This makes me think of women’s bodies. Curvy. Not necessarily always, but typically, we are curvy. Wide child bearing hips, breasts. The differences that come with growing up. No longer flat chested, no longer straight up and down.

I have no problem with other women’s bodies being curvy, I can find it beautiful, certainly. And yet I have always despised my curves. I hate my hips, my thighs, my curves and my softness and my squishy parts. I hate my breasts. I never wear proper bras, only sports ones, because the very last thing I want to do is wear something that I feel like accentuates them. I want them to be small, unnoticeable, not something I have to deal with. I wear men’s clothes more days of the week than not. Large t-shirts, and so much of the time, big jumpers. If they are longer, go over my hips, even better. Hiding all of my sins…my boobs, my waist, my hips.

And I don’t understand this about me. Why would I want to look child-like? When that’s when I was hurt? And it’s not that I feel like I’m in the wrong body, I’ve always been a bit of a tomboy, but have always felt comfortable as a female, it’s certainly how I identify.

I don’t know, makes no sense. But I like curves on others, but on myself… I feel like taking a knife and cutting them away.

Pain #2

Reading pc’s post again tonight brings tears to my eyes. She writes beautifully about the ugliest of things and she’s put words to things that I had zero desire to try to write about yesterday.

I want to add some more. And I suppose there are two types to this. The physical pain, and far worse, the emotional. I’ll start with the former.

  • The bruises on a body from ‘kids being kids’.
  • The feeling of suffocating when your head is held underwater and however much you flail and try to get out of their grip, you can’t.
  • Or when their hand is over your mouth and nose, or around your neck and you can’t escape.
  • When their body is on top of yours, pinning you down.
  • When your arm or leg is held so hard you end up bruised.
  • When you are hit or pushed down or threatened without the requirement of words even leaving their mouth.
  • When their penis is down your throat and you cannot escape. When you gag and can’t breathe, and the only air you can get into your lungs is when they release the pressure of their hand on the back of your head and you can pull back just long enough that you can breathe through your nose again before they thrust your head back forward and you’re suffocating. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat x 100.
  • When you disappear to wherever you can, because the things they are doing to your body are more than you can cope with.
  • When doors are slammed on hands. Objects thrown at faces. Plates and glasses smashed on the wall behind you.
  • The sweet sharp pain that is self inflicted in order to try to bring yourself back to the present, or punish yourself, or just feel *something*. Or rather, actually, to so often feel nothing, to numb everything happening in your brain and body, to remove yourself from it all.

And yet, the actual physical pain and fear is short lived right? Ha. No, not really. Because the emotional pain brings them back all the fucking time. Periods become triggers where your body feels like it’s still happening, over and over, where your memories torment you. And all of these things come back, out of nowhere, when you least expect it, when you might be having a good day, and then SLAM. Hit in the face with this shit, out of nowhere, for no reason that you can pinpoint.

And as pc has said, all of the other shattering things.

  • The fact that they chose him, yet again. The fact that you’re not chosen. The knowledge that you won’t ever be.
  • The fear that has your knees curled up to your chest whilst you sit on the floor of the shower for half an hour hoping that the water will wash it all off of you.
  • The birthdays, the christmases, the fathers days, the mothers days, the lunches, the dinners, the family gatherings, the celebrations.
  • The never ending silencing.
  • The earth shattering loss of parents that can make you feel orphaned, and alone and like you won’t survive it.
  • The shame. The white hot, flushed cheeks, sweaty bodied shame.
  • The fucking ocean of grief. And the ocean of grief that you haven’t been able to cry for in years.
  • The years spent taking care of yourself because nobody else will. The putting yourself to bed and the crying yourself to sleep at night.
  • The feeling unseen, unheard, unappreciated, unloved. Unloveable.
  • The taking all of it on so that you can retain some semblance of control.

There are so many more. This list isn’t even close to exhaustive, but I have another post I need to write.


Okay, come on 🙄. I would need a fucking month to write everything that flickers into my mind for this stupid gd word.

And I don’t want to. No thank you. Not tonight.

forty-seven: pain

i haven’t much wanted to write this one, either.

it’s just…this one little four-letter word cannot even begin to capture the experience of remembering what i did, nearly three years ago. it doesn’t even start to cut it, represent it, describe it.

it doesn’t cover the far-reaching loss of relatives, friends, and acquaintances i’ve experienced since then, the isolation. the whole-body pang when i hear the word family. the three father’s days and mother’s days i’ve endured since then. the putting-up with the continued mindfuckery by text and email. the depth of guilt for not knowing how to negotiate a relationship with my parents for our young daughter (and the original panic of ohmygodohmygoddidhehurthertoo). the boundaries we’ve had to put in place for her protection, without being able to answer her angry questions as to why they are there.

the interruptions to intimacy within my marriage. the countless nights i’ve sobbed into my pillow, soundlessly and at top volume and most everything in between. the ways it has manifested itself in my body, through physical illnesses and symptoms i’ve never had before. the impact on our finances, as i pay people to help me clean up the mess that was left in my body, in my inner child, in my life. the way i’ve questioned my parenting. the self-loathing. the self-loathing. the self-loathing.

the terrifying, whispery refrain that burbles up every so often that everyone would be better off if i wasn’t here. that i would be doing everyone a favour. the way that i have believed those horrible words, that i have considered them so closely, more than i care to admit.

and one of the grossest aspects of this pain is that i am not alone in it. it is shared, among so many millions of us. people i know and people i don’t. people i love, like pocketbrit, and people i don’t love at all. the stories are varied but the exquisite, soul-shattering experience of it? is not even remotely unique.

there is no comfort in this.

just tears and tears and tears.


  • My ocd tenancies: everything needing to have some sort of order to it… Organised in height order or categories, the dvds in my sitting room arranged by colour so that they make a rainbow. Herbs and spices alphabetised. Books arranged by height.
  • Being ordered to do things, and the belligerence in me of refusing to do it sometimes just because of hating being ordered.

forty-six: order

i am not a very orderly person.

in fact, the mere suggestion that things be in a particular order drives me around the bend.

i know it is ridiculous of me. and i do not refuse to follow any order, only that order upon which people insist. i follow the law, for instance, and i don’t mind rules; i adhere to the lay of the land, and i am a fairly moral person, i’d say.

but i don’t like people telling me what to do, and in what manner. nope nope nope.

forty-five: earth(ly)

sorry friends, it’s another musical association.

one of my favourite sarah harmer songs is uniform grey, and in one of the verses it mentions her being in an airplane, “high above [her] earthly pain”…and that’s stuck with me. in fact i think of that line every time i fly, wondering if this is the trip i’ll be able to leave it all behind.

but then, as i wrote that, i thought about earth, like the rich black earth in which we plant things. i thought of its smell and about both of my grandparents, who had huge vegetable and flower gardens and spent every year from april to october on their knees, digging, planting, weeding, tending, harvesting. in particular i remember my grandmother’s hands, earth under her nails, in the kitchen. her apron smelling of dirt and of dill and onions. of love.