3 Years On

TW Self Harm / Suicide
(Note; this is some pretty poor writing skill on display here, but I am tired and it is a reflection, not prose)



It is still incredibly difficult for me to reflect on my suicide attempt(s) three years on from the most recent occurrence..
This is not so much an effect of being unable to relive the trauma, but rather I am worried that as someone who is still frequently left frustrated and embarrassed that these attempts failed,  rather than being met with relief and happiness, I should withhold my commentary so as to avoid subconsciously relaying it in a positive light, and perhaps drawing vulnerable others closer toward the idea.
Regardless, I believe there is merit in attempting to decrease the stigma surrounding the topic, and, on a day where I happen to feel particularly isolated, I could use the false safety blanket that venting on the internet provides.
Now, as a Mother, I am absolutely horrified in the deepest sense of the word to envision my own child reliving my teen years as his own. I hold a lot of grief for the child I was then, who missed so many natural milestones in personal development while her priorities began and ended with inventing more violent ways of sabotaging herself.
These are not cliches, just as these sentences are not intended to sound poetic or calculated; this is in actuality a very vague relay of the realities that had for so long been a large fraction of my foundations as an individual.
I first began self harming when I was in year five, a mere ten years of age. It was at this age that I first broke my silence over sexual abuse I had experienced many years prior.
I couldn't be sure of what led to my depression manifesting itself as self harm, as I don't recall any influences that exposed me to the practice. In saying this, it was always very minimal cutting in those early days anyhow.
My following Primary schooling years would see my step father killed in a violent car accident. Following this, I began attempting to escape this absolute implosion of my family unit, often with a heavy rope slung around my neck. I was twelve..
Though I had no idea what I was doing, I was apparently desperate to figure it out, and would often try to have 'pep talks' with myself on my walk home from school, so as to be more successful that following evening. This was the case most days.
While my friends were busy preparing mentally and emotionally for High School; the relationships, friendships, grades and what have you, I was preparing to die with all the same enthusiasm.
My mother was led to believe that I had an aggressive rash on my face that would come and go, when in fact it was the most of my facial blood capillaries having burst from asphyxiation.

High School was a never ending relay from class to counsellor.
While I have countless fond memories from those years, and managed to have many normal experiences, my capacity to function was tested on a daily basis. The attempts to take my own life were increasingly frequent, and the self harm even more so.
Thankfully, I connected well with the schools in-house Guidance Officer and was granted a great deal of leeway in my attendance records toward my senior years when it counted more, with her assistance.
I believed that this was to be my condition for the rest of my years. I spent no time dreaming about life 'post High School'; a future partner; children; career options, because I genuinely believed that I would not live to see it.
So many years spent in this way certainly led to a subconscious conditioning of my coping mechanisms and perceptions. While I did not have the ability to recognise it then, in hindsight it is revealed just how crippling my mental health issues were and still are on my social skills, self value and the depth to which I can feel and empathise at a general level.
To this day I am still replanting seeds, unhappy with those I had sewn, and hoping for a bloom of new flowers. Building a family of my own has been invaluable to this practice, both in finding an unwavering source of support in my partner, and a reason to strive for selflessness, as being a mother asks of one to do.
Disposing of myself, and indeed harming myself physically are no longer options. And as time progresses, those things don't feel as though they ought to be, either.

As mentioned earlier, it has now been three years since what was my most ambitious and determined suicide attempt. I refer to it as such not because it was the one time that led to my admission in a psychiatric ward, but rather because I had no gap between feeling and action: there was no suicide letter, there was no tear stained face, or pacing around the house, and there was no pep talk on that walk home from school.
I left during a class, and carried myself home, calm and level headed about what needed to be done.
At this time I was in a share house with two adults who were essentially strangers to me, and while they were at their jobs, I still took precautions to ensure they would not come home to find me in an ugly state. Thus, I retreated to the shower, raised the volume on some aggressive classical orchestral music (which at the time I thought would be a rather romantic way to end things with), and placed my weapons of choice in each corner of the floor.
As I moved from fork, to scissors, to knife, I was gradually met with the anticipated pain-evoked adrenaline I had hoped for, and thus was ready for the final act.
Bleach is a poison that kills you in particularly violent ways. It burns out your organs and eventually induces cardiac arrest. It seemed a pretty sure-fire no-fail option.
While in hindsight I feel I could have tried harder to resist, what I drank down was almost instantaneously rejected by my body and came roaring back out. I suffered a great deal of pain but the only long term issue I have been left with is a minimal to non existent sense of smell.

"You are so lucky to be alive!" was something I heard frequently between being transferred through various hospitals for assessment and operation. I however couldn't help thinking that our definitions of 'lucky' varied. Finding myself in a psychiatric ward was a damaging experience that I wouldn't wish upon anyone. The last place I would imagine to rehabilitate mentally sensitive people is a small space with barred windows and surveillance. It may also have not have helped that during this time I was on an anti-authority bent and was an avid conspiracy theorist, and so I denied their medications, made a fuss about not being able to go outside in the evenings to see the stars, and proceeded to spend my stay sleeping for 80% of the day and reading an extensive pile of literature (many of which remain favourites of mine to this day, which I always reflect upon as the silver lining).
While the hospital food was incredible, and more importantly for an independent student living off of $30 of groceries a week, free, I was not doing well in that environment and decided I'd best behave so as to be released as quickly as possible. A mere few weeks later I was back at school attempting to secure some kind of decent OP and vowing to never risk being 'locked up' again; a fate I feared more than I had ever feared death.

And so, here we are.

3 years on, I have found a much better coping mechanism in eating toast when I am sad and watching Netflix when the world gets me down (kidding.. kind of). I am ridiculously more resilient than I ever thought possible, as a result of a culmination of factors.
While I may not have reached the 'other side' of the metaphorical fence yet, and still feel miles away from experiencing what it means to be 'mentally healthy', I've healed more than I could have ever foreseen. I don't perceive myself as a damaged person, but rather as someone who just missed the starting gun and is just now gaining pace.
The process of living day to day in recovery is eased when the burden is shared with those who love you and appreciate your story. Setting goals I can be proud of, practicing self love and confidence, and socialising with new and old pals alike, are important rituals even if I often fall short of the outcomes I hope to achieve, but, you know, I am only twenty years old, so let us be lenient toward the fact that I don't yet have my life entirely sorted!

As one body, in one town, of one city, in one state, of one country, on one planet, of one galaxy, in one universe, it is hard to determine what a reasonable reflection on suffering may be. Philosophising over whether it matters in the scheme of things that I survived, or perhaps if I hadn't of is tricky, because while surely I am but an irrelevant, invisible component of a much more Grand tale, I am still a component nevertheless.

I hope to live a lengthy set of earth bound years and indeed make up for lost time; to drink in all that I can from the cannon of the Universe. And, when I am eventually recycled back into organic matter, and my atoms passed on for future use, I hope to have left a tangible affect that echoes nothing of the half-person I have been for the first fraction of my life time, for there are surely much more valuable contributions to be made while we are here, no matter the significance.

To be narcissistic, or to waste away?

As I mature I start to tackle some of life's bigger questions. A main point of contention at present is grappling with how much self love or approval is acceptable. How much can I self promote, or speak with a varied vocabulary that makes the less intelligent of my peers a little uncomfortable, or openly discuss my positions on issues which may imply that I feel morally superior beside others, before sounding conceded and pretentious? (Are you here saying 'Well, you just did, and it was totally lame, bye'?) And then, does it truly matter; should I worry about those things; whose problem is it, really?

There's two main themes on this point which are prevalent in our collective 21st century philosophy discussion. Both contrast one another, and I assume, leave more young adults than just myself feeling a little, if not entirely confused. The first is this immense fear that we are grooming ourselves into a species of narcissistic, keyboard warrior, 'slacktivists',  which draws attention to the age of the internet in which everybody is the best version of themselves as far as their distant peers can perceive, and a large component of this faux-selfie is jumping on bandwagons that make us feel important and intelligent and engaged. One may wonder what further humanitarian effort those who were outraged by Kony 2012 put into the issue once the internet hype had died down and there were no more links to share, but then, did it matter? They'd got a foothold in moral merit, impressed their peers with their overwhelming empathic ability, and that was that. Our young generation is this; this is what we, in various ways and to varying degrees, contribute to amongst the landscape of the world wide web. I'm yet to come across somebodies Facebook on which all they post are the most natural, un edited, representations of themselves, be it through the honesty of their 'selfies' or an equaled conviction between things they propose to give a damn about on social media versus how they are actively altering the situation to the best of their ability in the (cringe) *real world*. But of course, you already knew this, because as I mentioned, we are all losing our minds about it. Kids these days, am I right? We, society, us - are ready to shun this kind of apparently largely innate disposition. It is a moral crime to stand out, to rival your flock, and there are people waiting at every turn to cut you down, and put you back where you belong, lest you threaten them into inferiority! The frequently referenced 'tall poppy syndrome'.

And yet what would we expect - we wake up with each new day only to find that there are a dozen campaigns camped outside our doors, tempting us to never second guess what we personally believe in, to embrace our quirks, curves, sexuality, to be self affirming, and to 'fuck the haters' (you can thank Ancient Rome for that piece of wisdom..). You are encouraged to throw off the shackles; to be your own driving force; to make your own rules; to live and let live - but the small print reads that you must remain entirely modest in this process and cast all critical thought to the bottom of the sea, for in this equation, you must also extend this grace unto others, perhaps more so of a way of justifying your own unhindered self indulgence. This differs from the initial form of narcissism in that the only proclamation you are expected to make of your position on this side of the self-love fence, is to wear a bikini on your chubby self to the beach, or to tell your parents that you might be gay, or at the very least, to find yourself a gay best friend and love them in all their glorious, unholy sin. We are terrified of the statistics among youth involving suicide rates, eating disorders, obesity rates, self harm, depression and the like, but in an attempt to raise awareness, we have managed to turn these very real issues in to buzz words by absorbing them into the viral video sphere, in which some amateur film maker has decided that they could probably make a nice slam poem out of your struggle and perhaps launch their career off the back of it, or at least make a few dollars on YouTube. And so it all is condensed in to an aesthetically pleasing picture, and misses the point entirely. These campaigns are not delivered in a manor that asks us to develop empathy or compassion, they are instead delivered to speak to those of us who can relate directly and who may find comfort in a poetic crutch. While it is necessary to feel validated, we have to be ever so careful not to do harm to those struggling by enabling them; by giving them resting place upon which they may become complacent and attach these things to their entire identity.

Social issues such as these seem to be received very differently to those of a political, environmental or economic persuasion. Why though? Because we are directly involved. I propose that those of us who may sit on this side of the fence are simply too afraid to offend anybody else, or more likely, are very afraid of receiving unwarranted criticism ourselves: "I'll keep to myself, and I expect the same from you: I am happy with my own, and I am happy for you to have yours".  I myself, am over weight, use my depression and anxiety as crutches to remove myself from overwhelming situations such as, oh, I don't know, feeling anything for anybody else.. and I believe that it would do more harm than good to make these issues in to 'other people's problem'; to shift the burden entirely on to 'society'. I don't think it fair to expect society to love and embrace every single flaw of mine or of anybody else, nor do I think it healthy, though apparently this version of self love is more readily accepted.

And so you can see where this conflict may become a constant back and forth. Is it or isn't it okay to be confident across the board, alongside bearing criticism for other people's own confidence in whatever particular topic they may present? Or is it better to love and accept all that is and continue on as though nothing outside your reach is any of your business?
At this point in time, I would suggest that despite the constant ridicule it attracts, the former variety of self love is the most progressive, and though not without it's flaws, the most useful for our development as a whole. I am not asking of us to turn hatred toward all that is different from ourselves; I am however inviting you to take notes from both philosophies in terms of self acceptance and perhaps mild modesty where it is due, but to always consider that, while it may do very little to be a 'narcissistic, keyboard warrior, slacktivist', that these attitudes could hold great power if you were to utilise them in the *real world*. What would that look like?
Have conviction in what you say, an empowered voice in which you say it, and a confidence in yourself and your views that is not dismantled by opposition but is as open to it as you would expect from others, while embracing a type of discourse in which being offended may be something you have to deal with from time to time, but may also be something that encourages growth in your own person and growth in others as a result of encountering debate and discussion on contrasting opinions often. Take a note from Hitchens -
   "The grave will provide plenty of time for silence", and then, keep your pen out and take another note from the man -
   "If someone tells me I've hurt their feelings, I say, 'Well I'm still waiting to hear your point'.. 'That's Offensive!' as if those two words constitute an argument". 

Let us not turn intelligent discussion in to an evil thing, but rather, let it flourish; let us evolve within it's realm.
And though it may appear as though I've diverged slightly from the topic at hand, it is entirely to the point: if your version of self love is similar to my own, you will encounter many incidences in which you will wonder 'Is it more important to remain modest and quite lest I upset anybody, or will it pay to harp on about what may or may not be morally superior, what may or may not be damaging to the human condition, and to call ignorance and intolerance out as it is due?' and then, hopefully you are able to dismiss any and all contentions in order to appreciate your slightly narcissistic brain for all that it is, and simply worry for those among us who are not making the most of their own and contributing to dismissing this notion of entirely relative ideologies. 

Grow tall, poppy, grow tall. 

Dear Finn,

(Originally Posted July 2014)

A baby is born, and so is a mother.

You came into my life the way everything else does - quickly and screaming.
I had closed eyes. I was floating outside of my body, for the pain had taken over my physical being, and the gas had numbed my brain. I can, though, still remember first turning my eyes toward you, and it felt incredibly strange and beautiful and unreal all at once.
I don't know what I had pictured - but it somehow took me aback to see a blotchy, blood covered, terrified little human. I perhaps just hadn't thought about it all that much, if I'm perfectly honest. I'd spent most of my days dreaming about cuddling you and teaching you to cook and playing peek-a-boo, but I'd not realistically imagined your coming into this world. For that, I was probably incredibly lucky to have only had an 8 hour labour - I feel it would have required much more premeditated mental strength had it of carried on for say, 12 or more hours, which is common. I don't know what I'd have done, were that the case, considering 8 hours of labour was enough to take me through the motions of feeling like I might actually die; I recall telling myself 'it's going to happen, you have to let it happen', which in the light of a pain-free evening sounds incredibly bizarre, but toward the end of those 8 hours was the only thought that felt logical and comprehensible.
But, despite the pain, we did so well. You were born healthy - four words which I appreciate how blessed I am to be able to say. To be able to watch your father cut the precious cord, to see the joyful tears from your grandmother, to be able to feed you - all at a gentle pace - that is something I hold so dearly in my heart.
And then, overnight, I became a mother. I shed a skin, though despite an incredibly incongruous past to the way I live now, I felt instantly that my entire life, all it's bumps and bruises, had been solely leading toward this new body - this new soul. I feel as though I have always been destined to be a mother, which I suppose is biologically correct, but it so much more than that. Every test in my lifetime has lent me the lessons of patience, resilience, positivity, compassion, empathy and reflection that are so necessary in being everything you need from me. In the moment that I felt that I was yours, the small universe inside of my being lit up, all of it's flaming stars melted and settled into one another, in that moment and I knew that all the chaos was done with.
All that remains is a brave and sturdy glowing light, which Morrisey has informed me, will never go out.
You may now be independent of my body, but I feel you threaded through my heart as though it is where you have lived and will live forever.
I have always been restless - I have lived in many houses and have seldom felt 'at home' anywhere in the world, and usually when I feel it, I leave, whether it be intentionally or because I've run out of options. I couldn't tell you how many precious people I've had the pleasure of calling my best friend, or lover - I couldn't tell you how many people have broken my heart or how many times my broken heart has broken the rest of me. I have an itch in my soul that wants for me to never stay still, to experience all that I can, the good and the bad, and to remain sentimental and never to let go of any of it. It's a terrible, anxiety ridden kind of hastiness, that leads to all kinds of mistakes.
There are days when you are sleeping and I am dreaming of being a thousand miles away, doing irresponsible dangerous things. But those days are growing fewer. 
You are teaching me to take things slowly. To appreciate stillness and silence. I see you smile and there's no where else in the world I would rather be - and I mean that more than most things I've ever said in my life. I feel myself starting to settle into our life as a family, without planting seeds of resentment along the way, as I've watched so many young mothers unknowingly do. I remind myself at different intervals to, literally, exhale. Sometimes, sometimes, that itch furrows my brow and clenches my heart - but you soothe it, and I didn't think it was ever possible.
There are people without children who view babies as only partly 'real' people. There is no possible way of comprehending parent hood or how much of a 'real' person you're dealing with, until you're in the thick of it. But you, my sweet babe, are full of warmth and love and humour and brains. You're the realest thing that I've experienced - not only that, but the most worthwhile.
Thank you, Finn. I will indulge in the cliche of 'you complete me', for you truly do.

My Family's Faith

It has recently become a pressing issue for me to explore my roots in Christianity (more specifically, Catholicism) during this period of time where, though not an unusual dealing for them, my family is trying to cope with a difficult major life event and is at an all time high of flinging preachings around like salty gravy in a bad food fight. This dinner table issue (a metaphor not entirely irrelevant, as you will understand in the last paragraph) is subjectively awful and jading, though it seems that the deeper I delve into my evaluation for this personal distaste and discomfort with my family's faith, religion appears to be revealing itself more so as a rather objectively awful thing.

My findings, in literature by great Atheists and Antitheists alike, have been in one sense ridiculously plain and simple, and in another, completely incomprehensible. I will here diverge to state that I am not freshly escaping my family's faith. I have known for almost a decade now that something about the whole noise didn't resonate comfortably with me, but, like many things, we can only foreshadow more serious convictions when we are children and our critical thinking is not yet finely tuned, and, more importantly, when our most trusted sources begin and end with our immediate relatives.

My disillusion for Christianity did not happen in a big bang (you can have that one for free), but was a drawn out process allowed room to blossom as I was suddenly free from compulsory 'Religious Education' studies in Primary School, and alongside that, I had discovered the internet: a world of new and alternative ideas to those which I had been confined to in my childhood. My youthful ability to see a little more un natural magic in the world (or the super natural sorcery as religion would have a child believe) was beginning to recede and happened gradually alongside my lust for knowledge beyond what was being offered in my classrooms; a lust to forge an independent intellectual paper trail. The two didn't quite exchange at the same rate, and so for a time in my teens I was deeply fascinated by a more Pantheistic world view and was drawn to Buddhism for it's lack of a claim to religious title or a super natural god. To quote Dawkins - "Pantheism is sexed-up atheism". I was smoking too much marijuana and starting to feel that there was some kind of God in every tree and every anthill. But I am now (thankfully) satisfied with being educated in Biology alone and in that, all the awe inspiring wonder that it can offer explanations for; there is nothing bland about the natural world and the scientific explanation.

Antitheist will do for me now - and while, coming into this new period of studying religion, also at a level of actually reading a Christian bible and enrolling in a bible study diploma course,  I was hesitant to label myself anything of the sort, I am now quite confident and in fact proud to wear this badge upon my person. Back to my initial point: when studying religion, the whole thing can so very easily become transparent. A bible, especially the new, more smiley-faced updates, are easily comprehended from the angle of literary analysis, and yet on an intellectual level are  completely incomprehensible, for all their claims to the living dead and resurrections, all the way through to the consistent hypocrisies delivered (and understandably so) by tellings recorded from the hearsay of illiterate Middle Eastern peasants. If you can access one, I highly recommend (whether you are of faith or not, and perhaps especially if you are) to actually read through the bible. No need to cherry pick - I didn't - there's enough nonsense on each and every page to bolster my assertions to any educated individual without further analysis. But for the sake of relating this back to my current inter family issues, I will proceed.

Having found himself in maximum security prison, my sibling has also 'found God', much to the approval and praise of our immediate family. Essentially, they have now been handed a shiny, golden free pass. And so begins the mid-dinner chaos, the slinging of the gravy: dinner here meaning my life, gravy here meaning religious justifications for the error of his ways. This food fight is intermittently continuing with holy grade gravy being flung into my face, burning and unwelcome, at every interaction I have with these people. It has been this way for close to a year now - I have sat and submissively been told not to speak illy or sceptically about my sibling for reasoning involving Jesus' forgiving nature (clearly my family needs to take that previous advice and re-read their Bibles), and the clean slate which a white bearded man in the sky has supposedly granted (or rather, gifted) them with (and I mean God, not Santa Clause, though either would be equally stupefying). My family now goes to church every Sunday, I imagine as a sign of solidarity with my sibling as well as to refuel their gravy reserves for our impending communications. And I can assure you, those reserves are full and overflowing when I sit down with my family these days. Despite my meekly offered rejection of their faith, I am still asked to follow them to Church. I am told of this Church, and all of the cancer God cures within it. I am told of the good deeds they do for the homeless, as if this is all the proof that an omnipresent being has his hand resting upon this expensive establishment. I listen to my Grandparents, who struggle on the wage of their pensions after living a life full of hardship and poverty but always with good intentions, defend their church's request that a donation of 10% of their wages come forth to the collection bowl, despite the church's own exemption from taxes. And I sit and listen to all of this and cast only a fraction of my doubts, knowing how soon after it is that I am to be shut down for doing so.

So, at this point, I have a choice to make. Do I sit silently and vacantly through all of this? Do I allow them to believe in this phantom moral compass my sibling has stumbled upon through their bible study? Do I watch as they indoctrinate my sibling further upon their release, which seems to me taking advantage of, if I may say so with no offence intended, not the brightest of minds, and one who is clearly suffering and struggling immensely at this point in their young lives? And then here comes the igniting flame for my return spoonful of gravy - do I have a right to express my disapproval of the things I was led to believe as a child, in the hopes that they will take very seriously my decision that my own son is, under no circumstances, to be spoon fed an ounce of this hate-inspiring, science-deprived, cultish rubbish. The answer is of course yes, and here I have decided to exercise my right to free inquiry. And with the bravery granted to me only by educating myself thoroughly on the topic, I will risk offending the ideas of these people who by blood I am related but by morals I am more than just relieved of.

Now, it mightn't sound like such an emotion invoking mission I've put myself on unless you have been or perhaps plan to someday be in these very same shoes. But here is what I have concluded must be considered upon creating a strategy for approaching this topic with them - religion is not free from critical analysis, nor does it deserve to be. As Hitchens has stated: 'That which can be asserted without proof can be dismissed without proof", and that initial part of the sentence is the note to take here. I have been raised to believe in a fable which, not unlike Hansel and Gretel, is presented in the form of a bound book, but unlike the latter classic tale, is then asked to be taken as solid evidence for all which it states. It further asks of it's believers to have unwavering faith in each and every verse lest they be cursed for the rest of their days - that alone is too much to ask of a rational person who attended any Secondary School lecture surrounding source analysis. It is also far too much to ask that an individual surrenders their innate moral compass for that of one penned in ink and reprinted billions of times to give, if not permission, then at the very least indifference toward sexual acts on minors, slavery, bigotry, homophobia, a dominant patriarchy and dozens of other themes which in my mildly progressive view are all things we have worked to, or are working towards, abolishing for good, and with superb reason. Let those of faith adopt these inconsistencies as liberally as they are displayed in their good book, and then let them try to claim to be offended when their faith is questioned and scorned. It would not happen in this day and age, and in fact, when it does, we do indeed meet it with intense ridicule. I previously mentioned that religion is hate inspiring - we only need look at the Middle East as it is today, and then, even with no prior historical knowledge, we can see just what religion asks of its believers. Let us not forget that the Muslim, Jewish and Christian communities are all united by an initial holy book. Let us not forget how much they have in common. It is no accident that Christianity has warped and begun to offer rose gardens in recent history, but then it is not a true account of what religion intends. It is hollow and self serving and it deserves to hold no power like it currently does.

It mightn't sound like an emotion invoking journey, no, but as someone who has independently worked to craft a fine (if not mildly conceded) sense of right and wrong, it is absolutely painful to be in the midst of this food fight, where each spoonful encompasses an underlining assertion that no, my own moral compass is of no value until it is dictated by this ridiculous book, or that my own mind is lacking and yearning until I decide to reunite with a faith. I am not commended on my good deeds, no matter the grandeur, with even an ounce of the same enthusiasm that boils over each time they speak of my sibling and all that God will guide them to do; it is not unlike creationists to dismiss the here and now for day dreams of a better tomorrow. I would like to broach these issues which are borne purely of a faith too ignorant for me, so that my family may throw their gravy to the floor and end this ridiculous mess in mortal time, and that I may wipe the residue from my face and have them appreciate and truly value me for what I am and who I will grow to be.

So, if by some ironic miracle I am able to pierce holes in my Anglican born and raised, stiff-upper-lipped English-God-Save-The-Queen Grandfather (who, punchline, is also a retired priest); if I am able to hush the trembling lips of my evangelical Grandmother and reassure her that she still has time to reclaim what she has forfeited in order to serve her God; if I am able to present logical inconsistencies to a Mother who is smarter than she lets on but certainly as stubborn as she seems; and if I am able to give my sibling a fighting chance at redemption and growth as an individual free from divine delusion, and the ensuing pride for a willpower which is entirely their own: then I will be satisfied. I am not embarking on an Antitheistic crusade which bears no direction or possible resolution. The point to be made is a very real and acutely obtainable one. But, until I have sufficient knowledge under my belt to fight a fair war against an outnumbering army, I will continue to awkwardly keep my eyes open and my hands unclenched when grace is said at the dinner tables, and, I will continue to heave around this silver spoon, for all the gravy to come.

Summer

In the slim corridor linking seasons to one another, there is a brief moment where you may stop momentarily and come-to. You may realise that the air you are swallowing feels new but still, familiar. You will wonder about the months having passed so quietly, months you didn't even feel pressing into your skin, now past, the ink of which is forever more a part of what you will, from time to time, recall as your stories. Did they feel that special - worthy of their permanency?

You will be still in these small seconds.

You will spend them with yourself. You will re-learn, as you do at each changing season, that this feeling of vivid clarity - the tick and buzz - when it comes back to you, is not always call for celebration, for you may be too fragile for it's vibration. You will re-learn, too, that well rounded cognisance is as fleeting as it is useless, for your plans are not only in your hands, now are they? 

It is becoming colder, here.
The rain has set in, the house closed up, and bare feet are pushed under thick covers.
The Summer is fleeing, it has bags to pack, it is not looking back at me. My eyes, heavy and swollen, I am latched on with heavy fists, as though if I want it badly enough, I will find myself catapulting backward, eraser under palm, a chance to rub the mistakes out of my skin before the ink dries - before they are no longer choices, but history. But Summer does not see my plea.

Alas.

You will be still in these small seconds - either in a state of closure, or because any inch to the left may find you imploding. 

You have jotted down each note from the weeks that were, and sealed them individually in thin white envelopes, arranged neatly and precisely on your letter holder.
In the moments to follow, this careful assembly will have been for something.
You will run your finger lightly across the first of your stories - Christmas, 2014. The last time you would see those members of your family, if you dare still refer to them as such. It is the first of many times to come, where you wished you had of known that it would be the last time, so as to soak it up as best you could - draw in enough to tide you over.

The second envelope will remind you of all the times you left hastily, closing the door on a broken man who was reaching out only for your empathy, and at best, your touch. You will wonder if you will ever regain the humanity you lost in watching someone you love cry so heavily, so many times, without ever offering comfort. And so you move quickly to the third -

The third, you will leave your finger tips pressed against for slightly too long. It has become romanticised, an improper account of what it was for you at the time. It contains each new kiss, in the dark, in the rain, in your underwear at 1am in the morning in the middle of a river. It recounts the endless chords and sideways glances and comfortable silence. You will remember that you smoked too many cigarettes but that you bonded over doing so. You will wish that you had spent that time lying in, for just a moment longer. You will not forget, but will indeed promptly birr past the countless times you thought 'I can do better, I have grown past this', because you know you need for this time to have been worth the pain it ended in - worth the pain you caused to find it.

Envelope four is short and bitter. A case of alcohol, a new stranger, and the sound of their engine in the early hours of the morning. And later, a phone call, intended to rid you of guilt before it settled in properly, more so than to give your honesty to him. Short words, uncertainty, and a chapter over before it had begun.

Five. The last weeks of summer spent dipping your toes in self pity, and gradually, as you warmed to it's chill, submerging further in. You will recount the dozens of texts, begging for forgiveness. The wasted attempt at a grand gesture, and the thought of the flowers you gave dying in unison with your communication breakdown. Sorrow growing alongside silence, alongside the stress and the realisation that now, you're out in the big wide world, alone. 

If you can bear, you quietly move to six, looking away. Tracing it's edges, you reflect more softly upon it's contents. Rebuilding old relationships, and new ones, more carefully and gently than you would have in the past. Not ready for love but in great need of friends and comfort and reassurance. On these pages, a story of somehow, despite all, finding your way back home.

And now, jotting down the last letter, to be sealed and put away.
Home, but solitary. Loved, but withdrawn. Forgiven, but blase.
Uncomfortable with each and every choice that led you here.
Where do your morals lie? Who are you, really?
Selfish: certainly. Brash: most definitely. Caustic: a tad.

Fragmented and drifting? More than anything.

But here we are, in this slim corridor between changing seasons, sticking our heads above water for air - new air - new, but familiar. For we have been here, 19 times before, between Summer and Winter. We have lived it in 19 different ways. Summer has boarded it's train, and it has gone, and when it returns it will not be who it was when it left us last, and neither will we.
For now though, we must welcome Winter, for it brings new tales floating around your person, ready to become your story, your history.

You will be still in these small seconds - and you will bring out your ink and do your best to delicately scratch some lines together between the separated notes of Summer's stories - bring them together in that way, to form a foundation and start anew.

You will resolve to be gentle on yourself, to be better, to do better in the season to come.
And so when this Winter is packing it's bags, the stories it has left you with will be warm and intentional and ready to flourish in the Summer - you will not have to start again next time.

You will not have to seal up envelopes and tuck them away, but rather, you will have stories that continue to develop, and see you grow and mature and most importantly, see you love.
In any and every way that is necessary, you will learn to love - patiently, thoughtfully, for yourself and for others. The tick and buzz of vivid clarity and reflection will not break you, next time around.
Your stories will feel special - they will feel worthy of their permanency. 

In Between

All things came unstuck after days, weeks, months, of picking at the ropes.. thread by thread, looking the other way, and now - unstuck.
That ever-vibrating urgency at my core has become aggravated with poverty: there is freedom, but there is nothing to sink it's teeth into, only hours upon each other to ponder that there is very well as many positive potential places to end up as there is bad. 

In between means uncertainty.
All at once and yet in drawn out time, this spirit will vacillate between an intense need to escape on it's own, with nothing but a mind, seeking beauty and non superficial joy, no strings, no responsibility - and then, as if that mere thought has siphoned every spark of energy, will retreat to the comfortable wallow of woe is me, I am here, am I comfortable?, I will be.. please be gentle on yourself, and let's see this one through. Patience, patience, patience..

A day begins with cold feet, guilt, and the earthy steam of store brought coffee.
Home is on the Eastern side of the river. I am not.
2 weeks and 2 days - I have been cradled by another's generosity (once again). 

I am restless, more than anything, and so enthusiastically searching for the signals that 'this is next!': an arrow marking 'you are here' on a map, as it were..
In between lives and walls, an uncentered perspective that is growing, controlling, refining, unsettling and necessary (perhaps?)


1. You are a bad person - not just a not-an-above-average-good-person, but a bad person. 

2. You are a good mother. Maybe this is all that matters for now? 

3. There are people who love you
4. There are people who do not want to have sex with you
5. There are people who do want to have sex with you
6. Please don't become an alcoholic
7. Please stop trying to kill yourself in clumsy car collisions (or, try harder)

8. Thank you for doing so well despite.. this thing, that thing, everything 

9. There is everything to be learned from stillness and mindfulness 

There is no depression of spirit, no sadness - only a cloudy-eyed, half-venture into any of these thoughts. 

One only need notice that they are present and that is enough to see: all is a little disrupted and non progressive at present, and this feels like a mountainous issue.
And how long do these notes last for? When will they be rationalised and a place found on the shelf for them? Surely not forever, for the tide rolls over quickly, quietly.. it always does.
This is a stage of in between, where one can never be sure of which morning in which month and which year they will find themselves waking with a sense of calm on every foreseeable horizon.

Will I continue to wake up with cold feet, guilt, and store brought coffee, on the North side of the river, in a bed that isn't my own?

Or will I buy a heater, plug it in, in the corner of my own room?
Wake warm and alert, mindfully - slowly, fold the sheets up, readjust the pillows, and slip into something proper for the day..
Brush the sleep from my hair, marvel at the morning light..
Beam at the possibilities of the day, have nothing to be guilty for (for I am not a bad person, I have grown!)..
In no rush, find myself in the kitchen, boiling water, enjoying the sound, the steam, the process..
Sipping tea while piglet wakes and is affectionate for the few minutes of lingering sleepiness..
Make plans for the day, no matter how small they may be, and find my own way somewhere that is far away from anything in between..

Am I comfortable?, I will be.. please be gentle on yourself, and let's see this one through. Patience, patience, patience..

Perhaps what is given to be moulded here and now is all it should be.
Points 3 and 9 are important, and on a rough day, you always have 5.
It is time to start stitching together the unstuck.

Flaws & Symptoms

1. A mind that is often too cunning for my own good. I can justify any bad decisions I make to myself, and usually can persuade others to not only see it from that perspective, but to embrace these bad decisions as good ones. Due to this, I often confuse myself into a state of denial, which makes bad habits hard to break.
2. Incredibly egotistical and proud yet filled without enough self doubt and loathing to make for a nauseating ride through flip-flop days of radiant light and kind actions or thick black smoke and a bitter tongue. 
3. Judgemental and insecure. Sometimes judgemental because I am insecure. Sometimes insecure because I am so judemental. Through my eyes, everything - every person and moment, are compared to another of the highest standard I'd encountered before the time. I find little pleasure out of anything which is second rate. I also am seldom happy with my own person for these reasons.
4. Materialistic. I feel entitled and as though there is a gaping hole I need to fill for all the years of growing up in a household funded only by a single mother working for minimum wage. I am hoping this is just a phase. Though at present I still try and cure it by spending any money I can get my hands on. It leaves me feeling pretty rubbish as a person and I'm quite sure my monthly donation to animal welfare organisations isn't enough to justify the greed.
5. Obsessive and nostalgic. Things that have caused me great levels of pain in the past are often reflected upon as important and warm, only because they are familiar. I can't hold a grudge for the life of me and in some cases I think it would be a helpful trait in learning from past mistakes. This is to do with people, habits and attitudes. 
6. Unable to empathise. This is a strange one - I could lose my shit at the drop of a hat over any animal or natural environment in suffering or even in jeopardy of suffering. I become over analytical of the way human's speak and their body language when telling me of a remarkable hurt or joy they are experiencing. I am always suspicious. It is entirely illogical, but because of this, a big part of me always believes that these people are only saying anything 'emotional' to fill conversation; that they are not actually feeling anything or perhaps that they are just looking for a certain reaction from me. 9/10 times, I will respond in a way that makes me feel like a very good actor, but a very rubbish person. I hope too, that this is a phase bought on by my lengthy years of developing a wall between my brain and my own feelings. 
7. Not following through with things. Reaching for a conclusion to anything before even attempting the journey. I am good at beginnings and I am good at endings - neither are difficult and mostly I can skip between new ones on my own. Journeys involve team work, building relationships, trust, becoming vulnerable, and slow hours. Beginnings and endings are exhilarating, unknown and spontaneous. 
8. Half finishing books and then telling people that I have read that book.
9. Finishing everything on my plate no matter how big that god damn plate is. 
10. Taking my partner for granted, though I am sure it is almost impossible to appreciate the amount of wonderful-ness he offers me.