Unprecedented.

So. The country is on lockdown, and most of us are working from home as and where we can and company foundations are rippling under the weight of decision and responsibility. Dogs and children are merrily bursting in on conference calls without a care in the world, many of my neighbours have teddy bears in their windows for the children to spot and every thursday the majority of the country lean out of our windows and clap like fuck for the NHS heroes among us (one of which is my amazing little sister, big up to the Junior Doctors). Most of us are even (secretly) cheering on our buffoon of a Prime Minister, sending him well wishes in our mind as he fights against the green haze of virus that is so unrelentingly consuming our world at the moment.

Everywhere you look you see rainbows: some painted by children, some printed off from a random Google search, some coloured in by sequestered adults. The bright cerulean blue of the NHS logo beams out from the most unlikely places as a beacon of hope, like the crystal blue water at the epicentre of an otherwise muddy lagoon.

Our communities have never been so united, whilst at the same time so isolated. It’s more than a little bit ironic; a true oxymoron.

The message is simple: the yellow of ‘Stay at home’, the blue ‘Protect the NHS’ and the red of ‘Save lives’. Three small directives.

Those who cannot follow those rules deserve to be strung up. Their irresponsibilty is making it harder for the rest of us, not to mention making this entire process that much more painful.

Social distancing has proven itself to be the most effective solution to minimise and manage the fatality and infection rates of a pandemic such as this. Only this morning we’ve seen the successful reinstatement of Wuhan’s liberty, marked with an outstanding light show and parties in the street. I’m holding my breath in anticipation, praying to an invisible being of some description that now the root of the pandemic seems to be under control, the restoration of our life and liberty won’t be too far in the future now.

We can but hope.

Soul Stones.

Two halves of a whole. Throw us onto the ground together and we glow, shift, and find a way to fit together perfectly… unbreakable.

Or so we thought.

We’re a little bit shattered at the moment. Spiky, sharp edges, filled with the weight of silence and fear. Our corners are jagged. Though the pieces between us will never be irretrievable or unfixable, because somehow we always find our way back; there is an invisible thread between us, tried and tested well over the years. It’s been pulled tight before, so thin that it’s almost see-through, the grain in the fabric so opaque you’d almost swear there was nothing there.

But there is always something there.

There always will be.

It just doesn’t quite feel like it at the moment.

Her Miss Honey to my Matilda, my Grace to her Will; L and B. Facing the shit of life together, in each other’s pockets until the end.

I know she’ll find her way back eventually, and although this might come across as bitter, I promise you that it isn’t. We wiped the slate completely clean well over a year ago, unwittingly slipping straight back into our old ways of communicating, thinking and instinctively understanding without explanation. Since then it’s felt like at least some of the shards of my life have fallen into a place where they’re settled. They’re in the holes that fit. The puzzle pieces are together.

For whatever reason or purpose, we are supposed to be in each other’s lives. We both occasionally fight that, kicking and screaming at the strands of fate that keep us together. I think I know where this kicking and screaming silence has come from. Wives don’t tend to approve of best friend Exes, especially when they’ve no real concept of who they are or where they’ve sprung from. She has no idea what we’ve been through together, and what we’ve faced. We’ve been to hell and back, once sat in the handbasket and once clinging on for dear life to the fucking back of it, the flames licking our toes.

We know the dark, my darling. And I’ll be right here waiting on the edge of it. Just as I always promised.

Time after Time.

Sometimes you have to throw all the adult responsibilities away and let your heart cry out loud to someone else’s melody.

When the visceral pain and lack of understanding flowing through that one central organ unusually matches the pain in your bones…

When you can’t see the right for the wrong, and when you’re sick and tired of trying.

That’s when you have to surrender; or, at least, die trying.

Echolalia.

Her voice calms me.

I can’t really quantify why.

It’s a low rumble of a sound; melodic sometimes, yet still comprised of E’s and G’s and B flats. It swings on a dial, twisting higher when she laughs and then sliding right back down to emote the important, more serious tone our conversations so often call for.

Tired sometimes, crackly and throaty, but always with the undercurrent of care and affection reserved for those who somehow, completely unnoticed, have slipped beyond the self-imposed barrier into her heart and her mind. Only a precious few get to set up a home there. I am one of the lucky ones.

Loud, almost obnoxious guffaws, and the bursts of gentle laughter that bring to mind some sort of gangly, gleeful donkey. The fire that can spread from her words right up into her eyes, without a single moment’s notice.

Sounds of pure, unadulterated joy. Of happiness. Of self containment, and calm. Of finding everything you need right there, within yourself.

It fills those difficult, lost times in between, twisting in a consistent, constant spiral from ear to ear; left to right, no middle balance, no central mix. Fluid; never static. But always right there, as a pillar of calm and reserved dignity. Always something I know I can fall back on, some permanence and strength within this life that is so often full of impermanence.

I can recall it at will, with various phrases and words burned as deeply as if they were branded. A few have woven themselves intrinsically into my thought processes; those are the precious ones. She leaves captivating waveforms, seemingly innocuous line drawings that are in fact full of words that are indecipherable to anyone but me. A secret; shared.

Safety, in sound.

A precious, precious thing.

Asking For It.

I have long been taught that asking for things is cheeky and wrong.

Don’t speak up; stay quiet. “Children should be seen and not heard.”

The ethos of my childhood.

Always being told to “shut up”, to “be quieter”, not to cause fuss.

Thus, my ethos as an adult has naturally formed into one of moving through life quietly. This doesn’t pose a problem most of the time, and I’ve come to realise it is probably just part of my personality. It’s not an element I’m opposed to, to be honest – my mother is so loud, both verbally and in terms of physical and emotional presence, that quiet is naturally something I aim to be in all aspects of my life.

If I look at things honestly, I’ve spent my entire life making sure at every step that I am truly being and outwardly representing the polar opposite of both of my parents’ major personality and behavioural aspects. Many of us take that road in life, whether it’s a conscious decision or not.

Most people naturally become the opposite of what damages them. The harmful things are those you do not want to represent or replicate, in yourself or to other people. I am inherently comfortable with that, and it is both a witting, fully thought out decision and natural instinct.

Spread love, not hate, right?

But when that silence becomes harmful, you have to find your bollocks. Pull up the big girl socks, stick on the heavy boots of armour to protect yourself and stomp all over that intrinsic, pre-learned behaviour.

Stick up for yourself. No other fucker will do it for you. Shout, kick, scream; do it all, within reason.

Protect yourself. Make yourself heard. Be loud.

Past Participles.

Someone from my past appeared today, very unexpectedly.

Someone who knows my deepest, darkest secrets, and someone I thought would always be by my side in a mother’s role, to share in life’s ups and downs.

She’s saved that life more than once, actually: genuinely, medically saved it. You never forget your nurse training. Or your Samaritans training, it would seem.

So many nights spent on her sofa. Free run of the house and instantly assumed protective guardian status given freely for more than a month, without a second thought, when I had my last hideous breakdown. Arms, opened.

So many laughing days spent being an unofficial PA and agent. So many book stands set up and manned, peddling her wares all over our little corner of South Wales.

So many nights spent fighting over pantomime and spring show inclusions. So many notes sung, words written; feelings expressed. A life, shared.

So much trust. That we both compromised, in a way, though I doubt she sees it that way.

I still carry incredible hurt and incredible guilt as to how I drifted away from the household arms; it haunts me, everyday. I fear running into any of them, even though my retreat was justified.

It doesn’t mean I don’t miss them though. Or miss what I brought to their lives, or them to mine.

Life is hard sometimes.

Danger

Head spaces are dangerous places to be stuck in sometimes. Even positive ones can becoming wearing; to you, and to those around you. Not everything in life can be made upbeat or be tied up in a nice yellow ribbon of positive connotation to make it all appear yellow-brick-road-wonderful and Technicolor again.

On occasion, things will happen in life that are just not ok and, no matter how much time has passed in between then and now, they never will be. Things change you. It’s inevitable and that, in itself, is ok. Sometimes all you can do is just breathe… but sometimes even that is too much.

The past few days have been some of the most “too much” I have ever, ever felt.

As we know, my GP is a pretty good example of an upstanding, approachable family doctor; if a little boneless on occasion. But with the important things she is always, without fail, my wingwoman… when I allow it. It takes a lot for me to balance myself safely on that sheer level of trust. On Monday she was faced with a shaking leaf of a human, curled into a tight, vulnerable ball on her examination couch, and I had no choice at that point but to let her be that wingwoman. Her ability to take the unspoken, process the physical and semi-verbal cues correctly, adapt what she was doing accordingly and to be an attentive, supporting presence all at the same time is nothing short of astounding; she handled the entire sorry mess I melted into with patience, calm and gentle kindness. She found a pathway through the haze of hideous black swirling dust that ends up sweeping through me; the one that steals my words, my control, my dignity and my ability to move voluntarily. Her outstretched palm kept the cloud back, and her soft voice cut through clearly. She made me hear her.

No one has been able to do that before. And no one has ever handled a flying donkey kick with such amusement and aplomb… A simple reflexive action of her own to avoid the flailing limb, a wry smile and a muttered, “oh, love you.” was the only fallout.

Sometimes I think that woman deserves a bloody medal.

However, that cloud of dust hasn’t left me since, and I think I need to find a way to address that. Panic, heightened startle responses, anxiety – all those things are part and parcel of revisiting this particular crumpled t-shirt of a trauma for me, and those are the things I can deal with. They are expected.

The sadness that essentially aches? Being constantly on the edge of tears? Physical pain, and flashbacks? These aren’t my usual reactions, and I don’t know what to do with them. I am at a loss as to how to handle them. My logical brain knows that it’s all to do with the re-processing, and the fact that unwanted experiences that weren’t even initially processed have been hauled, kicking and screaming, to the front of my mind. But that doesn’t make the realities or the repercussions go away, or make them any easier to deal with.

Perhaps it’s time for that creased up, crumpled trauma clothing to be laundered, once and for all instead of being perpetually shoved to the back of  the cupboard floor every time it falls forward.

Maybe. Who knows. At the moment it’s all about getting through the next hour.

Paint it Black.

I am an island.

A place that plenty visit, but where few stay.

I am the illicit getaway, the seedy by-the-hour hotel usually found on the Las Vegas strip. The place you take your mistress; not your wife.

Off-white sheets from too many washes with a lone dark sock, the fingerprints on an ostensibly clean glass.

The dustball that hides behind the bed valance; the spider between the sheets.

The screams coming from a neighbouring room; the low rumble of negativity and fire.

I am the black widow. Forever on the sidelines, waiting to jump out and crush you between my tiny pincers when you are least expecting it. Ready to screw you; up, then over, and then I’ll leave you for dead.

Doesn’t feel so nice when the shoe is on the other foot, does it?

Gnawing.

When you think about it, many things are capable of gnawing at you. Be it body or soul, physicality or emotion; there’s always a way for something to be broken down, oftentimes without your consent.

Self esteem. That can certainly be worn away. Mine has been unequivocally banished to a long lost, hidden part of the world’s map, never to be seen again. Guilt can wear you down. Worry can do much the same, of a fashion. Self hatred. Anxiety…. The list is never ending.

The cruellest, I find, is loneliness. That one most definitely gnaws; as does isolation. It sinks its razor-sharp teeth into your bones, stripping them of their fat and sinewy covering and leaving you raw and exposed. There’s just enough degradation to incite humiliation as ironically, it is that which isolates you that also leaves you open. It takes away your protective layer; or, rather, the comforting layer of thread spun from the presence of those around you. Those who love and care with abandon; those infinite links the world mercifully throws us every now and then. Your People.

Sisters who are as strong and supportive as they are beautiful, and a rapidly growing little nephew whose eyes and smile stream sunlight and joy.

A tiny, handpicked, wild bouquet of friends who would go to the ends of the earth with and for me, no questions asked. Christina’s to my Meredith; Grace’s to my Will.

Dogs.

Colleagues who, despite driving me to distraction most days, I love like family. More so, in fact; fiercely, whole heartedly and with my entire being. That love is returned in spades and proven over and over again in all sorts of ways, all whilst teasing me mercilessly day in and day out, of course. What else would you expect from a cluster of bandy-legged, rough-around-the-edges Welshmen, especially when most of them can remember me being born. I’m the “little one”, and there’s a fierce element of protection there.

These are my People; the ones I would genuinely, without question take a bullet for.

But there’s still that smouldering, ache of a fire in the centre of my heart. It sits there belching out smoke where the air should be clear, where it counts – in the fireplace, the hearth of this body-house I laughingly call a home.

I go through things by myself because it’s what I do. It’s the only way I know how. I’ve always been self-sufficient, and most of the time it serves me well. I am a true introvert, one who truly prefers her own company, one who would much rather sit quietly in the corner than be anywhere near the centre of attention.

That doesn’t necessarily mean that’s the way I always want things to be, though. Some times it’s nice to have a lap at the other end of the sofa to sling your legs over, a body on the other side of the bed to curl around. A hand to hold, muscles to brush against that flex and twist underneath your fingertips; skin that responds to your touch.

Someone to talk to. To ask questions of, to chat shit with. To share with.

A mouth to steal breath from at the end of a long and shitty day, when you haven’t any left yourself. Someone tangible, loving and real beside you, no matter what the minutes bring. No matter where your mind goes. Someone who can pull the shutters back up when they come crashing down unannounced. Someone to help chase away the dark thoughts simply by softly and gently placing a trail of kisses down your body.

Someone who understands. Someone who wants. Someone who loves.

That’s when sharing half of your person’s heart with someone else can kill.