when I nervously asked for money for my birthday, I was very pleased to find myself the proud owner of £300. I bought a lot of material and I fished out my Nan’s sewing machine. I am halfway through making my first pair of trousers.

I also bought three pairs of shoes from Blend. I spent my 30th sailing the fjords of Norway and traveling through the mountains, during that time I bought some trainers. I took a pair in every colour they had: green, blue, red, orange… Something made me look them up this year (nostalgia) and there they were. Now, thanks to the wonder of having friends in foreign places and an internet connection I am proud owner of said trainers. £50 for the lot. Thank you, very much.

I was treated to a weekend away by my mum. We did nothing but eat and drink for three days. We even managed not to descend into complete anarchy. Which is somewhat shocking since we were both drinking. I decided to give up for a few days trying to avoid ‘drunk mother’. Amazingly, my new counsellor ain’t that bad, and I’ve moved from a place of anger to real forgiveness. Not the sticking plaster kind, but a lasting forgiveness. I’m glad because anger is exhausting. So is drinking, I don’t know how people find the stamina to become addicted…

Whilst I was preparing for this writing course, I went through my books and found ‘the book’. I couldn’t put it down, even I want to know how it turns out! It’s also given me the confidence to apply for an internship as a writer. I do not publicise this blog not just because I want to maintain my anonymity, but because I fear my own writing. I worry about my consistency, I worry about my pitch and I am terrified of my grammar. I might not if I renamed the blog “Fuck off, I am Dyslexic” but I’m trying to work on my amiability.

I had a few interviews, which after years of having none is a bloody relief, and while volunteering is not ideal it does give me something to concentrate on. Both projects are in areas that I feel particularly challenged so I am hoping to get as much out as I put in this time. My waistline is also thanking me. I signed up to OKSTUPID again. I don’t know why I bother because most of them scare me, but it’s something to do to relieve the ongoing tragicomic monotony that is my life post recession.

My orchids bloomed. I stopped smoking. And I got thanked for being a feminist!

Something terrible happened yesterday.
I don’t want to talk about it today.
I’m at a friend’s cat sitting.
I’m in a lot of pain; physical and emotional.
A friend wants to know if I need anything, I already said what I needed, I’ve been saying it for months.
I look at my friend’s house and I’m transported to desperately sad and unhappy times.
Every surface is covered. Every surface has something on it. Every. Surface.
There is no view.
I think I’m allergic to her house as much as I am her cat.
I can’t believe the years I have lost to my shit.
All of it, physical and emotional.
Other people could see it, but I couldn’t.
Or at least I did not want to.
Why?
Because I was so very sad, and lonely.
Sometimes I think I haven’t moved on at all, but when I look back to yesterday, I think I’m starting to win.
It’s my time to win.
I so desperately need to travel, it’s killing me staying put. I don’t know how to make it happen, but I have to try find a way. Especially before the world implodes. Honestly, I’m really feeling the political disasters presently.
I feel like I’m in a race against time.
Only this isn’t as much fun as crystal maze.
My pain killers are kicking in now.
I hope I can sleep.
I’m wondering if I have enough masochism left in me to spend another night.
Someone called to invite me to a writing course, I can’t believe the range of emotions swirling around this one.
What is my main aim?
Freedom!
Does writing set me free, or does freedom give life to my writing.
I think we all know the answer to that.

03.33… I wish it were a song title. It’s not. It’s the time. At 11.15 I’m supposed to be viewing a flat. I don’t know what’s happening really, other than I’m here writing this blog. On the 18th April, my wonderful friend, “That damned cat” passed away. She had diabetes, the kind that cannot be treated with tablets. After many vets trips, weeks begging her to get better, I knew that at 18 years old she would not. A week before or a week later, I can barely remember, my granddad passed. Three years of deaths. And I’m still here, wondering: why? Or more precisely: How!

My financial situation is so bad, it’s normal now. And I’m just treading water. Paralysed by fear. Anything I do could tip me over the edge into a more precarious position. ANYTHING. Moving is a big gamble. Here’s the thing… Now the cat is dead, I can afford to go to hospital on the bus. I bought some cigarettes, and some booze. Flipped out for a few weeks. Ate all the meat. Well, chicken and fish. Wanted to eat all the cakes, and chocolate, but everything tastes the same, synthetic, saccharine and somehow tasteless too. So I bought prepared fruit. The decadence. Had to borrow money to get through another round of “not going bankrupt this month”.

Apparently, I’ll get some money now granddad’s dead. Nan’s money was tied up in a living will… When the cat died, I thought it wouldn’t be long before I was a goner too. But it seems I’m locked into living again. My reasoning being that none of my family are getting a penny of my money. Literally over my dead body. I can think of so many people who really need, and would make the most of my money. I’m sure that if I died before I got the money, it would instantly pass to my next of kin. I don’t have one at the moment. Anyway, by the time I get the cash, they can’t have it either. I’m going on holiday till it’s spent.

My dad that was ill, nearly died again. So that’s been fun. He hasn’t been in touch for a while. He could actually be dead now, and I wouldn’t know. He says I’m next of kin, but every time he goes into hospital, I find out from my aunty. Fuck it. The other dad cut me off for not paying his phone bill. Apparently, none of the reasons I had detailed were good enough. Fuck it.

The job centre want to send me on a work programme. OVER MY DEAD BODY. They can get to fuck. I want a job, with minimum wage, and stable hours. Any job will do, but I’m not lining the pocket of fucking tescos with my tears and stress. No chance. I’m trying to set up some businesses, but I haven’t the energy. This woman is trying to get me to apply for some funding, I’m like, listen love, it takes all I have to apply for a job… Anyway, she’s trying to help, but actually it piles on the stress. She’s alright with mum, and a partner looking after her. She might have her woes but she doesn’t have mine and can’t see what the block is. There was a creative thing that looked really awesome, but it didn’t pan out. Got several more rejection letters. It’s the grey hair. I know it is. Hair dye costs money you know!

Dyslexia; grief; illness; poverty; the never-ending bullshit of living in a stupidly dysfunctional family? Pick one or two, mix it up see if you get a different result to me. I tried to get some help from some Dyslexia places, they are fucking useless. Even more disorganised than I am. My teeth need fixing, I think I have a filling coming loose… More bus fares… One return journey currently runs at 5% of my weekly income. So, I can’t go this month. I’ve paid for the hospital trip. I mean, I can. Of course I can, there is always a compromise to be made: don’t look for work, go to the dentist. Don’t buy food, go to the dentist.

Someone sent me some money, did I say? An anonymous donor? £60. A lot of money to some one in my predicament. I felt guilty for spending some of it on food!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No shit. I felt guilty spending it at all to be honest. But there you go. Glad I don’t have to worry about how much fuel I’m using at the moment, that feels like a little holiday in itself. I over paid some council tax, I have two months break as a readjustment. That’s £30 I needed then like air, but need just a little less now the cat is gone.

That was expensive, getting to the vets, and contributing to her vet fees. The food, the litter… She was going through a bag of litter a week, the tray needed cleaning every day. It was full-time care, she just wanted to be in my arms. I gave her what ever she wanted. And all she wanted was to be with me. I couldn’t afford to have her cremated, so she was cremated with all the other poor pets and sprinkled on a paupers garden. My princess in the cheap seats. This is what I got my degree for… to be able to tell the world eloquently that I’m falling apart, instead of going and jacking up in a back ally somewhere. Lucky me.

I have a box of her fur, and I’d like to have a bit of a do for her, but the thing is, I can’t think. I just can not think. I have moments, flashes where I’m on fire and I get lots done, but they have to be spent on job search. Only the job search. Or bits of work I manage to scrabble together. The writing is dead. The reading is dead. I self medicate on social media networking sites. Everyone thinks I’m bonkers, but what they don’t know is I’m more switched on than them… I can prove it, all my counsellors tell me so, and the psychiatrists keep telling me I’m just stressed. Well, they would say that wouldn’t they? The level of what’s normal in my area is a bit skewed compared to the rest of the country, and we all know there is no funding in mental health.

Anyway. Here I am. Terrified to move, in case it makes a bad situation even worse. This time two years ago seems like a party at the moment.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2s0m2VNbVE&feature=youtu.be

 

It would be a lie to say that I was a non-smoker since I smoke nearly every week. I began eating meat again. I went out and got laid. He’s an alright bloke, but he’s not for me: maybe he just doesn’t want to be for me. Anyway, we are friends, so at least we’ve lost nothing. We met when I started drinking again. I read an article that said that will power was finite. Being jobless and in the pit of grief trying to hold onto my sanity, something had to give. So, I let it all go (again, with the letting go!).

I called a friend, snot nosed and said this was the worst impersonation of ‘Love, eat, pray’ or what ever the hell that was, that I’d ever witnessed and I’ve seen a lot of messed up puppies in my time. She laughed and said, “You’re not messed up. You’re living. Get used to it”. I decided there was little else I could do actually, so I settled in for the ride. I believe the Buddhists call it developing renunciation.

Then I finally found a freakin job. Hallelujah!

Kind of got sacked because 1) My line manager and I knew each other from a previous job and we both knew it wouldn’t last long, 2) It ended a lot quicker than we both thought it would because I almost burnt the hostel down. Strictly speaking it wasn’t my fault, but still, it was a very close call. We both learned something that day: She’s a person living in fear and my hostel days are over because I just don’t have the love for it like I used to.

I let that go too. Just slunk off and never looked back. Even when I was pleading for my job, we both looked at each other through the facades we’d built knowing that neither of us wanted me to get my job back. But I worked long enough to pile a little bit of cash up. Knowing this might be the last pile o’ cash I see for a while I thought, “fuck it”. I’m going to get drunk. My birthday month was wild. I don’t even remember living like that in my teens, I just went nuts.

As the second half of August pulled into sight I said to myself that I was going to straighten out again and start the soul destroying process of finding work. Then I got drunk and slept with my friend again. We had a big talk a few weeks later about how we were just going to be friends, then we had sex on the sofa. It’s pretty funny you know. At some points I just laughed and laughed and laughed… Grief works in mysterious ways. My friends are phenomenal that’s all I can say. They really have carried me this year, and I will say it till I’m blue in the face, I have had no choice but to let them. At first, I waved to my pride as I passed by, but then it caught me up again all refreshed and wearing new clothes.

What now then?

1) I’m still allergic to the cat.
2) I have a zero hour contract working a bar.
3) I’m still looking for better hours.
4) I stopped writing the book. I don’t have time to research it properly.
5) I created my own event. (It went down really well).
6) I won some funding to be able to put my event on again in a different venue.
7) I’m applying for further funding to take it further afield.
8) I said I’d help a friend with his events. We are gaining a lot of interest and some very serious people are asking questions.
9) I’m going to have to set up new blogs about both of these events, because other wise, I’ll lose the anonymity of this blog. Some of you have come so far with me on my inner journey, that I wouldn’t want to lose you because I couldn’t continue writing with the same level of freedom I enjoy now.

I hope you are well. I’ll post the writing I did for my event when I’ve typed it up. Till then, have a listen to this my loves…

Since my last post:

1) I’m still allergic to the cat.
2) I’m still working for the Talent Agency but not for the Cafe because:
3) my cousin died,
4) my uncle died,
5) my friend died,
6) my dad had a heart attack,
7) all my money (the tiny pittance I had) was withdrawn and I had to borrow money to pay the rent,
8) I accidentally took a lot of street drugs at a party (I don’t do drugs).

Things got very surreal and every step was like wading through mud. Or quick drying concrete. Let’s not do this couple of months ever again… Except for the friendship garden… That bit is very, very nice. In my new place I have a garden, the first I’ve had since leaving home. Really, it’s a 6 by 6 yard, but I’m turning it into a garden. And my friends are helping: pansies, broadbeans, sweet peas, strawberries, daffodils, gardenia, day lilies and my own crappy cactus that refuses to die. Apparently, there is Chard on the way from friend and a goat from another. Knowing this friend, I have no idea if she might actually bring a goat!

So, anyway, the war with life rages on as I try to stay in the slip stream. Stupid bugger that I am, I prayed for change didn’t I? Called for Kali, such a fool I am… Here is a little bit of the book:

“In a curious twist… not everyone is falling apart. Some of us are. But we are loved and this love carries us through. Grief, not to be confused with depression takes time to heal. When we are ready to move on we do, of our own accord.

What do we grieve for? Those that have passed (total of four this year for me, plus one furry brother, unless someone else sneaks in another within the next 11 days), death of our career, ending of a relationship, financial worries (who of us isn’t grieving over the loss of our financial independence during these times), losing our children’s dependence on us, but worse, so much worse than all of these, is to lose our sense of self. How truly terrifying to wake up one morning and in place of certainty find only doubt.

How do we re-establish a sense of self on such unsteady ground? We dig. We dig what at first appears to be a grave and then we fill the hole, metaphorically with our old selves. We pour into the hole all that was once useful and joyful, but that now only brings us dread. We pour our lament, thick with snot and tears, like syrup into the foundations of our new selves. We release our putrid and outworn ideas into the slop and we bury it. We lay to rest that which no longer carries us through, knowing the only thing that we really need is love.

And yes, it’s true, on your quest to find love you look back and see the grave of your past. But don’t you know, that in time, that earth will settle and when you have done roaming you will return to find this is the best place to build a new sense of self, with a heart full of love. What am I saying? This is the natural order. Don’t fight it. You are going to die one way or another, so before you push yourself to a death you can’t come back from, give into the experience and reserve some energy for your rebirth.”

Let me tell you, that little piece of monologue was hard-earned. I’ll let you know when I’m eating bean stew with strawberries for afters.

I renounced Buddhism.  I said to myself this is not working!  I realised my life was not shifting.  I had a brief thing with a disrobed Buddhist monk.  This thing we had, full of friction and misunderstandings, brought me back to Buddhism.  If you have been following for a while, you’ll know that I am ever contrary.  I was super focused and full of I’ll show you, but he showed me.

I went for refuge, dedicated a set amount of time to prayer and reflection.  I chose the Green Tara Puja, twice a day for three weeks. It was like something from ‘Eat, Love, Pray’ or what ever it’s called.  I spent a lot of time crying and shouting.  During that time I decided to go volunteer at my local Buddhist Centre, got rid of my mad monk and tried for a job in Housing.

I believe that is where I left you?  Since then the centre has upped my days and made me chief soup maker.  Each week I make soup for 40 people; it’s incredible the quality of reflecting you do chopping onions. They offer more days, but anyone who has worked in a cafe will be able to tell you it is hard work. I am unable to take more on.

Where was I?

1) I volunteer in the cafe.
2) I’ve submitted an article for a website, for a paid gig.
3) I am designing an album cover, which I am being paid for.
4) I went on a retreat to the biggest Temple in Britain and had the most amazing time.
5) I am letting go. Ha! I know! But seriously, I really am letting go.
6) I work for a Talent Agency as a Social Media Officer and they want to give me more work.
7) I am still getting rid of the mountain of possessions that I acquired in the old flat. I had a lot of stuff.
8) I am practicing mindfulness every day.
9) I’m speaking up.
10) I am learning to stay with who I am, not who I was. Or rather, now I can no longer hide behind my work as a Hostel Support Worker, I am figuring out who I am really. Turns out, I’m quite shy underneath this balshy exterior.
11) I’m still allergic to the cat!
12) I recently went on a date with a nice man, who wanted to see me again. I declined, as nice as he was, he wasn’t for me. I’m still looking.

I laugh every day, speak with my friends and loved ones regularly, spend time on my own through choice and work on my house (it’s a bit more broken than I thought it was). I’m looking forward to better weather so I can get out walking again, I miss it. I haven’t written anymore for the book, but it is still there, waiting patiently for my return. And I am returning. I’m going back to the beginning and doing things right this time, slowly and with patient effort.

Happy Spring.

As a child and teenager I used to enter these periods and I would endure them for a short while and shake them off like water. I’d make a motivation and step through walls and climb mountains. The time I experienced the Long Dark Night of the Soul, I sincerely thought that I would not make it out alive. Until of course I shook that off also. It took years. Maybe 10, maybe 14. I still functioned, I progressed in many ways, in ways that were unexpected. And yet, on other levels, I was barely alive. I was moving through this world like a ghost.

Despite acquiring wealth, possessions, stability, a degree, a reputation as a person with integrity among friends and within my career… I felt like a fraud. At times I was angry and anti-social, at times I was classically depressed, at the lowest point I was 100% convinced that there were secret messages hidden in songs, which contained clues about how to resolve my emotional pain. Fortunately, I had an infatuation with a Muslim man who talked to his Imam about me. His Imam said I was seeking refuge in music, ever the Contrarian I said, “I’ll show you”! I wrote a poem and then silenced my stereo for the better part of 3 years.

These songs? This endless list of songs I play, they are just songs with lyrics or melodies that move me. They may be relevant to my current emotional state, they may not, they may be directed at one person, a group or solely at myself; they are all just songs. Audio glitter to sparkle dreary days and nights, there are no secret messages contained within.

There is an understanding that none of this even remotely matters. In my heart of hearts I know that I can unravel this life, right now. I could just choose to walk out of the door and disappear into the night. Thousands of people do it every year, some stay gone for days, weeks, months… some for years. Personally, I have always known that regardless of how far I travel I will always have to take myself with me. And so I ran away standing still; in comfort.

I used to engage in day dreams in absence of action. When I was trapped by my circumstances I resorted to my rich and fertile imagination. Sometimes, these fantasies bled into real life and I was dragged into a shared reality when other people strayed from my script. I hated it when people did not respond in accordance with my dreams. I used to mind read. That is to say, I used to believe that I knew what other people where thinking and feeling, and would rarely ask even reasonable questions.

Since my grandmother died, I entered a period of existential crisis. I am not depressed, I am not stressed, I am slightly numb, occasionally angry (I am not patient); I have chosen to experience this state of being as a period of waiting. I am waiting. What am I waiting for? The bodies of my enemies to pass me by? No. Sometimes our enemies have the most valuable lessons to teach us. What I am waiting for is a revelation.

I am waiting for a door, that once opened wide can not be closed, that will not be ignored. I’m waiting for the wisdom to recognise that door when I see it, rather than when I’ve gone so far passed it I’ve lost it. In the mean time I am meditating on my weaknesses and learning what to do with them. Accept them or develop them into strengths. I know that any time I can change this life, with a word, a thought, an action. I am not powerless. I might not be fully self actualising, or perhaps in going for refuge, I *am*.

These are dangerous times. The world is going crazy. We can only make it a better place by being as authentic as we can, with ourselves and other people. We have to learn that sometimes the people who smile the most tell the most damaging lies. We have to understand that other people sometimes have a vested interest in making sure we fail. It absolves them of having to take responsibility for their own lives and subsequently the consequences of their own choices.

We have the power to unravel this life, now. Sometimes all it takes is a change of perspective, sometimes it requires something more radical. But we, no one else, are responsible for our current realities. The only advice I have that is of any use is this: When making decisions make sure mind, body and soul are in alignment. A sense of calm will help you know when you have made the right choice, and you will be able to act with authenticity. Be kind. Yes, to yourself and other people.

Play Your Cards To Your Heart – Groove Armada

1) Send out an email. There are too many recipients for this email. So send out 5 emails. Do some social media stuff.

2) Download something. Download a bittorrent. Download a template. Down load the thing. Install the thing. Do something to the thing. Re-upload the thing.

3) Arts council funding bid for a really bloody good project, that someone has potentially plagiarised from me. Why didn’t I keep my stuff more secret? Why didn’t I apply for more funding? Why did I get disheartened at the first hurdle and throw it all away.

4) Apply for a job.

5) Make a poster

6) Finish a piece of art and find someone to by it, so I can fulfill a promise I made.

7) Put some stuff on a bidding site to sell.

8) Take some things to charity. More things.

9) Respond to an email from an old friend saying thanks but no thanks… Why aren’t these people leaving me alone? It’s been years… What am I to conclude from the fact that people I am trying to leave behind refuse to be left?

10) Sort out volunteering at the local Buddhist Centre.

11) Send a reminder email to someone about volunteering my time to give benefits advice to people who are in need.

12) Go pick up somethings from a friends. Do things with the things.

13) Apply oil paints to an existing piece of art (recently made).

14) Call my mum.

15) Stop devoting brain energy to certain people, who are not even in the same city as me.

16) Write more book.

17) Call my dads and brother

and on and on and on and on and on and on and on… It feels like a land slide… I have to make some doctors appointments and attend some clinics too. I just want a hug really. From someone who loves me. A real physical hug, from a man, who loves me. I’d like to sleep properly and I’d like to move again. I’m feeling really claustrophobic.

I did manage to do several positive things today, but then someone stole my joy by telling a rape joke. It wasn’t funny. They never are. Did you know that if you tell someone who has told a rape joke that they are not funny, you reduce instances of rape. FACT. Don’t be a baby dude, tell your friend he’s not funny. I would, but we all know what happens when ‘teh menz’ are ask by women not to be arseholes.

Get Here If You Can – Oleta Adams.