Saturday, 5 December 2009

I'm Not Alone?

Lots of things to write but I'll go with what the blog is meant to be about.


It felt like I had been swallowing liquefied lead when I crawled into the little house in the woods yesterday evening. Hot lead that cooled in my chest and solidified in my gut. Heavy and cold.

Her words were bars of golden light that I allowed to my hands to touch, even to hold and bring to my lips.
And in that trembling daring, the light I think, sort of met me in a deeper place and in my chest at least, has dissipated some of the darkness.

I dared.
I must remember that when I dare, it pays off.

I wanted to leave some of the gold here. A reminder of what it could be if I can just lower the fence a little. And it occurs to me as I type, perhaps I don't even need to take the fence down. Maybe I just need to hop over it for very small amounts of time.
Kind of like the process of desensitising.

I can't remember big chunks of what was said in the session but what I do remember is her saying that I was a battleground and that it wasn't my fault.
Is it really not?
I challenged her. "I must be choosing this. I must be".
The parts of you are not communicating as they should be.
You have become the punitive adult. It has become you.

How do I stop it?

We are working with that now.
WE are.
WE will do this together.

I can't really remember ever feeling anything but alone. Not because my parents didn't try to calm my fears. Not because I couldn't ever tell anyone how frightened I was. Just because I have always felt that nobody can ever really be there or understand.
I have never thought that 'we' was... Well... 'We' has never been. Not for any dramatic reason. Just because nobody could be there.

I gave her the What Ifs.
I told her she would never be there.
I was thinking of the nights in pain, the moments where I hold the blade, the lonely, head curling times where I am frozen.

I dared to tell her she would never be enough.
I think I thought she would back away.

She told me she would be there. Even if it meant more sessions during the week. She said she wouldn't leave me and would try, to the best of her ability, not to let me down.
But, she said, it relies a lot on trusting me.

I'm not good with trust.

No. You're not but that's because for whatever reason, nobody has been able to be there and cope with the pain.


Last night I struggled with her. Not in her house but in my head. Hmm... Yes. Crazy indeed.
I continued arguing long after I left.
But I was fighting with golden light which had already, somehow, seeped in.

This morning, for the first time ever, I feel like perhaps, if I was going to take a risk... maybe it would be WE and not just I.

I feel scared by what I just typed. Scared that I have allowed words to fall out and when I 'come round' to logic, I'll want to stuff them back in.


I'm trying to take some risks.
Staying safe hasn't been working out too well.


  1. One of the many paradoxes of life - that the smallest and quietest of events are usually the most significant.

  2. Hi-
    Oh my - so brave. I am right here. Your words of what and how are glorious and so well written - I follow your intent in living color -

    love to you

  3. You have an award on arise 2 write.
    Blessings, andrea

  4. Dear one, thank you for your honesty and bravery! Blessings.....

  5. Risking that you will shiver at my words, but I am so thrilled that you have allowed yourself to feel a bit of warmth. There is much strength in numbers . . . and "we" is capable of amazing things. Seems knowing that "should" make that "trust" thing easier . . . but I know that is not the case . . . . . as always, I admire your courage to step deeper into the "battlefield" despite the "war" wounds that are still causing you such great pain . . . . and I beg the Gods that you can hold on to the "awareness" that you are, indeed, not alone . . . . and want you to know that you can count me in as an "enlisted soldier" that you may utilize whenever you need . . . . it is such an honor . . . . . .

    Much love to you . . .


  6. I think you're incredible and very very brave. Taking a risk is scary - it took me a long time but not taking the risk is worse - it always leaving you feeling empty, alone. Stay strong ok, and safe. Sarah

  7. And as I let the golden light touch my logic then my logic slowly becomes illogical. And as that happens I can draw closer to that light. I'm glad you left some of the gold here. I see courage in what you have written.