Fireworks in the Sky

Explosions in the sky. Bright colours cascading their light like thousands of stars, only louder and more vicious. Like thunder, with clouds that drift away. Erratic, and always risky.

Perceived with happiness and joy on one end of the globe, and terror and fear on another.

Perceived with welcoming eyes, children staying up late to welcome the new year.

Perceived with dread and gut wrenching pain, houses torn to pieces and babies under mountains of rubble.

Heaving loss.

Brilliant eyes.

Souls ripped apart.

Eager excitement.

Anticipation.

Of good things to come.

Of loved ones never to be seen again.

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On Politics and Human Life

A terrorist is somebody who kills and terrorises others fueled by extreme political or religious ideology.

If a man who claims to be Muslim and kills innocent people because they are of a different ideology is a terrorist, then so is a white man who murders an MP because her actions do not fit his extreme right wing political ideology. He is a murdering terrorist.

Right?

Of course not, folks. The media reckons he is a mentally ill loner.

The Orlando shooter? Muslim? Bipolar disorder? Closeted gay? Mentally ill loner? No. Terrorist.

This world is cruel and harsh and unjust. Innocent people die for no reason, buffoons campaign to run the most powerful country on earth, idiots are allowed to buy guns, hate and fear is spread everywhere.

I guess what we can do is spread our love. Treat our neighbours right. Help those in need, even if they are strangers. One kind action can change a mindset. You never know.

As long as there is love in this world, and good people, they can’t say life wasn’t worth it. It is.

Dear Lenora

Help me.

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I am terrified. I want this to be over. Why can’t it be over?

If somebody ignores any contact from you, manipulative psychopath, for years and years and years, then why do you persist in trying to get in touch?

LEAVE ME ALONE.

Can’t you hear? Isn’t this deafening silence an answer to you? You thick, selfish, disgusting, revolting, ignorant, arrogant, pretentious psychopath?

LEAVE ME ALONE.

I hate you. I HATE YOU.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I HATE you.

Thick, thick, skull. Loud grating voice. Evil cackle. Abusive, manipulative ways. Terrifying threats. Horrible, evil texts. The words on the screen make my flesh creep and my blood run cold.

Lenora. Help me.

 

What are you Afraid of?

Do you know what I’m really scared of?

I’m scared of the dark. I am terrified of the sharp shadows when I lie alone in bed. That is why I don’t like to sleep alone. I have never slept alone except that time when my family were all away for four months and I slept in my mother’s room in an empty house.

It took me hours to fall asleep every night because every creak of the house would jolt me awake, and every shadow frightened me. I have always shared a room with my sister, and when I moved out of home I shared with my husband, obviously.

I am scared of being alone. I don’t like loneliness, even though I relish solitude. I am scared my husband will see right through me and then just leave. I don’t tell him this, of course. He will see that I am a flaky fake and he won’t love me anymore.

Maybe.

I’m not a flaky fake. I am very real and solid and very much all here. But he might wake up one day and say,

That’s it, I would like to find a new human to live with thank you very much.’

I wouldn’t be the first person this has ever happened to, certainly. I am scared of that because I love him greatly and he is good for my soul and my heart and my brain.

I’m scared of failure. I am scared I will work my butt off and not get the results I need. Or not work my butt off and not get the results I need.

I am terrified of losing my parents/family. I would be devastated and heartbroken and so guilty because I am a moody git to them and it has something to do with my siblings not pulling their weight and it annoys me so much that I can’t be nice. When I moved out I realised that they are really lazy and don’t clean up and leave it all to my mother who is already doing so much and is half blind.

And that is why our house is messy.

There.

I said it aloud. And I hate that. I don’t want to go home to visit and always clean up. I am sick of them and their selfish ways. If you live there, you need to take care of your home. So I am a moody git. And I really don’t want to be.

Why, I think, can’t they be like normal people.

I am also afraid of fear. Living in fear is gut wrenching and tummy twisting. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

The last thing I am scared of, and it certainly isn’t my least biggest fear, is the loss of my soul.

Soul is very important. It is what makes you moral and kind and real and genuine and unpolluted. People who have rotten souls are generally horrible and don’t have any kind of filter and are cruel to other people and not compassionate. They are desensitised to horror and filth and unacceptable behaviour. People who are exposed too much to that sort of thing will never regain their innocence, unless they work really hard.

Like, for example, I used to swear a great deal. It was always eff this and eff that. It is just harsh and vulgar, and a sign that my soul wasn’t that great. I mean, people can swear all they like and still be kind etc but when I did it, I was really horrible and misguided. That’s just me personally. Now, when somebody swears, I flinch a little. Which might be wimpy and cheesy but it’s true. I don’t like it. It depresses me, all that swearing. It’s petty and childish and really unoriginal. I think originality is warmth.

I think that language is so diverse and there are millions of words out there and swearing might cut it if something terrible happens or whatever but there are so many more creative words to use than the ‘f’ word. So, so many more, to be said by creative minds and to be received by minds hungry for creativity.

For example the other day when my sister was cross with me she called me a ‘bulging toad’. Which was funny and made us laugh and also wasn’t a horrible swearword insulting my mother’s birthing abilities.

Anyway.

What are you afraid of?

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Crests and Troughs

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I don’t feel too good.

I spend too much time in the shower. I enjoy the torrid water beating against my body, I think it is hot but if it were to be cranked up a degree  I am afraid I would burn. I hold my finger poised over the power button on the electric shower and contemplate it for a good five minute before i press on it with a sluggish finger. Everything feels weakened. Even after I have slept.

I lay in bed yesterday for hours, and when I got up it was 4pm. I got in at 9:45am. I didn’t want to get dressed but I did because Damian did and I wanted to make an effort for him. He told me I seem like I am carrying a heavy burden and I smiled at him and whacked him lightly with a towel and told him not to be so silly.

I wish I could tell him. I wish I could tell somebody. That somedays all I think about in bed on my own with a growing feeling of fear and disgust is everything that happened for two years and ended a year ago. I am constantly reminded of it. Sometimes smells waft my way and I am jerked back into a time and a place and my throat constricts and the world shrinks and shrinks and shrinks and I want to escape but I can’t because the world is too small. There’s nowhere to go.

I was standing outside the flat yesterday, and it opens right out to the high street of the little town I now live in. I was leaning against the wall because Damian went in to get the car keys and while I was waiting the faint music from the pub down the road wafted my way. Rihanna. Singing something. I’d know that cow’s voice anywhere. He always had her blasting. He always spoke about how he would fuck her senseless if he got the chance. While I was sitting right next to him. When I complained he slapped my thigh. My thigh. My thigh. I don’t know how I could have let such a disgusting thing touch me. Why did I let him touch me. Why. Why. Why.

Or Rihanna blasting out in a rickety old car as it sped down a quiet, pitch black A road. Rihanna wailing about how she would drink to the frickin’ weekend. Him singing along. Me giving a fake, forced smile. Him telling me not to be such a moody cow. It was such an ugly song. Her moaning voice drags me back to bleak places.

I did not want to be there.

You know those times when your soul isn’t happy? When you have every reason to feel joy but you just don’t? When everything you thought would make you happy, help you escape, is in your grasp but you just want to go back? When you keep being told that you are free, you are better off, this is you being an adult, living your life… but your mind finds it increasingly difficult to relate those facts to the agony you are feeling. But I’m not really living it, am I? I am a frightened little rabbit doing your bidding because I am scared to death of you. That’s what the voices in my head were telling me.

I looked out into the darkness and blocked everything else out from my mind. I focused only on getting it over and done with and going back to the safe haven of my home again. Where nobody knew anything. Where I spent hours late at night glued a phone call I really didn’t want to partake in, tiredness cloaking me like a heavy, hot blanket. I glanced listlessly at all the work I didn’t do because I had to spend hours talking to a madman.

A madman. A mad man who rambled and shouted and raved and told me despicable things about my mother. I sat there in the dead of the night listening to somebody insult my mother and call her a fat cow and a selfish bitch. MY MOTHER who sacrificed everything for me, who still does, who spends all her time and energy thinking of me, doing things for me, planning for me, researching for me, and never spares not a second on herself. My mother. And I sat there listening to it. I took it in and I nodded and sighed and yawned and tried to make excuses but to no avail. Egotistical manipulators  don’t understand excuses. They think of nobody but themselves.

I thought that period of time would be erased from memory once I escaped it. I thought my dabblings with such a force would have no effect on me later because.. why would they? I am alright, aren’t I? I am fairly normal. Average. Happy-go-lucky. I have never suffered with any mental illness. I am fine.

A whole year ago yesterday and why is it still bothering me. Why am I still terrified? Why  does my heart beat with frantic panic every time an unknown number calls me? Why do I feel like I will never ever shake the disgusting, terrifying, menacing, monstrous feel of him off?

I want to step out of this heavy burdensome skin.

Sometimes I laugh so loudly at the things Damian says and after a while I am still laughing, but I am no longer in the moment. I have stepped away from it, and now my laughter is a deafening echo and my face is doing all the motions but I am really crying so heavily I have melted right into the ground.

So, I don’t feel too great. I have stomach aches in the evenings. My limbs fall heavy and I don’t seem to be able to breathe so well anymore. My chest feels too tight. I take off my bras and still, my deep breaths aren’t so satisfying.

It’s crests and troughs, though. I am so happy one moment in the park swinging on swings, sailing down slides, letting the wind whirl through my hair, opening my arms wide to embrace the forces of this beautiful nature. But the next moment I can hardly move for the pain inside. It just hurts. I cry for no reason. I cry when I tell Damian I love him. I cry when I hear my mother’s voice on the phone. I cry when I look at my hair in the mirror. How can somebody feel so happy, and yet so sad?

I just don’t understand it. Why do I feel so poorly, and yet so alive? How could I feel so nauseous and yet dig into meals like a ravenous pig? I want to look forward to things, get excited about things, sing and dance and laugh honestly again.

So I am just waiting for this trough to turn into a crest. Today was better than yesterday. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

 

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