What is wrong with you?
You spend your life manipulating the fabric of us,
Teasing our strings until we are stretched,
Strung out so tight we may snap at any minute;
Picking holes in our reluctant defences
And fraying the very seams which connect us.
Spoken words are glaring and sticky,
With no canvas base for testing.
Emotions are not linear or following a pattern,
But a framed mess of jaunty angles;
Haywire, impossible, jostling,
All competing for human attention,
The room in my head not enough –
A dissatisfactory stage for their being.
Today I feel fragile and all my thoughts are tinged with guilt for letting myself feel so on edge and breakable. I am angry at myself for not being better, not being indestructible or able to rise above the white noise. Objectively, I know that I am setting my standards for myself way too high, almost like I want to have a reason to criticise and berate myself. Maybe this is what enduring a manipulative relationship leads to; the more time you spend being made to feel unworthy, the more you want to punish yourself for being so unlovable. In reality, I know these things, these judgements which are made about me are untrue and that I have pacified these waves of self-hatred which a toxic relationship has stirred-up before. I just need to find the courage to do so again. In the mean time, I will continue writing out my feelings to make sense of what I am going through and how I am growing as a person. I am sure that in the not too distant future, I will write more about this situation, to help educate others about the emotional torment of feeling trapped by a manipulative figure in your life. For now though, I will leave resources below for anyone who is being affected by this problem at the moment, as well as a promise to you that you are not alone.
NHS resources for cases of abuse
The Samaritans’ helpline and email address
Resources from Mind, the mental health charity
Expectation provokes me to look forward,
Tempts me into securing hasty predictions,
Formulating detailed imagined realities,
Of which all scare me from stepping
Forwards, out; beginning or choosing,
Every breath inhabits new weight,
Harmless ideas prick my unstable heart.
Then, the hurt becomes so real,
My imagined future already so vivid,
I may as well have taken the plunge,
Stopped ruminating on cycles of it
And simply leapt off of the cusp of possibility.
Recently, I came across an article on Mind, the mental health charity’s, website which spoke about the mental health benefits of mindfulness. It’s message about acknowledging your thought patterns and asking yourself why you feel that way rather than running away from your feelings because you are ashamed, confused or embarrassed was profound and related to so many things which I have been experiencing lately.
Mindfulness is about treating yourself with compassion, accepting your current mental state without berating yourself for how you feel and taking control of how you react to your thoughts and emotions. Sometimes, mindfulness can be portrayed as a very vague idea which appears incompatible with your life but once you look into the principals and roots of mindfulness, you might just realise that it speaks to you much more than you initially expected.
If you are interested, you can read the article by clicking on this link:
About Mindfulness | Mind, the mental health charity
When did we stop –
Telling our location from the trees?
The sky, now, is pixellated,
Distorted through the lens of a window,
And now I am scared to go outside.
Leaves are swept away,
Dirty inconvenience out of sight,
Childhood fun out of mind,
We sleep through the birds’ call,
Then ignore the disappearing hours.
I used to love the stars in the sky,
Now they are choked by wires,
And aerials reach-up, further conquering.
If the night sky was no longer,
Who would look through pollution
And wonder, where our kin had gone,
Or if we will be next to disappear under?
Food for thought and what has provoked this poem:
Each car in London costs NHS and society £8,000 due to air pollution
Our natural world is disappearing before our eyes by George Monbiot
With no open tunnel
Towards the mind or the heart,
The mist of inspiration
Drifts, drifts sullenly along,
Passes by unreceptive lives,
Curls hopefully around
A heart hurt with longing;
Broken streams of mysticism
Cast shadows along dreamt stories.
Through the eyes of my animals,
I see constellations, not flowers,
Vast fields of jewels in the sky,
Not an opaque glass ceiling,
My animals see beauty and life
Where before I just saw home.
Excitement is a life force in their eyes;
A sparkle betraying the fire of curiosity,
Underneath this lies the loving flutter
Of hearts set on adventure and discovery,
To them no walk is just a walk.
Love shines through them,
From the patter of their paws at a run,
To their heavy panting of anticipation,
Everyday is the beginning of a new story;
Opportunity in the enchantment of their world.
My anxiety to be likeable –
It seems ironic to me –
I’m an fear-ridden introvert,
Yet I base my worth on praise
And people’s eye contact,
Whether they whisper about me
Or consider me favourably.
It is when the pen is flowing,
The soft resistance of paper –
Teasing but yielding at your touch –
Is crazingly addictive.
When your hand tingles,
Fingertips itching to pour out your brain;
The satisfaction burns warm,
Glowing from your chest to flutter the heart.
This is the moment you come back to,
Where it seems insane that you would not turn,
Spin graspingly for your pen,
Regardless of time, day or pain
Because this is what you are:
The addiction you were born to submit to.
I want to live within magic;
A world poured out of a bewildered brain,
A bottomless pool of novelty,
Where everything is enchanted
But nothing is the same.
My dream; to step onto a path, not a street,
Nobody to reveal gritty reality,
An unspoken absence of terrified grins
Or over-probing eyes,
To fuel the rediscovery of personal space.
A magical world where a life is one’s own;
An earth not abuzz with static electricity
But built upon the fabric of adventure.
“Words are, in my not so humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic” – Albus Dumbledore
There is no colour to survival;
Plain existence only works in greys
As we are sucked down to basic endurance,
Withdrawn from the frivolous
And shrunk by the beauty,
The land killing and feeding us
Both by equal measure.
When our heart only beats-
Pounds like a drilling or drum-
We shrivel to the outline of a drawing,
Two-dimensional, graphite lines,
And our blood circles wearily.
Living is a different matter;
A contrast to survival, existence
More than duty-bound breathing.
Living is a colourful experience,
A sensory expedition to the brink,
The cherishing of the merry and the silly
With a rejoicing in the unknown;
The unfamiliar in ourselves and the Earth-