Opening the floodgates to be found.

A childhood encompassed with competing for the attention of one man; my father, her husband and she was a fierce adversary yet it's my late father's quiet scorn for his having to deal with the emotional remnants of a turbulent day after his day in service of provision for the family I dread the most still. Work that, conveniently or not I shall never know, took him away from home for periods, as a child, felt like there might one day be no return. Faced with constant fears of abandonment, punishment, crushing guilt inducing accusations confusing any sense of who I was, I never knew which way to jump. One day a certain action would be overlooked, another admonished and another ridiculed, made light of for her entertainment. There was no way upon waking of knowing which way she'd turn at the drop of a hat but somewhere inside I learned to move fast, sense subtle cues, smell the recognisable warnings of her monthly cycle, the smell of a woman that remains nauseating to me. The clammy paste scent of fear burnt flesh became familiar too as my body already sensitive to stresses rubbed up against in refusal to breathe. With boundaries so blurred, I know not whose skin was hot from the fire, hers mine or anothers. Her terror became my living nightmare. My honed attunement, perhaps a reflection of her lack of connection became her resentment. Yesterday I unwittingly listened to the last few recorded messages she left over four years ago, the last time I heard her voice, and was surprised how much I was unaffected by her spiteful tone. Originally, when she left them I was shaken, trembled with shocked childlike torment that she could hold such hateful thoughts about her own daughter. Why shocked I don't know, she's always been this way with me in private at least. Her public persona took on the role of a proud mother as I did well in school and later my family, ignoring how she relished the drama of my propensity to attract destructive relationships. She'd label them the episode she was witnessing as if watching on TV. Dismissive mostly of how she undermined my ability to raise my children, one of which she stole as her own. I have no anger left toward her, I feel very little and think even less of her as each year passes. It's as if my past was a long ago forgotten life but of course, it is far from lost, seared into my brain are connections that won't let go, not from her so much as one could easily assume but immense sadness I've held onto in the dark where my dad was supposed to be to pull me back into the light, guarding me against the torrent of abuse that never ended, just walked away from. That is the abyss I have feared stepping into my whole adult life as if once fallen I could never leave, disappeared from sight, alone and frightened. Teetering on the edge, I can no more release those tears than I can tell him how much I love him still as his ashes have years gone into the air and sea. I instead cry in frustration at the love of a man I may never receive. This is my self fulfilling prophecy.

Oh, I know and understand the logic and reason of it all and don't blame anyone but knowledge is not wisdom and wisdom does not facilitate emotional release. Rationalising is merely another form of avoidance. A safe environment can provide and this is what I seek to create, more constructively these days I'm glad to acknowledge overdue progress. It's time to change the course of my story, to turn the page. It's time to trust this life I both love and hate.

Understanding addiction.

Addiction is not a life choice, the substance or activity used to ease the pain and anxiety is in as far as one can afford or is privileged. Until the biochemical nature of addiction is widely understood, such a culture of exploitation will continue promoting addictive behaviours.

The question to ask ourselves is not only why is addiction increasingly prevalent in society but why are some addictions considered worthy of praise and aspiration (insatiable work, sport, busyness, stress, perfection, dependant relationships, collection of material possessions etc) whilst other drugs are condemned to the gutter along with the addicted person...unless the person is considered of higher status whereby the addiction is blithely dismissed as merely eccentric? If the answer lies in who profits, why are individuals held solely accountable in such a toxic environment where support and respectful compassion are scant?

How about we think for ourselves?

We seem to live in a culture where more heed is paid to what a well known, though far less understood, celebrated idol thinks than expanding our own consciousness in the analysis of what they say and our readiness to base our lives around short quotes. Where memes and headlines are absorbed without investigating further the story. Where people with privilege tell us we can achieve anything we put our minds to if only we believed and pushed ourselves harder and we set ourselves and others up to fail in frustrated pursuit. Where people like me who challenge the narrative are considered a peculiar and inconvenient annoyance. Where the only voices of value are from those with an income earned or unearned but never unemployed or unemployable. Too little time prioritised to consider relationships and the roles we play in conjunction with others. And for why? To fulfil the needs of those who seek in denial of reality only to elevate themselves through material means...or perhaps to become the illusions they represent? We all create such a society so why not recreate in slowing down, smelling the polluted air we choke on every day, feeling the sickness of the chemicals we ingest and listening to the nonsense surrounding our delusions of what this world has become that we seek to escape in lonely fantasy? We helped make this mess, why not help clean it up?

Jason Mraz - Life is Wonderful Music Video

A drive in the car with music to set the soul free and a stretch of deserted ruinous beach in the rain has done wonders. Never let the rain put you off the great outdoors.

Exposed with nowhere to go.

When then I was also emotionally unavailable leading to my attraction of the other, I am since opened up, torn down the defences but what now to do with my anger when the other is still emotionally unavailable to hear?

It's a frustrating situation I find myself when said attraction has led to a transition not just from that one person but the group as a whole as most are also distant to their feelings and during a time when opportunity is without a key to unlock the door to the next leg of my adventure. I don't want to hear what they tell themselves; to get over it, just move on and forget how I feel. That's the very barriers I've sought to overcome and kept me repressed and ill. Punching pillows doesn't do justice, screaming into the silence leaves me hoarse so what does one do when the words can not be directed at the source of resentment, in part dead and buried in the past?

Shhhhh..what do you hear?

How we can talk too much and say too little.

The more I hear the less interested I am in meaningless natter showing off who we think we are, who we want others to think we are. It's what's not said I listen for and the silence I crave.

Relative perceptions.

Relatively speaking, when the balance shifts from feeling at one with a community forced to remain at home to one where life beyond continues unabated, what I do matters.

The stark contrast between the two states of perceived existence, the same life personified by a shifting environment exposes the deference toward attitudes hinged against differences. When all is equal I am accepted, when all is not my quality is in question yet who I am has remained the same.