A life lived backwards.

Both the heartache and beauty of it all. An irony I have found in relationships is my initial (faulty) belief of not being good enough and determination to be the confident intelligent me I know I am and think they might love but involuntary hide and stifle out of fear of rejection (the mothership battle of all my relationships), I become the person they want at the very point I realise it's was never me who wasn't good enough and perhaps they knew this all along, hence their control and distance? I really need to approach future relationships backwards...once I get over this particular heartache that I'm still uncertain will lead to heartache but the heart is aching in anticipation of what has always been but mostly in the waiting. The anxiety I feel by his procrastination and indirectness is enough for me to walk away but I'm hanging on a while longer in case he's taken my challenge and decides to risk being known as I have with him...all very unexpected for me as I imagine it may be for him also, I don't know, that's the whole point. Part of me wishes he doesn't but mostly I hope he does..either way this is one hell of a journey and I do find joy even in the darkness as the discoveries made here are more revealing than the light that shines when we turn the corner with greater clarity. Real life is never how we picture it to be.

The only certainty is there is none.

Uncertainty it is said is the time to ride the waves, release creative energy, be in the moment...I'm not sure anyone who realized these wonders of not knowing what's coming next ever knew trauma of war. Woken in panic night after night, creativity is an exhausted dream of darkness a walk in the sun doesn't quell but for a fleeting moment of forgetfulness. The waves do not ebb and flow they loom large and threatening all around in wait of drowning this strong yet struggling swimmer against the tide. Every moment pulls back the past and hurls me into a future where this is no light, no picture of what could be as assuredly of what I knew was is long lost the further I walk. Relinquishing control has rendered me expectantly vulnerable to bombardment.

I feel threat with each determined step I take marching forth unable to sink into despair or rise in hope uncertain of either, sure of both but not yet and when I don't know. Holding on a cliff edge when letting go is what I need most. I don't know how, the mantle of decision has always been past to me, never before did I hand that back until now. Did I trust him with this two weeks ago? I don't recall, certain only this is a test not only of his character but of my durability too. Battleworn and weary I enter a new year on fertile ground no matter the seed he sows, what wounds are sorely reopened or soothed. Scars harden with time as attraction grows or fades dependant on who the other reveal themselves to truly be. I am here at two points in time waiting anxiously for the road ahead to clear the fog of doubt. Unable to focus on anything else I may as well stand still for a while and lean into this trauma of not knowing, trusting I made that certain decision for a reason.

Daddy, I'm home!

It may have been apparent the stress I've been lost under whilst untangling the unravelling of my complex relationship with another as well as myself. Who knew a declaration of love, at last, would open the floodgates to unfelt grief for the father long dead leading to clarity of why I've been unable to let it be known what I want from this person when directly asked. I've been clear as far as I've been able and willing throughout but this block I now understand was fear of him giving me what I ask..I now ask out of fear he won't as he recoils with my every 'no' in defence derived, I suspect from a belief of personal attack. The ball is firmly in his court and as he decides if he wants to bat it to me with the beginnings of revealing what he feels, action, not reaction as I've asked, or not I can rest easier, breathe..I've done my groundwork, faced my fears, now it's his turn if he takes the mantle.

The love declared? No, my darlings..not from him but I. For a year and a half that word directed at him would not come forth, I skirted around whilst feeling the forever tale of angst one feels when loving someone not knowing how they feel in return, knowing their readiness is a long way off if at all. Love being a verb, the way we respect, understand and treat one another.

All I wanted was to come home, I've been on my way and now..yes, now for the first time today feels like a Sunday, my yellow day that embodies family, love, relaxation, warmth, joy and some good nourishing food and drink. The day my dad was often home and my mother cooked the roast and all was well as could be, The day when I could take a break from the beatings and lashings of her tongue as my dad never knew this was the woman he married and I could never tell...he believed her lies to keep the peace and I the innocent scapegoat. He never knew how much that hurt, I did.

Proving my point perfectly.

I assert my claim that women are still oppressed in today's society, to reach the professional level in any hierarchy created to reflect society's value of people, in a male dominated ideological world women would be required to subscribe to notions enforced in traditional roles belonging to men within the workplace...one being the suppression of emotion to enable objectivity and command of oneself.

"My life is okay" the professionally successful and financially independent woman states..."I've reached a good professional level I'm happy with, I think women do well in this country, not much need for pushing for greater equality. That could backfire on us" In the next breath, she claims anger is a wasted emotion!!

Home Is Where The Heart Is

Freedom..what is liberation without sharing? At long last, my voice was found hidden behind the oppression of my lover but ultimately my conditioning as a child reared by the anecdotal overbearing mother from hell. The paradoxical irony is it was his challenging me that sprouted my need to tell him exactly how my experience with him has been to which he's had and still has no knowledge of what he does nor does he understand what I say as he translates through filters of projected negativity and assumption no matter my wording or clarity. Prepared as he was and I suspect remains to revisit this exhaustive circular conversation until he's convinced it's me not he in the wrong in protection of his fragile esteem, I've staked claim to my own sanity, no more am I willing to ride his merry-go-round. In this elated liberated state, however, I find myself wanting him to see me released with confidence, another paradox I'm convinced if he knew me as I freely am he'd recognise what I've seen all along, I his equal match but of course, this is the I that scares him the most, a threat to his carefully crafted defences, not as extension of him for social acceptance and value. With this ending new beginnings are forging, hungry and exhausted I now find relieved rest calls before this journey alone commences in my readiness to say "no" without guilt or fear of accustomed repercussions but with an honest love for us both. He can hardly hurt me more than already done as I am lost to him now as much as I was then. Found to me, home is exactly where I want to be at long long last.

Be free to live, be alive to love.

Whoever thought the notion of denying, suppressing, repressing emotions makes us strong resilient individuals would have also denied the levels of difficulty, skill and pain acknowledging, experiencing and exploring the thinking behind how we feel in order to have control as opposed to reactionary controlling. After all, if being relaxed with our authentic self was easy we'd all be doing it. An unexpected outcome to no longer running from myself is now being subjected to feeling all my nerve endings on fire waking me in panicked attack each night and causing trembling unrest during the day but, and I say this trepidatiously, I'm becoming more aware of what I need and ready to pace, heal from within as best I can.

No longer a desperately fueled drive to face fears beyond my home, I know my greatest anxiety has been here all along, the toughest challenge now I have no relenting need for acceptance, attention or even love as I give to myself nourishment required for such an arduous endeavour. Trauma comes and goes as I sway back and forth away from people who would trigger stress in me with their passive-aggressive defensive attacks, and forth in facing communication needed for a smoother path until exhausted, realized either connection will or will not happen once I am sure I have given my habitual all as I peel away my own layers of protection strong in the knowledge I have my own back. Reaching acceptance of my needs and understanding theirs although not justifying projected uncertainty left in their wake of doom and disaster muddled with unreasonable deservedness to deny how I feel or their lack of respect and consideration shown. Boundaries redrawn, permeable to the ebb and flow of energy every cell craves to survive. We can't expect to absorb the joys of life when we bury deep our sorrow and stress. Life was never going to be easy and is made far more complicated in pursuit of such. Simplicity comes with a price but one I'd happily pay after too many years with bankruptcy of self in extension of another's terrorised transference. Liberation is responsible existence.

Aspiration for illusion.

Jacqueline du Pré, considered the greatest cellist of all time, short her 'career' and life taken over by multiple sclerosis, a celebrated inspirational woman who captivated audiences with emotionally charged performances, but what of her personal internal life? A woman unable to say "no" to demands or expectations of both her parents and husband, to her audiences. Multiple sclerosis becoming a relief of sorts, something she 'foresaw' as a young girl, an acceptable and legitimate way of ceasing to be the puppet, the extension of another's need for approval and praise.

Are we a people of aspiration to the illusion, in awe of the fantasy where reality is overlooked, denied or taken with a pinch of pity or admiration but separated from a naive childlike dream to be adored, celebrated, envied, but ultimately, accepted and loved even if love is merely conditional, set to disappoint as condition is no love but simply more expectation, more extension of another's need for approval and praise? A perpetual unfulfilled and unfulfilling pursuit. Source; When the Body Says No: The Cost of Hidden Stress by Gabor Maté.

Healing from within.

Mandy Murphy was her name, I forget her face but her hair I recall vividly was golden locks lightly tussled about her shoulders and down her back a way. The sweetest delicate girl in her informative years during junior school that I felt so much envy toward in my shy unassuming need to have such attention as her when she merely scratched her knee. I with messy dark unfurled ribboned long hair, inky fingers and second hand clothes foraged in jumble sales could never understand what it took to be cared for so readily. When I hurt I hurt alone, suffering the bruises in silence as I cried in some corner where I could not be found. I see Mandy Murphy in every woman who seeks attention so sweetly that men, some women but mostly men swoon to their side with offers of affection. She is a 'good girl' in their eyes. Often doing well in life, a well enough paid job or clean and tidy dwelling, conforming neatly into standards set by man. She the cause of many a falling out between lovers, she the incent, the wife the scorned jealous affronted victim and persecutor in one. With all my efforts to be free from expectation, other people's rules of how we should be, I still feel eluded as to how I am excluded from such circles of drama but know now it is that Bermuda triangle I have sought so long to escape. To them, I am an outsider as I refuse to play my part. Neither victim nor persecutor, rescuer or pity giver I feel something else for the Mandy Murphy's these days. No more envy although the child within sheds a saddened tear for being overlooked, uncherished as an individual but for her, I feel compassion.

For me, for my mother's daughter lost and lonely as she was, I am almost home, I'm at the door unlocking my heart to her with the greatest of ease. I see that messy brown hair, fingers which love to write, hold books as they provided a safe place of understanding, answers to question not yet asked, a scented feel of comfort, hand me down garments and envy her youth. I have become her again only this time she is loved, adored. So sweet and delicate yet robust and bruised from play, unassumingly taken care of at last soon to be free to leap with the abandoned joy she's craved for too many a year. Her name was Julie, mine it's rightful owner, Julia, the given name never used after registration until an assertive in her own right eleven year old declared possession again. A rebirth perhaps but liberation for certain. I have taken you with me on this journey and thank you. Without the support and understanding I have received I might not have arrived so soon...so soon at fifty-six is late enough but never too late to reconnect to oneself. A painful, confusing homecoming where entanglement takes place creating a whole completed puzzle. Anyone want to come play...you are all very welcome in my playhouse?