Themes/Dreams

I've always wanted to write something that flowed together, something with a noticeable theme that didn't feel repetitive. In the mean time I'm just writing lazy almost-haikus about dreams. 

The Morning

His hands were soft

The tide turned at midnight 

I always leave first 

Waiting Room

The smell of coffee

I read your eyes like a book

We are all alone 

Ocean Dwellers

The ship sunk slowly

Loud footsteps in the hallway

Bodies always float

Our Summer

I swallowed the sun

My heart already knew you

Bright stars burn quickly 

Accidents Happen

They lent together

Triangles hold the most weight

I watched them break

Pancakes

You hate morning breath

Whispers into the cover

I drove home smiling

Love E x

Page Poem #1

Today I made a Page Poem, I'm not sure if that's what other people call them but I thought the name fit. This isn't a unique idea, I got the idea from my friend Tiffany and thought I might like to try it. Here is attempt number one. 

I hope you like it. I might call it 

                     Leaves

Turn round, shaking that moment

Fell with a crash petrified thoughts

Whirled like dead leaves, a hurricane,

Suddenly overwhelmed he realised

He longed for happiness passionately

Love E x

Haiku

I've been enjoying poetry so much lately, but had never written any until recently. These are my first attempts at haiku. 

Oceans away

They took them away

Laws that protect the guilty

The tide always turns 

Self-medicated 

The hit numbs the pain

I heard your cries in the night 

Wrong prescription 

Love E x

Playing With Couplets

Just some morning thoughts, for days when getting out of bed doesn't seem so important. 

First Years First Day

Students roamed the library stairwell

The calves call mournfully for their stolen mothers

Caught

A policeman at the flywire door

The web reverberated with its dying movements

Winter Mornings

The icy grip of the morning air

Tiny hands stuffed inside mittens 

Old Friends

The waves crashed gently onto the shore

They call every night just to say hello

Pancakes for Breakfast

The air was heavy with the scent of you

A table scarred by years of friendly abuse

Love E x

Home

I wrote a story this week. It hurt, but like a lot of things that are unpleasant to begin with, I was happy when it was done. Sometimes writing can be very cathartic.

It could have been thunder, the first crash of metal on wood as they began to break down the door. I sat bolt upright, heart racing as I heard it, attempting to discern my dreams from our reality. The second crash made it clear, not weather, not dreaming. The air was cold on my body where our sheets had fallen away, I shivered involuntarily. I kicked him, surprised that he, that anyone, could sleep through this noise as artificial thunder reverberated around our bedroom again. Different this time, though its source was the same, the wood made a cracking noise as it splintered. I rubbed my eyes, adjusting to the too-early-to-be-light darkness, and realise that he’s awake. He doesn’t return my gaze, he’s boring a hole in the wall with his eyes, staring through it as though it were a curtain and he is watching our front door being destroyed. I reach out to break his revere, gently laying my hand on his shoulder. He’s tense, like an animal coiled and ready to spring, he meets my eyes, wide in disbelief, and I realise his are wild with fury, hatred, resolve. I’m frightened, a flash back to nature documentary's on the couch smiling sleepily cradled in his arms as he imitates the foreign voice, holding my ribs together against the giggling; fight or flight. I know him too well to hope he’ll run. I open my mouth to speak as we hear the door finally give way, I let it hang, open and silent, I can’t think of anything to say anymore. A half-second later and I’m not looking at him, lights flashing through the corridor, sharp images illuminated in a nonsensical patten against the soft light of our sleep. Through our door, onto our bed, into our lives. I am a statue, cemented to the bed by my fear as he lets out a feral snarl that tears straight through me. I stare at them here, in our house and scream a silent entreaty at him to stay calm as they begin to empty our draws.

He didn’t fight or flight, a dead weight as two of them wrench him from the safety of our bed, arms pinned to his sides, wrestled behind his back, his face a hard mask protecting us from them. I shiver again as I follow him, moving unthinking like the oceans silently responding to the tug of the moon. Out into the hall, onto our veranda, our home covered by them, an army of ants invading our precious nest. I stand still and mute as they read to him. Foreign sounding words from a laminated piece of paper, jargon they had stored especially for this occasion in the back of their van. I am surprised as he chuckles through their speech; they ask him to understand and he laughs. His eyes are steady, jaw raised aggressively, I've seen him like this before, defending us, defiant and despite myself my heart swells with pride. I stand there even after they’ve pulled out of the driveway and onto the road. I fight the obscene urge to wave. I stay there as they continue within our home, opening, emptying, violating, like vultures picking over a caracas.

I sob my way through our home, treading carefully around the detritus of our lives laid bare all over our floors. I shake my head and tears are sprayed from left to right, a tiny sprinkler, I don’t know where to start without him. Opening the back door and watching the sun rise slowly, with the dawn the clouds of my consciousness clearing after rain. I run through the yard, over the freezing lawn, tiny icicles pricking my skin. The shed door is open, hanging from its hinges, the heavy lock discarded in two pieces at my feet, my eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness as I step inside. Empty. I run my fingers over the rough, untreated wood that makes up the too clean shelves. I can see the holes in the roof now, tiny pinpricks of sunlight streaming through where the bolts that once secured the light fittings have been removed, the jagged openings cut with his stepdads tinsnips in the back of the shed where the drains had run, the dark patches on the floor where the dirty water had pooled after being spilt carelessly out onto concrete. Slumping against the back wall I begin to choke.

My throat tightens and my legs buckle, I sink slowly to the floor. The image of his eyes meeting theirs, his calm, his defiance. He’d laughed. He’d lain there quietly as they’d torn apart our house, our home. He’d gone to the van, he hadn't looked back. He’d laughed as though, as though it didn’t matter, as though I wasn't frightened. He'd laughed as though he’d known they were coming, as if he'd known they’d find nothing, as if he’d known he’d come home. The shed was empty and he’d laughed. I swallow against the bile rising in my throat and choke back a sob. The terror and confusion of the morning melting away against the violence of my grief. He’d laughed. I stay there, on the floor of the shed, watching the light filtering through the roof move slowly across the floor in an ellipse. I rise slowly, stretching as the blood flows back into my limbs, prickling the nerves. The warmth of the afternoon sun sinking into my clothing as I wander over the now dry lawn and pause at the threshold of what had this morning been our home before immersing myself in the chaos again.

The vultures are gone, the carcass cleaned, bones laid bare in the sun. I sort slowly at first, carefully picking up each item to inspect it for damage, for ownership; mine, his, ours, before either replacing it or putting it in my bag. Life-sized tetris, a place for everything to belong. Overwhelmed by a sense of purpose I become a hurricane, tearing through our belongings. A home reduced to a a sum of parts. I am surprised when I hear the laughing, like a hyena, more so when I realise the deranged sound is coming from my mouth. A life, a home, laughed into death in the space of a day. I close the door behind me, not pausing this time as I pass through the doorway of our life together without looking back. 

Love E x

How it all began.

anx·i·e·ty  

/aNGˈzī-itē/

Noun A feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome. Desire to do something, typically accompanied by unease.

I have always been a worrier, someone who hated change or the unexpected. Its part of who I am and until recently I have not found it to be harmful. A little worry makes you pay attention, it keeps you aware, it makes you safe. A little worry is helpful; a lot of worry is terrifying, paralyzing, depressing. I became paralyzed by my anxiety, depressed by my inability to overcome it, and overall overwhelmingly unhappy and hopeless. At 21 I felt like life had been put on hold, but was, at the same time, spiraling rapidly out of my control. Going to the supermarket became an all-consuming task, going to work became unimaginable. I lived with a brick on my chest, never being able to fully draw breath. Sleep stopped being restful and became frightening and fraught with questions. I hated being me. I hated waking up. I hated going to sleep. I was afraid to leave the house. I stopped socialising and slowly watched all but a few of my friends drift away. Its not that I didn't care, but more that I couldn't. I was so exhausted from my 24/7 job of worrying for the entire world that I didn't have any energy to pick up the phone or go out for a drink, or I left the house to drink myself into oblivion, thankful for the dutch courage and illusion of friends it provided me with. I started eating a lot and completely stopped exercising. I stopped recognizing any good in myself, then eventually stopped looking at myself all together. While all this was happening I continued to work, and tried to put on a brave face. I became manic, ecstatically happy and enthusiastic out of the house, embarrassed by what I was feeling and what I had become. This was the most horrible time of my life, it was so so hard, but I am lucky to have amazing family and beautiful close friends, a supportive and loving boyfriend. I got help. I saw a doctor, got some medication to immediately help me with my symptoms and help me calm down enough to start working on myself again inside and out. I have been doing this all for about a year now, with setbacks, dramas, tantrums and life all happening in between. But lately, I am feeling good. I am feeling strong. I am ready to set goals and start moving forward with my life. But I am also aware of my limits. I'm not "fixed" when it comes to mental health I don't know if there is ever a "cure" but there are ways to manage various conditions. For me, I don't want this to include lifelong medication, I want it to be about making positive steps towards happiness. That's why I have created a list of goals, with 8 years to achieve them. I can break my goals down into small, manageable pieces to achieve over time. Small, confidence building steps, to help me build my life up into the beautiful shining beacon of positivity that I know it can be. I hope you can come along with me on this journey. Love E x