The unraveling

So long in limbo can make forward movement seem nauseatingly fast. Formula 1 Speed Trap fast. When really, everything is falling into place exactly as planned…

I’ve been clawing at my cage, wearing my fingertips to the bone, frustrated, disengaged, bored. I’ve screamed my readiness at the universe, cursed it for promising me everything then chiding my outstretched hand and chastising my eagerness- telling me to wait. How long do I have to wait? Will I know when I’m not waiting anymore? Is it gonna be WORTH this stupid, dumb, cocoon of WAITING? I stopped asking for messages. Arms crossed, I turned my back on the possibilities and sulked. I felt a sense of righteousness, a sense of deserving. Proud, too proud to reflect. Too proud to see. To see all the gifts. The abundance that was flowing in. I could only see my dry little pond. My cup was empty, and I was getting thirsty.

My guides ignored me and carried on their magic, opening doors, closing windows, keeping me on track. Making sure I still found my way to this moment. THESE moments. I feel my feet freed from shackles and all they want to do is run. But only my feet have been released- I’m running in a mermaid silhouette- it’s not very effective. I’ll have to slow down… wait…

Next my eyes were uncovered. My cocoon gently falling away piece by piece as the universe sees fit. So now I’m gifted with blurry visions of where my cautious feet are trying to step. Oh to be undone and soar. But I know I have to wait.


A reconnection with spirit. Messages from the other side. Visits from beyond. My mind is opening, my heart is being nurtured, my intuition is calmly passing notes in bold ink, with full stops. Not to be ignored. Not to be taken for granted. Vivid dreams that I don’t even have time to unpack before the next one comes, and gives me something else to wonder upon.

The meticulously crafted shroud gets looser every day. Layers fall away slowly until a new sense is uncovered… Recovered… anew.

The opening of this chapter is a vast expanse of possibility. And when I’m ready, I’ll know. But until then… I’ll wait.


I just need to check in.

The storm has settled. And the layers are being stripped back. Sensitive to everything, but not broken by it. Being vulnerable and bare and open. Open to receive… open to be torn open… open to share.

This rawness has never been so tolerable. I’m held, protected, powerful. But raw. Stripping back what no longer serves me. Making space for the blessings I am worth of receiving.

No matter how many times I complete this process, it’s scary as hell, and painful. Saying farewell to all the tricks and lies that were “keeping me safe”, to welcome more power than I thought I possessed.

In the freefall before the universe catches you, after you’ve taken that leap out of your psychological prison of victimhood… When you ARE a victim, it’s so hard not to PLAY the victim. When you lose control of your life, it’s hard to take it back. Tumbling, I’ll keep making decisions that feel inertial, that keep me falling, that strip away layer after layer.

Because I love it. Because I yearn for growth, and because I have to. Because my babe and my love are deserving of the greatest version of me.

Stay tuned for chez v6.8

I have 2 degrees in this

I do all the steps, I answer all the questions, I complete all the tasks. It brings all the things to my awareness and then I just sit there looking at a proverbial, overwhelming pile of notes of my desk… that I would look at, blink at, then walk away from in favour of a coffee break. But I don’t get a coffee break from life, from my turbulent mental health. So I’m stuck. I don’t want solutions. I want a guide.

This wind is icy

I falter every time I attempt to release. I stall every time I start to feel. It all starts the same, causes the same uncertainty and I never get to the point. I’m on a treadmill, I’m a simulation… on a loop.

I feel so boxed up all week that I collapse every weekend, but can’t seem to find the space to unravel myself, and sort out all the tangles. I try. I try every single week. But all I get is panic attacks, self-loathing, isolating tears, and a whole lot of words to hurt my love for the sake of healing myself.

Underneath all that is why I’m so heavy, feel so dull, and have put all the walls up. It’s all pretty simple. I just can’t reach it. It frustrates me that life itself overwhelms me. I feel that I’m a total failure, since how complex is my life anyway? Surely I can do better at it than this?

I WANT to grow, release, glow up… but my inner critic delights in reminding me that the only good thing I’ve done in my life, in the eyes of the mother that I only want acceptance from, is my half-god offspring. And Lo, I start to crave codependence. A new sickness that I can fuel the flames of, and really dig into.

How can I feel so empty when I’m so full of all these thoughts and feelings and behaviours that no longer serve me. How do I feel so unstable in a house that makes me feel trapped, a suburb that makes me feel encroached upon, and a town that breeds anxiety in me. How on earth am I always so nauseous. These physiological symptoms are just feeding my mental state. Feeding the darkness. Perpetuating the cycle.

I know I can’t start the next chapter until I let go of the last one. But despite being so loved, and so supported, I simply don’t feel that I’ll have anyone to catch me when I fall. Not because they won’t be there, but because they can’t. Because I’m too heavy. Too challenging. Too much.

Someone get the lights?

It’s been dark in here the past few days. Dark like the bedroom at night with blockout curtains and small child sleep-inducing nothingness.

The new moon offers an invitation to release. And I have. But all I’m left with is darkness. Familiar, comfortable, numb darkness. Worthy of nothing. Undeserving of blessings. A vast, cavernous inconvenience, taking up space. The way it creeps in under my nose. Arrogant. Knowing I’ll just welcome it back. Depression gave me so much. Don’t I owe it a stay every now and then?

It’s such an absurd thing to write, yet somehow I allow myself to think it. Again and again. Some stints longer than others. Some peace-times only really the eye of the storm.

I’m clunky. Disconnected. A Picasso.

Hold up, wait a minute…

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve shared.

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had words for my feelings or space for my words. My son is a half-god vessel of healing for this world, and my recreation of myself has, so far been brutal. Like, mosh brutal. Like, metal.

I’ve been thrown from one hot mess into another, my mental health taking a dive I didn’t know it could take after my general major depressions return during pregnancy, and postpartum depression joining forces with my disordered eating… All my guides would give me was “shh. Wait”.

I waited. And I knew the loss would be great. And the heart would need to be heavy before a golden path was laid out. The whole universe has hold of me right now. I barely fell before I was caught. I get to watch my favourite emotion play out its beautiful, unapologetic dance with some of my favourite people in the entire universe.

And in a time when I will be fiercely protective of my love, I will shamelessly use this platform to journal my grief. I look so forward to experiencing the raw brutality of everything it throws at me. Everything it makes me feel that I’ve stored up to put my son first. Everything I couldn’t process because I was too burnt out. Then I was too unwell. Then I was too pregnant. Then I was too unwell. Then I was too ppd new Mum. Buckle up. I might even rawdog this one.

I miss my brain

*sung to the tune of I miss my lung, by Frenzal Rhomb*

So I know I’m being super dramatic right now, but I’m ok with it. I understand that in every hissy fit, every tantrum, my inner child is running amok. But with that comes healing for her, reconnection with her, opening of dialogue to, once again, redefine my relationship with her. I’ll be inviting her to teach me how to play again, shamelessly revel in the excitement of a moment.

I’m so bored. Uninspired. In utter disbelief that I could possibly do LESS per day than I have been. Battling with doing less when I feel ok to do more… then crashing when I do the things. I’m wiped out emotionally, staring at a vast array of little emotional messes that I know I need to clean up before I become a mum. Anxious that I won’t get through them all, suspicious that He won’t arrive until I have.

Ana, my old friend

I’d love to say that it’s been lovely to see you. That your cold embrace was a welcome relief for this 8 month long hot flush. That your familiar self-loathing keeps me company in my emotional isolation. I’d love to say it’s been lovely to see you. I can’t fight you now, I can’t fight anything now. I just sit helplessly as you weave your shackles around me once again.

Opportunistic. That’s what I’d call you. Running in to capitalise on the new punishment for nourishment. It’s not your punishment, but you can adapt… improvise… overcome. It’s admirable, really. Flexible, mutable, malleable, fluid. I’m worried that you’ll stay; that I still won’t have the strength to re-tame you when this is over. That you’ll keep me from coming back to myself. That I’ll become you again. I know I’m powerful enough to defeat you. It’s just that I don’t believe it.

I feel guilty, and ashamed of the part of me that keeps discreetly thanking you. Thanking you for arriving now because if it had been the other extreme, you’d have shown up later and maybe/probably stronger. I don’t know if that’s true. That’s not my reality. I can’t know that. And you know I can’t. That’s why you’re so good at what you do. Searching, always, for chinks in my armour, imperfections in my strategies, weaknesses in my torus field. Filling them with your familiar colours so they catch my eye and draw me into you.

I don’t consider myself one who is “fighting demons every day”. Not anymore. We battled so furiously, then. That, that was fighting demons every day. You, and your friends; your clever little Roundtable of mental illnesses. But really, if I’m completely honest with myself and you, you’re always there. Skirting the edges for a way in. The difference right now, is that I simply don’t have the energy to continue sending you away. You get too close… too quickly. And then you’re tangled around my feet, sitting on my chest, and taking what you want from me.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have ransom demands to reclaim myself from you. I don’t have a battle plan, or a war cry. I don’t have much of anything. But I do wish I could say it’s been lovely to see you. Comfort in a difficult time. A friend who knows me so well. I wish I could vow to fight you tooth and nail when the fog clears. I wish I could vow to heal all those cracks in my defences against you with poise and power… properly… once and for all. But I know you’ll always be with me. And I know that in so many ways I’m to lucky to have met you, you taught me so much about myself, and the power I hold.

You might be quiet tomorrow. Processing this. So I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but I’m sure it will be soon. I wish I could say it’s been lovely to see you.


The Enemy =

New routine! Don’t sleep until 1am spew sesh, throwing things up that should really have been digested HOURS ago, then give up on bed and go to the recliner for a bbcearth marathon featuring bad naps and different cats. Then I sleep all day. In bed, laying down lol. I’d be mad about it but I’m too tired.

34 weeks. I had to give up on the countDOWN because who knows how much longer from now on. He could safely come at any time now. Not that we’re aiming for that, but that’s the reality. I’ll have to make the decision to stop working soon. This afternoons shift will be difficult to make happen. But I reckon I’ll make it happen. By that time of the day I’ll have slept a bit and have the energy to be mad about things and not making it won’t be an option.

The triggers that are coming up for me as I sit, scrolling, watching useless television, for the 193rd hour straight this week, are just brutal. I feel in the way, a burden, lazy, inconvenient and needy. I feel all the things I’ve been taught are bad, undesirable, terrible. I can’t physically do the things but I hate myself for not doing them regardless. I’m a bad person because I can’t push through this one. I’m worthless because I can’t get anything done. Can’t pull my weight in keeping the house clean, preparing meals, looking after animals. A burden on the people I love.