Magnetic force

I need you.
But know,
This is not
A state of mind.
It's a pull,
A force,
From deep inside.
Like the iron in my blood,
in my heart,
In the centre of my being
Is drawn to you.
There's no relief
No calm
No peace
Until you are near,
Because even when
You are far away,
My heart searches for you.



The following post contains overflowing shame and self-congratulation. We are all human. Enjoy!

I’ve talked before of how the true tragedy of depression, is that once your mental health is regulated, you then have to deal with the mountain of issues you avoided in your lowest moments.

My house, I’ve realised lately, is very much the outward symbol of my mental health. If we were in a computer game, it would be the life bar of the protagonist: me.

I’ve ignored my home for some years. Slowly, surely, over the past 18 months, I’ve started to declutter and deep clean. It’s a big house: I had big feelings.

Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t like those hoarder houses you see on cheaply filmed documentaries.  But there are rooms with boxes piled, drawers overflowing with miscellaneous rubbish and I’ve not decorated for years in some spaces.

In part, I recognise, blame can be pointed at my mental health. Some, due to my limited finances. I also realise that as my confidence in Wildcard coming here has dwindled, so had my willingness to fix up my house.

Last summer, I thoroughly decluttered each one of our four bedrooms: every drawer, wardrobe, toy box.

So far this year, I’ve worked on maintenance and the slow declutter and clean of wherever my errant mind takes me. I’ve devised a system that works for me – prevents overwhelm and debilitating perfectionism. It’s slow going, but it’s going.

With my first decent wage in two years, an Easter holiday, sunny weather and a determination to fixate on something else, this holiday, I also decided upon action.

When we built our extension, 17 years ago, we built a porch on the front. English porches are not like American porches: it’s basically a little room built around the front door. Mine has french doors on.

The old wooden front door remains. Dad and I argued over that one. I wanted it to be removed, he didn’t. As it is, you have to perform some kind of limbo to get round the door and into the extension. But the door remains.

Years ago, Lost Soul fell down my stairs in a drunken stupor, and damaged the lower part of the door (and his kidneys). About 3 years ago, I was forced to break the little pane of glass when I was locked out.

I am shamed to say, the door has never been fixed. It’s had a rather ugly piece of wood nailed over that small hole for years.

Why? I hear you ask. Why not get it fixed?

I can’t afford a new door. The door itself isn’t that important as it probably shouldn’t be there. The door reminds me of my dad. I like wooden doors and don’t want a UPVC one. I have no husband or father to complete the DIY task. I don’t trust workmen – every job I’ve paid for over the past few years has been expensive and poorly done, no matter how highly recommended they come. It’s not been important enough to fix, but…

This door has worried me for 3 years. It has disgusted me for 3 years. Every time I see this door, I see my failure. Read that again. Yep, every time, it’s like an arrow hitting its mark.

As of last night, the door is now fixed.

Yesterday, anxiety boiling in my chest, I went to the DIY store and bought a jigsaw power tool. I then measured the hole and went to the hardware store, and giggled like a girl whilst trying to explain to bemused men about what I was trying to do and what wood I needed.

I came home and used a claw hammer to remove the glass frame from the door. I used a hammer and chisel to remove the old glass putty. I sanded it down. I used the jigsaw to shave off the excess from the panel the hardware shop had cut for me, as it didn’t quite fit. After some serious tweaking, I glued it in. I then measured and cut my new moulding using my new jigsaw and glued that in too.

The door is fixed.

Today, I will finish painting the door. I’ve already painted the porch. On the next warm day, I will paint the floor.

I’ve done this, myself. I’ve fixed this, myself.

It does

I want to pretend
It doesn't hurt:
That I'm ok,
I'm strong,I don't care.
But I do.

I want to carry on
As normal:
Be happy.
But it hurts,
And I'm worried
And scared.

I want to remember
That this has happened before:
My fears,
My tears,
Your simmering anger
Which slowly returns
To calm
And love.
And I do remember,
Which is why I want
It not to hurt.
It does.

Daily prompt: anxiety

What makes you most anxious?

As an anxious person, many things make me anxious.

I wonder, as I write this, when did I become an anxious person? What triggered it?

Was I an anxious child? Not that I recall but how do I know? Big life events caused a massive shift for me in the past few years but I would be wrong is I claimed I only started being anxious then. I just dealt with it in a different way.

This is what I know:

I’m anxious when I overthink and I overthink because I’m anxious.

Anxiety = fear.

I often fear failure but it’s something I’m working hard to change. Fear of failure is actually a symptom of low self esteem and confidence.

My biggest fear? Rejection. There’s enough buzz out there for me to accept that this fear of rejection probably- did – came from my childhood. I can see it, clearly. I can see how that issue has plagued me through my adulthood too, even in the immediate aftermath of my father’s death.

And so, for me, I know that my main anxiety is rejection: not being wanted or needed for being me; not feeling that I am enough or worthy or special.


I made you my everything.
My love for you breathed life
Into daydreams of us.
I made you my waking thought
And my nightly prayers
And every moment in between.
You were my sunbeam smiles
And my clockwatching waits.
I gave all the love I had known
Then I gave some more.
But love is not endless
When it is alone:
Love begets love.
When I realised
I would never be your all
Your everything
My love

Daily prompt: failure

How has a failure, or apparent failure, set you up for later success?

A long time ago, I had a very positive view of failure. I didn’t believe in it. I believed by learning something from it, it could never be completely a failure. Therefore, by definition, not a failure at all.

Was that youthful over confidence? I’m not sure.

What I believe now, more than anything, is it that if you believe you failed, you did.

It’s all in the eye of the beholder.

Just because something didn’t work, doesn’t mean it’s a failure.

Just because something stopped working, doesn’t mean it was a failure.

It just means, it’s time for change.

And so, failure for me has led me to change my negative perception of failure.

So in that way, I never failed at all.

And again, Goodnight

Our call was of the usual
Talk of the passing of the day
Heart content at love so frugal
In LDR, this is the way.
Once goodnight and kisses were over
Back to my own life, my soul did tread
Until, hours later, you brought me closer,
Brought love back to my head.
Such a simple little action,
Just a few words you sent to me:
Gave such a beautiful reaction
And filled my soul so completely.
As I read the words so brief,
An idea did come to light:
You must have been thinking of me
To repeat the words 'Goodnight'.

Prompt: goodbye

Describe the last difficult “goodbye” you said.

Although not the most recent, it’s certainly the most difficult: saying Goodbye to my dad before he died.

He had been in hospital for a few weeks. We knew the end was coming. The selfish parts of us hoped it wouldn’t be this time.

But we were given a choice and we made the decision to end his suffering.

We didn’t tell him. So, in those initial hours when the treatment was still in his system, he was alert and talking. He ate and drank. And we had to pretend that we hadn’t just sanctioned the doctors to let him die. We couldn’t say goodbyes overtly because we didn’t want him to be anxious as he declined. I think he probably knew.

When the end finally came, he’d been unconscious for a few hours. We’d sang to him and talked to him and reminisced. With his last breaths, we told him over and over that we loved him…we thanked him for being the best dad…we told him he could rest now, we would be ok.

We’re not of course. But it was still the right thing to do

Love and Letters and Laughter

Valentines is coming and I have things to say. Important things that are lodged in my heart, crying out to be heard.

I miss his joking and laughter.

So why wait? I can disguise my need to speak with Valentine’s, my cunning mind decides.

Using “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus’ chapter 10 on love letters, I begin

I tell him how angry and sorry I am for my recent behaviour. I tell him how scared I am to lose him.

And then, I tell him everything I love about him. I pour my heart into my words with the sole purpose of showing my appreciation and love of who he is and my gratitude for all he has done. And, I acknowledge his situation and end with a promise that I understand and I will wait.

I then faff about with a heart background and send it in an email.

I have no idea how often he checks his account, but I figure in the next week or two he will find it. I vow not to mention it until Valentine’s Day, either way.

Five minutes later he calls: he’s on his nightly walk.

Except…he asks about the letter. I laugh and tell him i didnt exoect him to find it and that it was for Valentine’s Day. For a moment he questions me panic stricken, until i reasure his its not for another 9 days.

I change the topic and gabble on about my day, but at thw first opportunity he asks me to read it to him as he comments it is long and he doesn’t think he will understand it. I tell him that he could translate it easy enough but I do tell him it contains apologies, thanks and lots of love.

He’s quiet for the rest of the walk, but then, that’s how he’s been the last week or so. I silently pray that when he finally reads the letter, things will change. I realise he is probably wondering about it.

The latter part of the walk is silent, bar the noise of the street and his occasional cough. I’ve ran out of things to say and he is just quiet.

Once in the house, he turns on the camera and sits to drink tea with his parents.

But first, he starts to read the letter. Aloud.

“Stop stop stop!! No no no, don’t read it out!!”


“Because it’s everything in my heart.”

But instead he continues, commenting first on its two page length with a glimmer in his eye, and starts to read it in funny voices, thus hiding its content from his parents who barely understand English anyway.

And I laugh as he reads, covering my blushes with my hands and my t shirt. I relish in his happiness and his humour again.

He pauses at various parts to comment, and even tells his mum what he is reading.

“Well that’s not right, you didn’t hurt me. I hurt you.”

And although I continue to laugh, inside my mind race’s. Is that what he thinks? The book talks about how, when a woman explains her feelings, men immediately see that as a failure on their part – that they’ve done something wrong. Is that why he’s been quiet? Not because I hurt him, but because he feels like he hurt me? Failed me?

I don’t know how much of the letter he understood. Probably less than half, with reading it in a funny voice, my laughter and his parents questions. But all I know is, he was happy he got the letter regardless, happy that I had written so much and for that time, he was himself. He came back to me.

Knowing him, he has read it again since. I hope he has.

I need his love and laughter back.