Yes, I’m going to critique a dead woman’s farewell message.

*** NOTE: These are my PERSONAL feelings/thoughts on the topic. I am entitled to them, you are equally entitled to your own. I’m completely happy for a sharing of ideas, comment or email me all you want. But attacking me for sharing MY thoughts on MY blog, is just going to end up with them being deleted. So that’s a waste of your energy, go do something like eat cake. Cake is awesome. Go eat some cake.

Oh and I think it goes without saying, but I will say it anyway because some people may be concerned: I feel deeply for Holly’s family, I’m still struggling with grief myself and I can only imagine how they are feeling. I am not writing this to attack Holly or to muddy her memory. Simply something that has been on my mind.***

So this farewell note by Holly Butcher has been popping up over the last few days.

Holly lost her battle with Ewing’s Sarcoma on January 4th 2018. She was 27.

27 is too young. Too young to lose a life, because, whatever that decides who dies and who doesn’t*, she was given the heaviest burden.

64 is also too young. My mum was too young when she died. She was too young. Anyone who asks about her and find out she was only 64, every single fucking time ‘wow that’s young’. Yes, it is. Thanks for the reminder.

Now I’m going to critique Holly’s farewell message. She got the chance to write one, not everyone does.

It’s probably best if you go read it for yourself (link above) rather than me reposting it and poking and prodding it.

But to TL:DR it: life is too short. Don’t worry about the little things, enjoy the important things. Great advice sure. But I have a couple issues with some things she said.

‘Random rhetorical question. Are those several hours you spend doing your hair and make up each day or to go out for one night really worth it? I’ve never understood this about females’

Earlier in her letter she touches on not caring about your body not looking perfect and appreciating the body you gave, not desperately trying to attain that which you don’t have. Cool. But then this comment comes up. She talks throughout the piece about being true to yourself and doing what makes you happy. Well, what if that hour I spend doing my makeup and selecting my outfit DOES make me happy? What if it helps me be true to myself? To me, it is worth it. If I look good on the outside 9/10 times I will feel good on the inside. And that other time (the 1/10) is when I’m feeling utter shite but I dress nice because I can help me feel better.

‘Don’t feel pressured to do what other people might think is a fulfilling life.. you might want a mediocre life and that is so


Okay sure. I agree with this statement, for the most part. Except the little bit where it says ‘might want a mediocre life’. Cause that’s saying to me ‘if what you want in life is not the same as other people (say earn a lot of money, own a big house + have a family etc) then THAT’S OKAY but it will mean your life is not as fulfilling. Because it doesn’t look the same as other people’s‘. But the way it’s phrased makes it look like the end bit (in italics) is hidden behind the THAT’S OKAY bit. Like, shouldn’t a person be allowed to live whatever life they desire (so long as no one is being hurt) and it still be just as fulfilling as anyone else? Why does the word ‘mediocre’ even need to come up?

‘Try just enjoying and being in moments rather than capturing them through the screen of your phone. Life isn’t meant to be lived through a screen nor is it about getting the perfect photo.. enjoy the bloody moment, people! Stop trying to capture it for everyone else.’

Okay now this one is really the one I wanted to talk about.

Okay so I have a huge photo library on my phone, computer and an external drive. I have 3 Instagram accounts and 2 Facebook accounts. I take photos multiple times a day. Often the subject matter is different, sometimes the same. Currently I am running my phone battery down so quickly because of the amount of times I take a photo or video. Do you want to know why? Because I need a record. I want to remember.

Bear isn’t going to be around much longer. He has less than a week left. I want as many possible photos or videos or recordings of him that I can possibly get. The chances are high that a portion will be lost because we all know that technology is GREAT but it can also be SHITE sometimes and lose things.

I have photos, voicemails and other images of my Mum for the same reason. I want to remember. I want to remember what her voice sounded like, her laugh. See her smile, remember the way her hands moved.

I am not preserving these events or moments for other people, but for myself. And I share them with others (on any one of my social media platforms) in case they want to remember too. And I don’t see what is wrong with that.

I agree with pretty much all of what Holly wrote: let go of the small things. But there is one last thing I want to address (not a quote just a general theme or her message).

Yes, cancer is beyond terrifying. And to be told at 27 that you’re going to die, I can’t imagine. But she speaks about the small things in life, like not enjoying your job or fights with friends or similar. And while I agree there are things that shouldn’t be even something you worry about. But I don’t want people to feel that their lives and issues/difficulties/concerns/problems, aren’t important purely because they aren’t about ‘serious things’. You can not compare one person’s life to another. Even identical twins. Whatever two people experience are their individual experiences and shouldn’t be invalidated because it doesn’t fit into a specific category.

I don’t want someone to feel that their depression or other mental illness isn’t important because it’s ‘not cancer’.

Certainly I should be ‘grateful’ that I lived to be 28, that I lived beyond the times I almost didn’t, that I don’t have cancer and don’t have a prognosis of months, weeks or days. That, provided I continue the correct treatment, I can expect to live many, many more years. And in a way I am ‘grateful’ for that. But that shouldn’t make my issues and my illnesses – that impact my daily living – of lesser importance, nor should it mean I should just ‘let them go’.

Anyway, those are my thoughts. I’m not going to do the thing that I hate people doing to me (‘sending my condolences’), to Holly’s family. I will say that what you’ve all been through, what Holly went through: it fucking sucks and there is no other way to look at it sometimes. It fucking sucks and I’m sorry.


The news isn’t good

Bear my sunshine, his light is going out.

So Bear is 17yo now, and his heart is working overtime. His dumb, big heart. That silly, stupid heart of his. It’s going to be the end of him.

I’m going to be ‘responsible’ (I’m so tired of people telling me that I have to ‘be responsible’ as his mum/owner. Yes. I know. That doesn’t make it hurt less!) and I am going to make sure he doesn’t suffer. He isn’t in pain at the moment, but the vet said that he doesn’t even have weeks left. And I want to make his last moments with me, and mine with him, as peaceful and pleasant as possible.

It’s expensive though. I’m looking at a minimum of $700 Australian Dollars.

You can’t put a price on love. And there are cheaper options, but I don’t believe this is a situation that I should pick a ‘cheaper option’ merely because it’s cheaper. He deserves the best.

My mum is gone. And now my child is leaving too. My heart isn’t breaking, it’s been obliterated. It no longer exists. And my mind and body seem to be shutting down from fatigue and utter despair.

This must be what losing your mind feels like.

What happens when your heart has been split in two?

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

She was not supposed to go, it was not her time.

She had so much more she was supposed to do.

We were going to go to Venice, she and I. We were going to go and walk the streets made of water, view the art and eat such delicious food.

she had so much more to do. She was so young. She was a miracle in that aspect. A ‘miracle’ is defined as an ‘act that goes against the laws of nature’. Most people argue that all miracles are good things, people living despite the odds against them. When I was at uni and I studied philosophy, I argued that a miracle doesn’t need to be always a good thing. By definition, a miracle could be a parent burying a child. By the laws of nature, a parent must never have to bury a child. But while my Papa was not at my mum’s funeral, the fact remains that he buried his daughter. That goes against the laws of nature. In that aspect, she is a miracle.

I was with her on her last day. She rang me on the Monday, she asked me to go up to her house, she needed my help. I said no, I said ‘go to hospital’ but she said no. Then, later that day, I got a call to say that she had gone into hospital. I could have saved her. If I had gone up when she asked, she might be alive now.

I could have saved her. I failed her. I didn’t do enough. I could have saved her. She might still be with us now if I had gone up sooner. I failed her. I watched her die. I saw her heart fail. And her spirit left her body before my eyes. She died in my arms, and those of my brother. Her bright, bright blue eyes were faded and dark. She looked so ill. She was so tired, I know. And I know that she can finally rest now.

But my heart hurts and I don’t know how it will ever be mended again.

That Mother of Mine


This was a “fairy themed” birthday party of mine. That’s me, next to her.



That mother of mine! She really made a mark, she left part of herself with every person she met, no matter if she was in your life for a moment or a lifetime. She left something behind in everyone. To say she touched hearts, is a huge understatement. She touched souls.

She was more than just my best friend. She was my soulmate and my favourite person in the entire world. As much as she pissed me off, I equally loved her just as much. We were, are, so close. Taken way too soon, but fuck did she fight.

That heart of hers, that huge huge heart. That heart that loved so many, it was her Achilles heel. Her greatest attribute and in the end, the thing that couldn’t keep going anymore.

I love you Ma. You have no idea. Words can’t explain or even begin to describe. No language in the world will ever be able to sufficiently explain my love for you.

Goodbye my love.

Bear-Paw: A Living Legend.

So this post was started ages ago, and sat in my “Drafts” folder for ages. But tomorrow is HIS BIRTHDAY!! And I probably won’t have time to post it tomorrow, so I’m posting it a day early.


Bear-Paw was born at the start of the millennium! His birthday is 12th December 2000. The photo above in the frame is the only photo I have of his first birthday in 2001. It’s from back when digital photos weren’t really a “thing”. Which is why the colours look weird and not terribly clear.

I was 11 when I got him. He was a little baby and was at this pet store my Mum took me to. He was in his little enclosure with his litter-mates and as soon as he saw me, he went nuts! He tried to get through the walls of his enclosure to get to me when I walked away. He was making puppy noises like “HEY! PAY ATTENTION TO ME! OI! YOU!!! COME BACK!!” and I picked him up and that was that.

He has always been a “grey” colour, or what I have later on found out to be “fawn” (apparently it’s actually a pretty rare colouring!). He has very soft fur, which I don’t actually recall, ever shedding in summer. In his older years, he hasn’t gone bald, but certain patches of his fur have thinned out. When he was younger, his little eyebrows were apricot coloured, and he had blue eyes. Since he has aged, he has turned into a “silver fox” (that’s the term for an attractive older gentleman, isn’t it?), his hair has turned white in many places, most notably his eyebrows.


Over the years, Bear has been a “big brother” and helped raise other pets. He raised a King Charles Cavalier named Henry, he is my Mum’s dog. He has been “big brother” to my Mum’s Devon Rex cat, Beatrix. And my sister’s Ragdoll cat, Leonardo. He has most recently become “big brother” to Tiffany, our Tortishell cat, and Levi the Chiweenie.

Both Tiffany and Levi were adopted from a foster group (who in turn rescued her from a pound, she was on death row) and a pound, respectively. Tiffany is about 4yrs and Levi is about 18 months. Both being rescues, came with sensitivities and some issues due to unfair starts to life. Bear is significantly older than both, but they have both been taken under his nose (no wings!) and taught that not all people are cruel, not all people are going to hurt you and you can trust us. You are loved. In the beginning (especially as we don’t know anything about her previous life) Tiffy was very anxious and nervous around Bear. She spent a fair amount of time sitting on top of the kitchen cabinets (highest point in the house) but gradually came to understand what Bear was teaching her.

Levi was a whole other story. He was still a puppy when we got him and we don’t know anything about his past either. He took to Bear like a duck to water! He attached himself like glue. He behaves a bit oddly around Bear sometimes. He will sit on his head (quite literally), grab one of his hind legs (it’s a “play” behaviour) and follows him around. He also won’t eat any meals unless Bear has already started eating, after which Levi will begin eating with Bear (out of the same bowl, they have two but they always eat from the same one) or will wait until Bear is finished and then eat. I don’t know how to change this behaviour, and really it’s not that concerning to me, they both get enough to eat.

Bear has also been able to pass along some duties that have to be performed, such as keeping tabs on me aka following me around the house, now that he has Levi (Tiffy too, but mostly Levi). Which has made him happier and allows him to spend more time as a retired pup, and enjoy the naps that come with that.


His first birthday I made him a little cake in the shape of a teddy bear. It had blue icing and I put the green frog birthday hat on him and he sat very nicely for his photo.

He has always been protective of me. Every time a man came to the house, or anywhere near me, he would go into “protection mode”. Chihuahuas get a bad reputation of being obnoxious, “yappy” and nasty. That couldn’t be further from the truth. He makes friends super easily, just has always been wary of men. The only men that he has ever taken to straight away, are my brothers and my partner, Mr Hippo.

He is an excellent judge of character. He can tell very quickly when meeting someone, if they can be trusted or not. Even women. Once, I was walking him from my house to my mum’s (I was going to work and she looked after him while I was at work back then), and we usually ran into a lovely gentleman who lived in the same area and would be on his way to the bus stop. Bear took to him very quickly, and he always got a pat or back scratch on the mornings we ran into his friend. One day, however, we met a very nasty woman. Normally he doesn’t worry much about women, but if the woman is untrustworthy, he will tell me. He started barking at her and she said in response “Shut up or I’ll kick you!” (I remember the words clearly) at which point I told her to “fuck off and stay away from my dog” and turned and walked as fast as possible away from her. She called after me that she was “only joking”. Oh yes, because animal abuse is hilarious. If she had tried to touch a single hair on his body, she would extremely regret it.


I moved out of home at the beginning of 2010. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to take him with me, I lived in places that weren’t “pet friendly”. I was very unwell during that time, I was misdiagnosed and not being treated with the correct therapy or medication. So I was pretty sick. I don’t know if having Bear with me would have made a difference, I like to think it would have, but I don’t know and I would have never have forgiven myself if any harm came to him out of my poor decisions and judgements at the time (I would NEVER hurt him or any animal EVER. But there were times that may have resulted in possible indirect harm coming to him). So from 2010-2012 (I think?) the places I lived were not appropriate for him to live with me. But then I decided I needed him to live with me and would not accept any compromises.


Bear never had any health issues until he turned about 11/12? He started developing a huge cataract in one eye, it came on rather quickly, it fully developed within a year. I was in MAJOR denial over it for so long! And it’s a “complete cataract”, which basically means it covers his entire pupil, iris, retina, the entire exposed area of his eye. He has ZER0 sight in that eye. There is a surgery, that can remove the cataract and potentially restore sight to the eye, but only if the retina is intact. Which won’t be known until after the surgery is performed. It’s a costly surgery, fairly invasive (think about it, you’re operating on an EYEBALL. I’ve seen the surgery performed on a seal in a nature preserve. It’s very interesting, especially as the cataract itself isn’t “flat” like it appears. It’s actually a sphere-looking mass when removed from the eye) and considering his age, most vets will not advise such a surgery to be performed on an animal due to the sedation required and the effect on the heart it may have. It is a very expensive surgery and if his retina is not intact, then he wouldn’t regain any sight.

Screen Shot 2017-02-20 at 1.42.04 pm

Check out his freaky cataract!

His cataract makes him look like he is permanently giving everyone the “stink eye” 😛

The “full” cataract is in his “right eye”; which is on the left in the picture above. The “newer” cataract is in his “left eye”; on the right in the above photo.

Slowly, he developed a cataract in the other eye. It’s not quite as “complete”, the vet has a belief that as the “newer” cataract doesn’t fully cover the exposed side of his eye, there is a slight gap between the cataract and the edge of his eye, that when the light is low and his pupil dilates, he may have a small amount of sight, due to the pupil enlarging around the cataract. And possibly can see some shapes, but ultimately he is pretty much blind. I think he would make a fabulous pirate.


He has a number of other health concerns, nothing overly surprising for a dog of his age. And it’s when people hear these issues and his age, that they produce a mental image of a frail, sickly “two feet in the grave” (because he has four feet) dog who is suffering. He is far far from that. Certainly he is old, and he looks old, but he still has a heap of personality!

He has Cushing’s Disease (which the vet has explained is fine to leave “untreated”, even in humans. Especially considering his age), chronic “bronchitis” (well, it was diagnosed as “bronchitis” but that was quite awhile ago and it’s more just a persistent cough now), a leaky heart valve and a heart murmur (reason for not having any procedures requiring any kind of general anesthetic or heavy sedation. Once a person develops a heart murmur, it kind of can’t be “cured”), due to the time he was born (start of the new millennium! I just love saying that!) things like “microchipping” and “pet dental health” weren’t important. As a result, he has very bad teeth, and what I refer to as “death breath”. He has plaque all over his teeth, the vet can perform a descale/clean of his teeth, but that requires heavy sedation and very unsafe in a dog of his age with heart problems. He still has most of his teeth though! And can chew the most surprising foods.

Because of his sight problems, he bumps into a lot of things. But not hard, he has never had any concussions or any other form of injuries to his head. But we have to make sure that the glass back door isn’t closed or he WILL walk into it. We have a very tall bed frame (it’s to help my chronic pain) and he sleeps on the bed with us at night (and during the day if I or Mr Hippo is napping), and there have been a few times that he has … well I don’t know if it’s “fall” or “jump”. Anyway, a couple times we haven’t been able to stop him falling/jumping off the bed, and one very bad time he knocked out a tooth and had to have a second removed. I was completely beside myself.


Recently, I made friends with a lovely woman who has a dachshund named Eddy. Eddy came over for a “play date” with Bear and Levi. Mostly, it was for Levi. But to both of our complete surprise, Bear got into the game too!


Eddy and Bear!

It was lovely to see Bear enjoying himself again. And Eddy was such a lovely friend to meet!

Bear enjoys spending most of his time napping. I made him a blanket, with soft baby flannel (pictured above, it’s the one with the pink and white spot fabric).


Tomorrow is Bear’s official 17th Birthday. I will be getting a tattoo to honour him, and to honour his place in my life and in my heart. I don’t know how much longer he will be a part of our lives (hopefully forever!) but I am going to enjoy every single possible moment. And if he has another 10yrs (there have been accounts of dogs living past 20!) or only another 10 months with us, I will have him with me forever on my skin, and forever in my heart.

I love you Bear-Paw.
You are my love, my life, my soulmate and my best friend.

Whenever I bath him, I sing to him. “Our song” is actually a lot sadder than I realised when I started singing it to him years ago. Our song is, You Are My Sunshine (preferred version is by Johnny Cash).

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away


It didn’t happen/it’s my fault.

*** Potential Trigger Warning. I’m not going into graphic details, but this does contain discussion of sexual assault and the word ‘suicide’. ***

If I build a wall, it will keep them out.

If I block it out, it didn’t happen.

If I close my eyes, it’s not real.

Recently, ‘eccentric’ musician Melanie Martinez has been accused of raping her former ‘best friend’ and fellow musician (I feel I need to add ‘female’ here as well) Timothy Heller. I say ‘accused’ because the claims have not (at the time of this post) been substantiated and while I am not taking sides nor saying whom is the ‘victim’, I am also unable to say who is telling the truth, because I was not there. And sadly this will probably never be fully concluded and will probably remain a ‘she said/she said’ situation and will leave a lasting stain on both person’s reputations. We may never know who is telling the truth and what really happened. Which saddens me greatly.

I am not going to link or otherwise display the account of the incident Timothy Heller has published, this post isn’t so much about what happened between them but more how it has effected myself (this is my blog, I write what I need to. And I need to write this), and so if you really really want to know what the allegations are, word for bloody word, google is easily accessed.

I read the account of the assault written by Timothy Heller about two nights ago. It has hurt me deeply. For a few reasons (in no particular order). Firstly, it accuses a musician I am a fan of (Melanie Martinez) of one of the worst things I believe a person can ever do to someone else: rape and sexual assault. It also highlights that most often, rape and sexual perpetrators are known to the victim in one form or other; in this case, close friends (in others, family members, family friends, school or uni teachers, other trusted society figures etc). It exposes the fact that a woman can be a victim of rape or sexual assault, and a woman can also be the perpetrator. A woman can rape a woman. Lastly, it triggered memories of a similar situation that happened to me.

In 2010 I was 21. I was very unwell. My mental illness would not be properly diagnosed for another 7yrs, I had the very first memory of my childhood sexual trauma surface, and because no one could explain to me why I was feeling and experiencing the things I was, I did not know how to handle them, and turned to external methods to cope (self destructive methods).

I had left a social group that I’d been part of since I was 18. It became too stressful and too hard to keep going with work and uni, I found friendships (I know now that most of them were pretty toxic relationships) too hard to maintain, unless they were equally destructive.

I had a best friend. A male best friend. He was from this social group, and we remained close even after I left it. He went to the same uni that I did (not to study) and didn’t live far from my apartment. His then girlfriend also worked at the uni I went to, and she was not happy about him and myself being friends. I thought then she was suspicious of me, and that I would do something (I was not, never was, interested in him that way. To be honest, when we first met, I thought he was gay) to threaten their relationship. I have now realised, it was more concern that he would do something. And, she was right.

This person, will refer to him as A, and I became very close. He knew I was ‘going through something’, he saw the ways I was self destructing, and he took advantage of that.

We spent time at each other’s homes, shared meals and watched movies. Both enjoyed books and would swap certain books between each other. We spent time together as friends, I never saw him as anything more than a good friend. I never wanted anything more from him, than a good friend. And I thought he felt the same. He told me his girlfriend was ‘jealous’ of me and ‘didn’t trust me’. And that upset me because I was no threat to her. I was no threat, but there was a threat. I tried to become friends with her too, but it didn’t work out.

One day A texted me to say his girlfriend was going to be away for a few days and he was ‘lonely’ and would I come stay the night, we would have pizza and watch very bad B-grade horror movies (‘Soylent Green’ was one of them). So I said okay sure.

The evening progressed as expected, bad B-grade horror movies (I think one had a woman who became an insect because of the cosmetics she was using) and good pizza. Eventually it got late, and we decided it was time to go to sleep.

I can’t say the exact details of what happened next. It’s not because I don’t want to trigger anyone or don’t want to ‘tarnish’ this person’s name or reputation, it’s because I can’t say what happened. Not right now. It’s too raw. Too soon.

I haven’t ever actually told this incident to anyone. Not properly. I used to dismiss it as just ‘something stupid’ and ‘no big deal’, and also felt that somehow it was my fault. But it is a big deal. It’s important and it is not my fault.

The ‘short version’ of the assault (I will call it what it really is. Assault.) is that I was not in a clear, rational mind and was highly complacent and suggestive. This is why I feel/felt it was somehow my fault because I ‘let it happen’. But if you are ill, on the incorrect treatment regime and doing stupid self destructive things to deal with both those things, you are not in a rational mind and consent cannot be given.

I did not consent. I ‘went along with it’ because I simply did not care what happened to me anymore. I felt nothing for myself, nothing but hatred and loathing. So what if someone I cared about took advantage of me? It didn’t matter! I didn’t matter!

But that is what happened. I was unable to consent, due to not being ‘of sound mind’ and someone I cared about took advantage of that.

I am thankful, that somehow I was able to prevent the situation escalating beyond what it did. What happened is wrong, there is no excuse for what he did. But somehow I was able to stop the assault from reaching a certain point.

However, I was still in a vulnerable position. I still had to sleep at this person’s house, I still had to see him in the morning. And unfortunately, he did the same thing the next day. Again, I was able to prevent it going beyond a certain point. I don’t really know how. I was still not of sound nor rational mind, and unable to give consent. I was taken advantage of, I was assaulted. Twice in 24hrs, by the same person.

In my mind however, the only way I saw it was ‘A is trying to use me to cheat on his girlfriend’. I saw it as something external to myself, I was not a person nor a human in the situation, I was an object.

And after that, I went very far downward. I spiralled out of control, and attempted suicide, and I only narrowly escaped with my life.

I couldn’t understand. I didn’t understand why someone I cared about would do that. I had already experienced the same behaviour in my childhood, and I know that what happened then was wrong and not my fault. But I blamed it on the perpetrator, that he was just ‘the devil’ and filed it away as him simply being a bad person who did not care or love me, and he has some fault in his soul. When it happened again, by someone who said things like ‘I wish you wouldn’t do this. You’re too beautiful to be hurting yourself’ when seeing the new and consistently expanding scars and self inflicted injuries, I was unprepared. This person was supposed to care about me. How could someone who cares about you, treat you like that?

I couldn’t make sense of it.

I’ve been told that while I was in the hospital, my brother (whom I was living with at the time) had found my phone, read a text message I had sent to a (former) friend, detailing the assault, found the phone number in my contacts for the scumbag assailant, then found the phone number for scumbag’s girlfriend. He then rang A, and made it clear he was to leave me alone, or he would call A’s girlfriend and tell her what he had done to me (aka: would completely and totally ruin his life). I believe there were some choice profanities involved too. Big brothers may not always show they care, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care.

After that, scumbag did leave me alone. I wanted to tell his girlfriend what had happened, because I wanted her to know that I was not a threat, that she needed to see him for his true self. But I decided not to. Partly I think, because I didn’t want to admit to anyone what had happened. Because then I would have to deal with it. And I wasn’t ready.

I found out many years later, that this was not actually an unusual behaviour of A’s. He had done similar things before. I don’t know if those other situations were assaults or consensual. What I do know is that he is a serial cheater. And I would have been the next notch in the bedpost. That made me feel even more like it was my fault.

After about a year from my brother’s ‘conversation’ with him, A called me. I avoided it. And wrote in his contact in my phone ‘DO NOT ANSWER’. Every so often, about every six months, A would send me a message of some kind. A text or late night phone call (‘DO NOT ANSWER‘). As kind of a reminder, maybe to torment me, I don’t know.

The saddest thing is that even after he gave up tormenting me, he did not stop hurting people. And I hope that one day he realises what he is, and how many people he has harmed.

When I’ve spoken about my trauma, I speak only about my childhood trauma. It’s only been recently that I have identified there have been other times where I have been assaulted or otherwise violated. And that makes me question my life even further.

Friends can assault friends. Just because someone says they love you, doesn’t mean you are safe.

I wish this were not so, I wish this did not happen to anyone. But it must be spoken of. Truth must come out. Scumbags cannot get away with their crimes. Even if A never sees punishment for his crimes, I hope that stories like my own and others (like the ‘Heller v. Martinez’ case, even though I am telling the truth, if you were to ask A, he would probably deny everything. ‘She said/he said’) he’ll highlight that no one is immune to this, not friends, family, strangers. Men, women, anyone can be a victim or a perpetrator.

Be kind to each other. Please.

Associated Dysfunction

fullsizeoutput_ed2“I never dreamed, I’d lose somebody like you”
– “Wicked Game”, Wolf Alice

What do you do when it all feels like it’s coming undone? Where is the “factory reset” button for your life? How do you completely erase someone from your life, because they no longer exist in the way they once did, without finding little things here and there (in that box over there, under that book here) that are little fucked up “HEY THIS PERSON IS NOW A GHOST” messages and signposts.

I like to think I am a ragdoll. I was torn apart. But then (by my own hands and those of others) I was sewn back together. Some would think that I would then be weaker, because I am not completely whole anymore, but I think it makes me even stronger. And to be strong in a world of people pushing you (left, right,) bumping into you like goddamned bumper cars at a fucked-up-carnival, not caring who they hit while they plough through life, leaving a wreck in their wake. Always with the thoughts (and well intentioned advice), “it’s their loss” trying to make sense of the senseless.

It’s a special kind of death. That of an alive person emotionally die. The pain is just as real, as intense, as fierce, as that of an actual physical death. But the thing is, you have no memorial service. No funeral. No friends or loved ones to hold while you both mourn the loss of a shared person. No. When it’s a personal death, it’s lonely. You may have been the murderer, or perhaps it was an accident. Maybe it was suicide. Whatever the cause, it’s alone. And alone you must face the aftermath. Alone you must face the friends you can’t visit because they might be there. Alone you must face the unsent letters, and the ones received. You must process the emotions of a person who is still alive and breathing, but whom you can never ever speak to or see again. And it hurts.

Self inflicted isolation. Hell of your own creation. You start to float in a sea of confusion. A sea of hate, fear, pain, despair. You try to understand why, what happened. But the conclusion is usually the same; it wasn’t meant to be. Or at least, that’s what you file it under in your invisible fileofax of lost relationships. Which seems to get bigger with every passing day.

I’ve recently lost relationships. I lost one by choice, I lost one not by choice, and others haven’t been alive for a long time but I just kidded myself into thinking they were. Even though some were by my hand, it still kills me. I literally have this box. A box I put everything that reminds me, is related to, or is from, a person who is dead. And I put the box away. It sits in the wardrobe, “out of sight, out of mind”. But the people are never really gone from my mind. I may never speak to them ever again, I may never see them ever again. But they aren’t completely gone from my life. Everyone leaves a mark. It may be a pretty flower, or an ugly scar. Everyone leaves a mark on your soul. And those that are parts of your soul, those that died, it’s like nothing you can ever explain.

There is no coffin.
There is no funeral.
There is no memorial.
There is no official end to these relationships.
And that makes it even harder.

Stuck between, unable to let go & wanting to completely erase.





What do you call it when your soul is tired?

I am beyond tired. I can’t explain how fatigued I am. But frustratingly even if I sleep, I never feel refreshed. And daytime sleeping is just out of the question, I’m tired but I just can’t sleep.

I am fairly certain, and my GP concurs, that I have CFS/ME (‘Chronic Fatigue Syndrome’ or ‘Myalgic Encephalomyelitis’) and have done for awhile. But that’s just another diagnosis to add to my list, it doesn’t help much to be able to say that. I get to blame my fatigue on it though, instead of just being ‘out of shape’ or ‘unfit’ or ‘lazy’. Though I still feel those things.

I am not making sense I am so tired.