Today I went for a smear test. I’m in my twenties, I’ve never had one before, and like any person, I don’t like the sound of it. I didn’t talk it through with anybody, didn’t even tell anyone. Not my therapist when I saw her last night, not pocketcanadian when I was telling her about what was going on in my life.

I booked the appointment when I happened to be at the doctors (a rare thing) last week for an infected finger. I was thinking that I could push through, be normal for once. I thought, naively, that if I didn’t tell anyone and didn’t talk about it, and forced myself to go, that I’d be okay. That I’d be able to do it. Be normal for once.

Instead I woke up anxious, after an anxious and otherwise a bit unsettled sleep. I layed there, thinking maybe I should just not go. And then I put it aside, those doubts, locked it up, and showered, and left. I got there, I walked in, I sat in the waiting room, and the nurse called me.

And she was so loud. She spoke to me so loudly that I knew the old man outside would surely be able to hear. And that was it really. That was all it took, her loud loud voice, that made me scared, brought my little one right to the surface, and made me immediately ashamed and closed off and scared, and brought tears to my eyes.

There’s something so harsh about someone being that loud. It isn’t gentle or understanding, it isn’t soft. It’s scary. Loud voices unsettle me.

Anyway, I held it together. I listened to her, answered her questions. I got undressed, exposed myself, layed on that table, her loud voice talking about what she’ll be inserting into my vagina, my brain trying to block her out and keep my shit together. And I am…

…and then that loud voice asks me to open my legs. Tells me I need to open them more, that she can’t insert it, that she needs me to open my legs really wide.

And I am done. Freaking out, tears running down my face, jumping off the table, apologising. Memories playing behind my eyes.

And don’t get me started on the embarrassment of leaving through the waiting rooms that followed.

There’s something about loud voices that I don’t like. That scares me and induces a trauma response. I tighten up go into higher alert, don’t trust and am wary. It’s not gentle and doesn’t feel safe. Basically, I don’t fucking like it.


What I really want to do right is put my good headphones on my head, and put some music on loud enough to drown out my brain and body, so that I can hopefully sleep. I might just do that. That seems like a good loud.

thirty-six: blue

blue is pocketbrit’s favourite colour.

it is also my mom’s.

those two facts together feel harder than they should, but there you go.

there is a very particular hue that you can find in the sky sometimes…and that’s my favourite blue of all. it’s bright and it’s intense and it’s the one i thought of when i imagined today’s word. fortuitously, there was a patch of sky that was this blue today and i thought of this post, and of pocketbrit, mostly. but then a bit about my mom and thinking of her just hurt.

this isn’t remotely a good picture, i snapped it in a hurry today, but it has the blue i love best…specifically, the patch at the top middle, just to the left of that wispy fluff of cloud. deep, calming, endless blue. (if i was more tech savvy i’d edit it and circle the exact bit i love, but alas, i’m tech moronic)



I didn’t want to write this yesterday and I still don’t really want to write it today.

I hate this. I really fucking hate this. It feels debilitating and so sticky and like it’ll never go away. The feeling of being wrong grows with shame, some days till its an inferno in my belly. Other days it’s quieter, but it is always there, waiting for the smallest slight, the side glance from somebody on the street that you’ve never even met, that you take as utter disgust. The laughter that you assume is about you, the comments, the nitpicking that you take on as fundamental flaws of your person. The sideways glances, the people ignoring you, the people secluding you, that are actually only not inviting you because you’re so closed off and putting up your ‘don’t come near me walls’ without even realising you’re doing so.

Its the people that are meant to love you and build you up and support you, and help you grow and watch you thrive, that tell you you’re too fat, too dumb, not funny enough, not pretty enough, not sporty enough, you laugh weirdly, you’re too shy, you’re too much of a tomboy… ‘what’re you wearing? Go change’, ‘your hair looks ridiculous, go brush it’, ‘is that a boy?’, ‘stop sucking your thumb, you’re not a baby’, ‘don’t cry, you’re being stupid’, (halfway through telling something important as a kid) ‘that’s nice, now just go upstairs and do x y or z’, ‘why do you have to do that?! What’s wrong with you?’, ‘this is your fault, just go upstairs’, ‘if you tell him we’ll get divorced and it’ll be all your fault. Is that what you want?’, ‘shut up and stop being stupid and help’, ‘why don’t you have a boyfriend?’, ‘why don’t you ever tell me stuff?’, ‘why are you so secretive?’…. This list is far from exhaustive.

Its the lack of interest or care. Its putting yourself to bed at 7 years old, because they won’t. It’s becoming independent and closed off because anything else is unsafe. It’s wondering why your siblings are more important than you. It’s trying to deal with abuse and bullying and wishing you were dead all on your own, because you’d only be laughed at. It’s being mocked by multiple members of your family all at the same time. It’s crying yourself to sleep at night.

Its grown up in my body as I’ve grown up… Planted early on, and fed the best nutrients as I’ve grown. Its been fed so much that I now can’t believe anything else. It’s now so inherent, that even the slightest glance or laughter or annoyance is taken on as evidence of my wrongness. Its taking on things that have nothing to do with me, from family and friends and even strangers, just because I’m constantly searching, constantly adding to the pile of evidence without even realising I am.

It gets in the way of fucking everything. It’s debilitating, it’s terrible. So so terrible.

I go to therapy and tell her that I don’t deserve her time. How could I, when I’m so unworthy of attention or care? And oh my, love from friends…? How on earth do you let that in when you know they’re mistaken about you and one day they’ll realise it and take it all back?

And yet somehow I have, over the years. The small comments and actions of worthiness have sometimes been let in and believed, and yet I really don’t think there will ever be enough of them to counteract it, or even make a dent in it.

It has to come from me, the belief of worthiness, of not being wrong, and yet how can I when if my brain and stomach and heart aren’t in total agreement of my wrongness, are at total odds, one shouting one thing and one the other. The one with the most evidence always wins.

I hate this, I can’t tell you how much.

And im not reading over this, I don’t want to… So I’m going to just hope it makes sense, and I’m sorry for any typos, and I’m sorry its so so whingy.

thirty-five: wrong

this is another big one, and i’m not sure i’ll be able to do it justice in my current frame of mind. which, ironically, is feeling wrong in my body and wrong in my mind and wrong in my whole life. i am exhausted and feeling beaten down, i’m young and horrible. i’m flooded with guilt and shame and am convinced i’m a burden, a horror, a crap partner and mom and friend. it’s not a nice place to be.

i hate the feeling of wrongness because it’s so familiar. and every time i feel this way, especially lately, i think about how long i’ve lived with the conviction that there is something wrong with me. that i’m inherently just wrong, somehow, sloppily made from the get-go, pieced together from discarded bits of intergenerational flotsam and jetsam. how i spent so long feeling like i was just born wrong, could never hope to get things right…and how just the right combination of circumstances in my life today can send me straight back to that awful, desperate, deadly place.

i might have to come back to this one because i need help unhooking from how i’m feeling, and this is sending me deeper into it. i want to talk more about it but tonight i just can’t.