I’m going to use this as a bit of a journal space… there’s some stuff going on and I just need to get some thoughts out of my head.

So my best friend has a kid who is trans. He was born female, and has come out as being non-binary and preferring the pronouns they/him. He is only 11, and wicked smart and funny and kind. Occasionally he and I will talk outside of the biggest connection that I have to his family which is through his mum, my best friend.

Anyway, they have this other friend who is older, and she has not been okay with their kid, his clothes, his change of gender and prounouns, or apparently with their parenting of him. And here’s the thing, the other day she said to me that she thinks I have the same feelings about all of it as this other friend. That I think those same shitty things.

And well its safe to say I reacted crappily to that, but also, I am feeling kind of annoyed about it still, for being held in such little regard. Because I don’t have the problem with her kid that this other friend does, not at all, and none of my feelings that I have (coz yeah I have feelings about things, dont we all?) are that he is bad/wrong etc for being trans.

So here are my thoughts about transgender people….

I am, to a certain extent, transphobic. Absolutely I am. Just like I am to a certain extent, racist.

The world has evolved and progressed and we are moving ever forward about being inclusive. But all of us (white cis people) are to some extent those things, I think. Becuase we have grown up with the messages that our parents passed on to us, which were in turn passed on to them by their parents. And those messages are racist and lgbtqia-phobic too.

So yeah, that also applies to me. When I see somebody from the lgbtq community I might automatically feel a tension in my body, this inherited unease. But I don’t feel disgust or have anything to say about it (the slow progression from generation to generation – my parents would).

I do have feelings about my best friends kid being trans. Those feeling are love for their family. Their wondeful, inclusive, understanding, beautiful family. For how their kid feels so at ease in his family expressing himself, for his parents who love him unconditionally and support him in his being himself. I think they are wonderful parents, and that is the truth (and also why I was so upset about being put in the same category as their other friend).

I don’t think he is wrong. I don’t think he is bad. I don’t think he is selfish for changing his name, I don’t think he is disrespectful. I think he is doing the things that he needs to do right now, for himself, as he grows up and figures out about who he is. And I think he’s very lucky to have the parents that he does, supporting him through it, by his side no matter what.

All of that said, he is a preteen (though a solid few years ahead of his time, so really basically full fledged teenager), and he can be a typical teen. So yes, sometimes he can say awful things to his parents (and as my best friend is one of those people, yeah I don’t like it), he can be a little pain and sometimes I don’t like the ways he can be, like completely ignoring mothers day). And, he is a kid, a teenager, and he is going to be making mistakes…it comes with the territory.

I said to her once that I don’t always like him. And I don’t. And by that, I mean I don’t always likes the way he behaves, the way he treats his parents, the things he says to them. And yet, I also always love this kid. I think he is truly fab, he has a wonderful big heart, and I think he is a great kid. He can say the sweetest loveliest things to his parents. He is a wonderful friend to other kids, he is talented and funny and kind. Those are the things that make him who he is, not the things he says when he isn’t doing good. And it isn’t actually that I don’t like him its that I don’t like the things he says to them and the hurt (albeit temporary) that it can cause.

I also once asked my friend if she could ask him to help one day when she was feeling totally overwhelmed with housework. I think that was taken as parenting advice because I said he was old enough to help out. I didn’t mean it as parenting advice, more just an idea of something to help with the feeling of overwhelm she was having, if there was one thing he could help her with.

Which brings me onto their parenting. I think they are bloody amazing parents. That is what I think. I do not think their kid is spoilt (and have never said that), I think he is very loved. I do not think he is disrespectful (though sometimes I think he can be to them, we all can be sometimes). I don’t think he is selfish, I think he thinks and cares a great deal about pretty much everyone he comes into contact with (one of the amazing things about him).

I think he’s lucky to have the parents he has. Not becuase he doesn’t deserve, not because he takes them for granted, but because he could have had a real hard time feeling the way he does, going through all the things he is, with different parents. I think they have done and are doing a wonderful job parenting him. And they aren’t perfect, no parent it, but I think they are doing pretty great. The proof of that being in the kind, respectful, intuitive, smart kid that they have. I wish he treated his parents better, but hello? what teenager does?!

So that is what I think. And, I think I try to offer suggestions rather than listen (because thats the way my brain works) and I really need to learn to stop doing that coz it pisses my friend off to high heaven. And, whilst I have not intended to offer parenting advice (as I know absolutely jack shit about it) it has clearly come across that way, so I need to keep shtum about it. So I will, now that I have said the things I needed to.


we are spinning. 


the time of year doesn’t help. the fact that i’ve just worked two weeks straight doesn’t help. the pandemic doesn’t help. the fact that it’s been five years to the day that i started to remember the sexual abuse at the hands of my dad doesn’t help. pocketbrit being on another continent doesn’t help. the fact that my body is so hot hot hot all the time doesn’t help, that i wake up from already-shitty chunks of intermittent sleep soaked in sweat from gross dreams doesn’t help. the fact that i was at a major medical emergency at work doesn’t help. having my ex-best friend suddenly text me out of the blue doesn’t help (though being reminded after about 20 seconds into our conversation why we’re not friends anymore was a positive thing.) wearing a mask for hours and hours on end as my body boils from the inside doesn’t help, as i work with people who are presumed covid positive doesn’t help. having to push aside my internal wee one to deal with all of the very adult things in my daily life for the past several weeks doesn’t help. my wife’s exhausted face and the fact that she is also not sleeping doesn’t help. dealing with stupid fucking people who don’t take covid seriously doesn’t help, lockdown in my city doesn’t help, the fact that schools will likely be closed in the new year and thus our kid struggling with OCD who is hyperfocused on screen time and will likely be doing online learning again, yeah that also doesn’t help. wanting to do christmassy things like bake and then recalling with a thunderous thud in my gut that i first remembered the abuse while innocently whipping shortbread with my daughter truly doesn’t fucking help. 

but what extra didn’t help was being blindsided yesterday by a holiday package sent to our daughter from my parents. 
i mean don’t get me wrong, it’s always unpleasant. trying to rearrange my face into a neutral sort of expression as our kid pulls out package after package from them is always a struggle. seeing the card addressed to my wife and i is always infuriating, as are the two cheques tucked inside of it (all of which goes straight into the bin).

but our kid pulling out an enormous photo album with my wrinkly squinty little newborn face on the front of it really didn’t help. and the handwritten note on the front of it to my daughter, telling her to ask me about some of the memories in the photos, was the icing on the cake. 


i’ve spent the past many weeks compartmentalizing things. even when i could hear the little one inside rustling about, scared and sad and needing, i’ve been able to tell her (not always very gently) to wait, just wait. we would be on vacation soon. we would be able to sleep soon. we could rock in our chair soon. during a marathon overnight shift (after two previous marathon overnight shifts) with a difficult patient, i counted down the hours with her. made it into a game, promised she could snuggle all of our stuffies and that i would help us to sleep by taking something properly good to banish the dreams away. promised she could have waffles for breakfast, that we would wear our coziest jammies, and that i’d let her rock in the chair, that we could watch mindless tv and that drink hot chocolate with a pile of whipped cream. i would let her play the silly fishy video game on my phone, as long as she wanted. she could put on my daughter’s sparkly nail polish, she could wear comfy pants all day long, i wouldn’t say no. 

and she tried to be good, i know she did, but it was hard. because our body has been gross (hello perimenopause and body memories, you’re such a beautiful combination, have i told you lately that i love you?) and i’ve been ignoring her. and it’s the time of year when our t found us too much and left. and she is missing S, because she would let us lay on her chest and listen to her heart sometimes and it helped. [an aside: i drove past her house a few nights ago, on the way home from work. i haven’t done that in a year. i used to go and park outside, and just sit there, coz it would make me feel calmer, make me feel close to something, make my heart slow, make me take deeper breaths. on this night, i just looked as i passed by. and instead just felt sick and sad and lonely and angry and stupid, so stupid for ever trusting her and also so stupid for driving by and hoping to feel something good.]

enter the fucking photo album. 
so many pictures, like so many. from newborn to about age 7, i’d guess, which is around when the abuse ended. pictures with my grandparents from both sides (i was so grateful for the pictures with my grandmother), with my parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. formal pictures, candid pictures, family portraits. a lot of pictures with my dad, like a lot a lot. christmas and easter and summer and spring. birthdays and pets and good god, the seventies made for some wild prints, didn’t they?


i was okay for probably half an hour after thumbing through the album. our kid soon lost interest, she’s good like that for when things don’t directly pertain to her, so i don’t think she noticed how quiet and quiet and quiet i got. i studied that little face in those photos. that little button nose and dark eyes, that fringe of bangs, the little tiny brown arms that i could likely encircle with my thumb and baby finger…the surprisingly delicate fingers, the knobby knees, the wee chiclet teeth and crinkled up eyes. 

and it was my wife who spoke to the sick leaden lump in my belly best, whose words escaped tightly pressed lips and gritted teeth, about the mindfuck of those pictures. because they were exactly the age i was when he was fingering me under my pink flowered blankets, when he made me jerk him off in their bedroom with the mirrored wall. like, why those pictures, mom? i hadn’t even shared with you the timeframe of the abuse. so why those ones, why?


all night last night, all day today, i keep thinking about how i look happy in some of them. how i am smiling, open-mouthed with delight, as his hand encircles my small belly. that i am grinning at the camera, that i am hugging my brother and kissing my cousins. jumping on the couch with glee. a whole book full of evidence that it didn’t happen. because look, look at my face, look at the fact that i am healthy and whole and my cheeks glow and i am surrounded by family who very obviously love me and take very good care of me. tell your daughter the stories in these photos, she prompted in the note. tell her your memories.  

and it worked. i feel guilt, i feel dissociated, i feel revolting and sick and sad and small and desperate. i am back full circle, to doubting the little girl in those photos. the one whom five years ago, whispered in my ear and initiated a relentless slideshow of images, ones that were not captured by a camera, ones that occurred under the cover of darkness with boozy smoky breath huffing in my face, or in our camper or in the bedroom or wherever else he fancied taking very good care of me. 

and worst of all i am hating myself, i am hating adult me for not knowing how to sit with her in it. for having her delight in seeing pictures of our beloved grandmother but also feeling her stomach turn as she recalled other stories behind the pictures, stories that i won’t share with my daughter. like the picture where she was cross-armed and pouting into the camera, forever to be told how she ruined that whole day because of her sucky baby behaviour. or the pictures where she just looks so fucking sad and why is a three year old that sad anyway? plus there were the pictures that i didn’t even feel like i had seen before, pictures that i don’t remember at all, and i used to look at my baby books ALL THE TIME when i was a bit older of a kid, searching for evidence that i was loved and snuggled and mattered, at some point at least. 

i’m a mess. she’s spinning and i can’t even access any of it, the grief or anger or any of it, i’m just a sodden lump of numbness. i can’t let myself feel her and i have half-heartedly rocked her and we had a bubbly bath and we ate peanut butter and honey toast and i put such a huge dollop of whipped cream in my chocolate-y coffee but i don’t think i can bear knowing she was me, i can’t stand looking at so many pictures during the time it was happening and seeing how little and trusting and dependent she was, knowing how trapped she was, knowing no one saw and no one lifted her up and away like i really wish i could do now. and the worst part is that i have the chance to hold myself, to hold her, and i just fucking can’t, and and i hate myself for that the most of all. 


there is so much so say and so little, all at once.

i mean, the world has changed dramatically. we all cover our faces now. avoid touching each other. bathe in sanitizer. across the globe we are all in various phases of resuming life since we were shut down by that invisible miniscule virus, that bastard covid-19, but it is but a shadow of our previous lives.

it’s been nearly six months of this new normal. in mid-march, my plane touched down in canada from seeing pocketbrit in the UK and it was all quarantine and online grocery orders and schools shutting and PPE and terror.

and it’s hard to think of life prior to that, when we could see our therapists in person and hug people and gather socially and have meetings and could breathe freely. and in particular, it’s weird to think about going to therapy at all, because i haven’t been since my therapist, S, ditched me nearly nine months ago, in early january. a stellar start to a dumpsterfire of a year.

and recently, after months of fighting the fact that i still do need help, after wading through the nine layers of hell(acious shame), i reached out to someone new and promptly ran away after one session.

i’m not sure i’m ever going to be able to trust someone ever again.

and i know that’s so stupid. i mean for goodness sakes, am i truly going to let my ex-therapist dictate the future relationships in my life? how super lame-o.

it’s just…it is a unique and tortuous experience, to be dumped by your therapist. particularly uniquely tortuous because i didn’t think it would happen to me, not in a million years, because i thought there was a base layer of respect and understanding and care and love (isn’t that last bit ridiculous? i know.)

and i let myself believe her lies (and they were lies, the lot of them) and that is the part that sucks the most, that i let her know me, i gave her access to my little one, that i trusted that she would hold us in mind. yes, that’s what hurts the most, that’s the pain that ripples out, month after month – it’s the pain of regret. i was so incredibly stupid to let her close, to believe her words. in the scheme of her life, i am someone she can support one moment and then the next…not.

i think because our challenges started several months prior to the final death of our relationship, i am feeling all sorts of things right now about her. i am still incredibly angry. and so, i thought i would use this space to write out my letter to her (i have penned several), both from adult me, and from the wee one inside.

here’s my grown-up version:

dear S,
for most of the time between now and from when you dumped me as client, you have felt like an abstract thing. a banished thought in the corners of my mind, covered with piles of splattered dropcloths and barbed wire, walled off by chained link fencing with locked gates. there were several intense days following our last interaction where i was suicidal, full of shame and terror and grief, where i was consumed by all of it. my small one a trembling jelly-like oozing mess, spilling into everything, with her wails all i could hear.
then a vast galaxy of nothingness. where you were a thing that happened, a person i used to know, another disappointment among thousands of disappointments in my history, but with no sting to it. during this era there was nothing but numbness.
and then, there was rage. such huge fucking rage. i’m still one foot in the lava in it, i have to warn you. because i can’t believe the lies that you told me. i can’t believe the trust i placed in your hands. i can’t understand how your mouth could form the words not once, but repeatedly, that you loved me. respected me. cared about me.
i will never, ever make the mistake of trusting another therapist again like i trusted you. one day, i may work with someone again, but i will never share myself as fully as i did. and i will certainly never believe that i am anything more than a job for whoever the new person is, and i will not get tangled in notions of love and care. i know now that when it comes down to it, i don’t count, coz it’s not a real relationship. it is only as enduring as the therapist allows it to be: it can be cut at any moment. never, ever again will i believe that someone i pay, someone who works with people like me for a job, could come to love me, would find me important, or see me. ugh i’m shaking my head at myself, the naivete of my trust and belief in you. how could i have swallowed your lies? and for so long?
listen, i know your side of the story. i rubbed up against some old primal stuff, blah blah blah, you couldn’t provide me with what i needed, i was growing beyond you, yada yada. no matter how much a “good dedicated hardworking therapist” you wanted to be, you couldn’t. it was so wild how desperate you were for an out. you could barely wait to respond to my email – that egads, yes, now that i mentioned it, you likely weren’t the person to help me anymore. after seven years, being my therapist was suddenly too hard to even have a good enough ending. nope, i was too triggering, my questions and my hurt were too much, you were on edge, you seemed to have lost your instincts, you were unnerved – all of it, backhanded blame, just like always. so incredibly familiar. it was my fault that you couldn’t even have a last session in person, that you couldn’t say words to me over the phone, even. it was my fault for being who i was, for activating those things in you. (yes, that is what you said.)
there were glimpses of your fragile ego throughout our time together, but these glimpses, over the past year, turned into long stretches where you were defensive and inflexible. insensitive. out of touch. you have always talked big talk about the Greater Love and the Greater Good and the Big Holding of the Hands of the Universe but all of that was a smokescreen, i think. for your getting off on the guessing game that being a therapist provided. the detective work of it, the mystery of it. the stripping bare-ness of it. the weeping and the release and the intimacy and the rawness of it. front row seats to the processing of pain. front row seats to redemption?
i realized i could basically pinpoint the beginning of the end of things – could you? can you remember when i stopped being easy for you? i’ll tell you when – it was pretty much exactly when i worked through the majority of the attachment stuff, when i stopped trying so hard to appease and please, when i stopped reaching out as much in between, when i brought my anger along with my tears. when i got less little, and more adult, and challenged you as an equal rather than from the vantage point of a balled-up, trembling, terrified and traumatized little girl.
(who, by the way, is still very much present in me. poor little love. i could honestly spit, that i let you have access to her in the way that i did. and i have sworn to her, over and over, that i’ll never do that again to her with another therapist, not ever. no way. you literally held us, in your lap, and you were wrong for doing it but i was also wrong for letting you.)
in any case, you’ve got your side and i’ve got mine. and here’s how my side goes, in terms of us ending. you and your ego could sense that i was hurting, and that i was thinking of going elsewhere. and instead of being a therapist, instead of thinking about your client, and actually letting me choreograph our ending (the type of ending that you were fully aware that historically, i wasn’t able to get for myself)…you took that from me, too. you did it first. get before you are gotten. check, mate.
one of the worst parts of it all was that you called me ‘sweetie’ to the end. to the bitter end, you insisted you loved me and cared about me. including in your final bullshit note, the same one where you invoiced me the time it took for photocopying seven years of notes…like, not the cost of copying the notes themselves, that i understand. but invoicing me for the time it took you to photocopy the notes, remember that? ha. yeah, i felt your love. right down to the last cent. (also, fuck you extra for that.) and i can’t believe you would have done any of the things you did, but to actually say those things to me as you did what you did…did you hear yourself? how ridiculous it sounded to utter those words? S, none of how we ended was loving, caring, or respectful to or of me.
there was a time that i thought about actually engaging with you about this, but there is no point. it became incredibly clear what we were, and also what we weren’t. who you were, and who you weren’t. who i am, and who i’m not. and it turns out i’m not someone who needs to have the last word. i’m not someone who needs your meaningless apology or empty gestures or sad excuses. i have heard you loud and clear, through your words and also through your actions, and i’ve heard enough.
so yes, there is this anger, but there is also grief, the same mawing gnawing grief that is always at the edges of me. for thinking i had something when really, i had nothing. for believing in the fable of it all. for wanting something more and thinking it was possible. for looking outwards for the healing that can only happen within.
i long ago put away the hope that this, all of this, might mean something to you. might register as a loss. might trickle into your brain, in the night, tighten your tummy, bring sudden tears to your eyes. but, i don’t think it does. i was but a blip. easily replaceable, gladly forgotten. it is meant to be that way, with therapists and clients. it is not meant to be real, though those of us who are hurt are desperate for it to be. it just can’t be, we can’t be.
because you will always choose you. you will always save your own life first. secure your own oxygen mask to your face, before turning to help others with their own masks. of course it is, it’s how it’s meant to be. and lying, and saying it’s not, aye, there’s the damage. there’s the hurt. there’s the lie to beat all lies.
i know better now. and i have you to thank for that.
– pocketcanadian
at another point, our stuffed pup and pocketbrit’s worn loved bear from her childhood that she gifted us clutched under my chin, i transcribed for the little one. and she cried and cried and cried and this is what she said:
you left me
you quit
you went away even though you said you cared but that was a big fat lie
i am a tiny speck, i am invisible, i don’t matter
i am a dummy for believing you
a big big dummy so big the biggest
and [pocketcanadian] is a dummy for letting me believe you
you said so many lies to me
right to my face, you said them
S you knew all the things that hurted me and you still did it, you still said lies and you aren’t even sorry
you don’t miss me at all because i didn’t count in your life
i tried to do all the things to make you stay
i told you all the things that made me cry and i cried so many times like a hundred million times and i let you near when i did and i wish i didn’t do that
i thought you meant it
i thought you cared
i thought it mattered
you said it did but it didn’t
i thought you were different S
but then on the last day you talked to me like i was stupid and said it wasn’t my fault but that was a lie too coz your other words said it was my fault
you threw me away like garbage
i didn’t even get to say goodbye
you only liked me when i was sad
not if i got mad
not when i got quiet
you only wanted me if i could be small and easy
just like everyone else did
just like always
you made me feel not alone for a little while but that was actually a lie anyway
and all of those words make my heart ache. because they’re her words and feelings, but they echo inside, bouncing off my ribs and my gut and my funny bones and my kneecaps and the soles of my feet. i don’t know how i’m meant to comfort her when there is such a large part of me believing her, feeling our constant, proverbial wrongness reverberating everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

Magic (184)

So the first thing that comes to my mind for this word is of course, Harry Potter. I was about  8 or 9 when I began the love for this series. I remember going to watch the first two films in the cinema with my parents and middle brother, and I very vividly remember the day that the 5th book in the series was released. My mum went to tescos with my middle brother and I, and on the very day it was released we each got our own copy of the book, and a bar of tesco value white chocolate (pocketcanadian will be making a puking gesture at this point because she hates white chocolate), and we went home, and I’m not sure about my brother, but I couldn’t have been happier. I went straight upstairs with the beautiful big hardback book with thick pages, and my bar of chocolate and sat on the wooden floor in my room under the window with my back against the wall, and was completely entranced by the book. I’m not completely sure whether I had read all of the other books up to that point, but I most definitely did from that moment on. I became quite obsessed with Hogwarts and Harry Potter. You probably wouldn’t realise it from afar – I didn’t talk non-stop about it, I didn’t wear Harry Potter costumes…but I did always, no matter what, carry one of the books (if not two if I was nearing the end of one of the books) with me at all times. And I mean all times. If I was going to school, to my grandparents, even in the car with one of my parents for just 5 minutes. Hogwarts was my safety net. It was love and misunderstanding and belonging, and finding a family where you believed you had none. It was home to me. This crazy imagined world with spells and dragons and wonderful half giants, and men with long beards and cloaks who love you before you even know who they are. I can’t put words exactly to what it is that made me feel such a connection to the books, but my favourite character was Sirius (and then Lupin), and of course Harry, and I think its probably clear from Harry’s lack of support and safety, and Sirius’ complete lack of belonging in his own cruel slytherin family, that the idea of not belonging in the family that you know, feeling unseen and unheard and out of place, as well as unsafe and unloved….I think that was a big part. But more importantly, how they found their own family – how they found a home and love and belonging that they never knew existed up to that point. There’s a lot in that I think.

So yeah….I would read the series non-stop. As soon as I was finished with one book I would move onto the next, and once I had finished the last book in the series (that being however far along in the series was released at that point) I would just go straight back to the beginning and start again. My books are so very battered these days. A couple of them sellotaped together. I used to just pick up the 4th and 5th books and read the last several chapters at night, when I was sad and needed to cry but couldn’t, needing a release. The death of Cedric and Molly’s mothering in the fourth book, and then Sirius’ death and the scene with Dumbledore in his office in the 5th book, were both scenes that could induce tears with me. Somebody who found it very hard to cry, but very much needing to given the things going on in my life at that time…these books offered an outlet for that. As well as offering so very much more.

I’m not too happy with J.K Rowling right now, but nevertheless, this series will always mean everything to me. It was the very thing that I latched onto and kept me moving forwards through all of the disgusting things happening to me. So this to end this post ❤

Dreams (358)

I hadn’t intended to click on this title in my drafts – it was the last one above the button to see more of the drafts – but actually it seems like a decent one to do today, because it sort of fits in with the last post I did on Hope, and also, because my dreams have been pretty terrible lately.


So first off, dreaming for things, having broader dreams for my life, are hard. I’m not going to go into all of that again because its pretty much all in my last post, but yeah.

As for the dreaming that I do when I’m asleep…they’re bonkers generally. I always thought everybody remembered their dreams in intricate detail, but pocketcanadian was always surprised and kind of happy that when she asked about my dreams I would go off on a very long-winded story with lots of segues and anecdotes and plainly random twists and turns, because she remembered all of the intricate detail in her dreams too, unlike her family who thought it was very weird.

As a kid I would have a recurring dream that would alter somewhat, but on the whole stay the same. I still have the same dream from time to time. In it I’m at my parents house, in my bedroom with one or two of my dogs, and I would sense and then hear the people coming to attack us. Sometimes I would see their cars and vans coming up the drive, sometimes when I was older and driving myself, I would be driving to my parents to see them and come across these people down the track to our house. Every time in these dreams My parents would be killed, and sometimes my dogs too, and always, always, it was me that they were truly after. Me that they wanted to rape and then kill. Most of the times I would be in my bedroom and try to quiet the dogs and then climb out of my bedroom window, dog in tow, and run as fast as I can through the garden and into the fields. Often I would be chased, and at this point I would have to hide in the stream running through a little wooded area, trying my hardest to not scare my dog, and keep them quiet, sometimes unsuccessfully. In many dreams I would manage to run to my grandparents house which was close by, and with huge relief and also still heightened terror run in ready to tell them that my parents are dead and that they’re coming to get me, to call the police. Sometimes they would be alive and confused and I would have to hurry trying to lock all the windows and doors, never managing it in time….but normally, I would run into their house in equal parts panic and relief, only to see the men there, and them dead, waiting for my fate. And then I would wake up….covered in sweat and sometimes tears, heart racing out of my chest and still feeling the terror.

There are other versions of this one…where I turn into a miniature person so I can hide…where my dad lets them in….where my dad invites them so that he can sell me to them, where I hide in the house….where there are guns and shots and a fight at the house….


Other recurring dreams include dying on a plane. (Fear of flying – obvious much)

Lately I keep having a dream about arguing with my dad, talking back as he goes off on his “mental health is bullshit, young people these days are pathetic, never had anything bad happen in their life, therapy is total crap, only soldiers know trauma etc.” rant, to ask him how he can be saying that to me, ask him how being raped by your brother at a young age is nothing, how that’s no big deal and to stop being so goddamn pathetic. Clearly my mind trying to process all of the things he has been saying to me lately, and my own desire to scream back at him rather than hold my tongue which is what I currently do, trying not to cry and not to let the shame roar inside me.

I’ve also been having ones where I tell somebody that has pretended to care and has asked questions about what is going on with me, that I was abused. Only to then go back and try to tell them more for them to say they aren’t interested, they don’t want to hear it. There’s a lot of shame brought up even thinking about those dreams.


I think dreams are incredibly interesting – the way we process the things that happen in our day during REM sleep, the way that traumatic things go unprocessed and are “incorrectly filed”, how things like EMDR work to go back in time and process them at a later date. The brain is just amazing, and I’d love to learn more about the brain and trauma, how it all connects and works to keep us safe.

Hope (359)

I find it really hard to hope for things, to admit what I want and acknowledge to other people that actually I do hope for things.

Lately I told pocketcanadian of one of my biggest hopes, that I really want to move to Canada and away from my parents and family for 6 months, two years, maybe forever. Its a big thing admitting that. I told my therapist once and then the following week I came back to her, so full of anger at myself, saying it was impossible, it would never happen for a whole load of reasons, and that she shouldn’t have ever led me into believing it was actually possible. Safe to say I was punishing myself for daring to hope, and worse, for expressing those hopes to somebody else.

Lately, 9 to 10 months later, I’m beginning to express those hopes again. To look into it a bit more, to tell pocketcanadian, to put more attention on what I really want and to just give it space. So here i go, I’m going to put it out there a little bit more. Put it here, and think about all the logistics of it.

So im from the uk, and i love being by the sea, love water, and feel connected listening to waves, diving into them, feeling the water all around me. So, id like to go to the coast, ideally the east coast, Nova Scotia.

That might not be an immediate thing though, because pocketcanadian is somewhere else in Canada, and I think if I’m going to make this huge move, it might be better to start out near her, so that I have a safe space, someone I can turn to and see and hug on those bad lonely days.

Here are the things i need to work out (this list will get bigger, but here’s where I’m at right now) :

Rent. How much a month? Bills included? How much for bills? Council tax?

Working visa. Cost? How easy?

Student loan. Normally comes out of wages, what happens if I move abroad?

When? Before I’m 30, as soon as I’ve saved enough money.

Cat? If 6 months, i could leave him here and he would be looked after, but I would feel so guilty, and I would miss him like crazy. If longer, take him? Can I find somewhere to rent that will take pets?

Business? Can I get my craft business going here? Can I get it to make money? Can I move that abroad? Would it make sense to? Would I be able to take my equipment?

Job. This is a big one. I would need to ideally have a place to rent and a job lined up. Needs to be enough to live off and slightly save (ideally).

Money. I want to go there with all of my basic expenses for 6 months in savings. 6 months rent, bills, food etc. Or , alternatively, 4 months and enough for the flight back. That’s probably more realistic. And of course will need the cost of the flight there.

Transport. Won’t have a car, so get a car out there? Car cooperative? Public transport?

Travel insurance. Or will it just be medical insurance once I’m out there ? How will I pay for my sertraline? Will it be easy to get? Will it be expensive? Doctors, dentists etc? How do you go about that stuff?


That’s where I’m at right now, thinking of these things, with lots of questions, things to find out.

I don’t know what it is, but hoping and expressing it and telling people makes me incredibly anxious. The nightmares and dreams, and just constant noise in my head of “you can’t do this”, “you never should have said anything”, “you’ll fail”, “you’ll hate it”, “you’ll get too lonely”, “you can’t leave the cat and your family and the dogs”, “someone will die and you won’t be here and you won’t ever see them again”, you will screw it up, you’ll run out of money, you won’t make any friends, you won’t get a job, you’ll fuck it all up”. Etc etc etc.

So this post is a fuck you to that anxiety. Time to start the couple of years of planning and saving and working it all out.


All the (fucking) feelings

I don’t even know tonight, what it is. I don’t know if it would even help to pinpoint it, but it just feels like all kinds of things, everything.

Hurting and hurting. Like physically, in my chest and in my legs and my head. A heaviness, a sadness, a thick inarticulable aching sort of blanket tucked around me. Things feeling fuzzy yet poignant, tears rising and falling, rising and falling.


There is someone i knew, not very well, a young, very kind person. With a really beautiful singing voice, with an energy that I could feel when I was around them. A person I was drawn to, a person with an intrinsic sadness yet so much openness also. A person born in the wrong body who did so so much work to make it right for them, so they could feel at home. They finally furnished themselves, with all the right parts, and then they died. Suddenly, during Pride week, in this pandemic. I have no right to feel so sad about it but I do, I feel bereft, i feel robbed, it was not their time, they weren’t finished yet.


Earlier I did that thing where you’re just doing something normal and ordinary and then you find your vision blurry and your cheeks wet and it’s a surprise, almost, to be crying because there was no real preamble, no conscious thought or swell of discernible feeling. It’s a bit silly honestly, and i got self conscious about it and mumbled an apology to my wife (“sorry for being a baby”) and with great tenderness, she smoothed back my hair and said, “It’s okay. You’re *my* baby” and she meant it.


Like many people, i watched a black man be murdered in front of the world by a white police officer two weeks ago. Watched that man beg and call his mama and fight for breath, his cheek grinding the pavement, his neck under a uniformed knee. Watched him go unconscious while that huge white ugly face loomed above him, expressionless. I have been to births but I have never been there when someone’s life left their body. Yet, we all were. Strangers, millions of us. We all were there, and i don’t think I’ll ever be the same.


I wrote my parents a note this weekend, advocating for my daughter, to whom we still permit them occasional internet and phone contact. They’ve been pressing her for details about us, about our lives. Passing on kisses and hugs to us, as though everything is okay. Making her feel guilty and like she is betraying us. In my email i told them that I want them to think of her first, their granddaughter, and put her back at the centre of things – but not in the middle. Told them i hope she never has to reconcile the grandparents she has with the parents they’ve been to me. I also told them i threw their cards and cheques in the garbage, that they should keep their professations of love and money solely to her, coz i didn’t want them.

And that is true but it also isn’t true, because I do want it. The love, I mean. I won’t ever get it, I know that now, but I do want it. I do want parents who love me, who show it and profess it. I hate that it still hurts me that I don’t.


Someone i didn’t know very well read me today, in a way that was both unnerving and comforting. She saw me, somehow, with very little effort and called attention to a part of me i usually hide, with something that felt like love. I don’t know why she did that, it was brief like a cloud passing over the sun and then we reverted back to our usual roles. But I’ve found myself folding around that moment, hands cupped in to myself, holding close how she reflected me, with gratitude and also grief.


Father’s Day is coming up. I actually forgot about it this year until i was reminded, and then a realization slammed into my diaphragm, that i didn’t remember coz it’s not actually relevant to me. I don’t have a dad I can celebrate.


Our daughter made slime tonight, a new recipe. I saved the day from ruin with cheap hair gel from the grocery store – the internet lied, it was not the “Best Slime EVER,” and there was much crying, googling of rescue measures, and frantic phone calling. Though to be honest, after nearly every drop of that three dollar, priceless magical goo was dribbled in, as her eyes shone, as her small hands kneaded the fragrant sticky formula with the kind of bliss i can hardly recall, i would have bought three thousand more bottles, just to sustain that moment.


Today was a bad missing day, we each have those sometimes, even on the same day now and again. Because of travel limitations i don’t know when I’ll see her again, and she’s my best friend. She lives across the sea from me and things have been really hard lately but our love, in its intensity and magnitude and longevity, also takes my breath away. Tonight I just wanted her to be for-real close, not just imagining like we have to do behind our closed eyelids all the time, but like in the same room on the same couch feet tucked under us and i could reach out and grab her hand, close.

Squeeze it once, twice. Our signal that we’re right there, not leaving, through all of it. The breathing, the grieving, the minutiae of the seconds making up a day and the gains and losses and feelings.

All the fucking feelings.

Child (364)

It’s funny, I came back  here today for the first time in quite a long time (those declarations of returning to this blog and finishing these words are always meant with conviction and renewed determination to do it, however every single time I try that determination seems to die down relatively quick – so no declarations today, just here because I felt like it, because I wanted to be), and when I clicked on the drafts of all of those words that I have yet to write about, this one was at the very top, and I didn’t even look any further, because I feel like a have enough thoughts to get down about this one.

So to do a little background of where I am right now, during these crazy times; I am furloughed from work (currently in the UK the government is paying 80% of a number of workers wages to keep them from being made redundant during covid-19, when lots of businesses are closed), and I am back at my parents house, which is a short drive from where I live, as they wanted me there. I am doing lots of gardening, general helping out, cleaning, cooking etc, and hopefully will be able to work on my own business concept that I want to give a go soon, as well hopefully being able to some back office improvements to the business where I currently work. The thing is, its utterly shit. It was bearable for the first couple of weeks, but it is now into week 11 and its just shit. No other way to say it. Despite the fact that I am in my mid 20s, and that I’m home helping out because they wanted it, I am back to being a child. The lack of privacy, the inability to do what I want or need to do, the way my day is often scheduled and dictated by them, it’s enough to drive me insane.

I started this post several weeks ago, and never finished it, only coming back to it now. I’m sure I had a whole lot more to say about this back then, but its gone from my mind now. I think I mostly just needed to rant about it. To say how mad it made me that despite being a grown up, being back in my parents house I am back to being treated like a child, just one with a whole lot more jobs to do. I seriously hope this lockdown ends soon.

shittest of shits: 3/30

that is today.

i worked but i don’t even know how. i was somewhere else. i forgot to eat lunch. i drank water though.

my body feels terrible, my brain feels terrible, my head feels terrible. i’m small and ashamed and stuck there. it is hurting all over, inside and outside. i feel totally alone.

all i’ve felt like doing all day is crying, and now that i actually can, that i have a minute just for me, it won’t come.

i don’t think i have anything else to say.