The most radical thing I can do today is....

The most radical thing I can do today will not be painting the other half of the bedroom that Zippy and I are making, as my temptation suggests.

Nor will it be:

• Drilling seven new cupboards to the kitchen wall
• Moving all my art things out of storage
• Taking all and everything we don't need in the flat to charity shop or recycling center
• Putting a tarpaulin on the lawn and digging out all the garden waste and making a new pallet compost bin

Temptation!  Suggestion! Frustration! 
Temptation!  Suggestion! Frustration! 
Temptation!  Suggestion! Frustration!
NOW!!!NOW!!!NOW!!!

'I am more important!!" 

"no I am more important!!!!"

 "achieve me and I will be the answer!" 

" no I'm the answer!!"
Run freeze run freeze run freeze run freeze run freeze!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It will not be:

• Clearing out my daughters room and scrubbing the paint off her window
• Painting four pine wardrobes, five chest of draws and four side tables
• Hoovering the flat to within and inch of its life
• Cooking mushy peas from scratch
• Painting the floor blue
• Swapping all the mattresses around

• It will not be giving into all the voices dancing and colliding as they shout and whisper what "should be done?". 
• It will not be giving into the frustration of the looping 'One Direction - Story of My Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiife'! Stupid Unfinished song line that I woke up and that is presently is trying to knock Kate Bush (CBE) of her perch. 
• It will not be giving into the need to hide in bed and lock the door and wish the day away, whilst simultaneously thinking I actually have enough energy to run twenty marathons and cook dinner for half of London.

Actually the most radical thing I can do today seems harder than all those things.  
Today I need to have a shower and wash my hair.

Speech and communication

"Can you put the peanut butter in the box please?"

Interpretation, "Can you put the butter away in the fridge?"

"I've made a rose pot last night"

Interpretation, "look I designed some rose patterns on a wooden vase last night (art)."

"Can you put the sandwiches in the boot?"

Interpretation, "Is the food in the car?"

Those of you that know me on a day to day have got used to my inability to consistently communicate. Some days I am able to speak consistently and coherently but other days it all just comes out wrong. Sometimes this misattunement can go even further and I find myself unable to speak at all. I know exactly what I want to say, have the words in my mind but they just won't come out. If I manage to force them out it will be because who ever I'm talking to has waited (sometimes up to a minute) for me to rally round and find a way.

I find conversations extremely hard. On a one to one there is often no problem, but put me in a group and its extremely stressful. Then put that group in a restaurant or a bar and I will openly admit to often resorting to alcohol to keep me relaxed enough to have any hope of surviving.

Recently I was reminded of the basics. When you have a brain that is hard wired to constantly scan for danger it is impossible to function efficiently if you feel unsafe. When under threat or perceived threat your pre frontal cortex (the logical bit) is switched on and off. Chemicals produced during this process such as cortisol and adrenaline can remain floating in your system in debilitating amounts for up to four hours after being released in enough amount to help you lift a car (pass the wine please or can I go to bed now).  

Add to that the unsafety of not being in total control of your inner world, I often have looping lines of songs that haunt me for days, ringing in my ears, banging in one ear and voices arguing or interrupting my thoughts. The voices may be commenting directly on the situation or giving me advice about the person Im speaking to, sometimes they just challenge me to swear F***k OFF!!!!!, they loop often saying the same thing over and over whilst getting louder which will invariably bring out maybe another two / three voices to argue back or endorse whats going on. (I ask for more wine to numb things,"I need to go to my room").

Part of my healing journey has been to acknowledge that there are very few spaces I feel safe in. I carry within in me enough to make the safest place unsafe. I feel like a walking sabotage. I have had to learn that this sabotage is not a direct reflection of my character but it is an addon to my fragmented identity. In the past I have thought I was just a very bad person rotten to the core. In those days my lack of understanding would result in distruction of some kind which would then just confirm to me my horridness.

But I have learnt other things aswell. I have learnt that to try and deny the voices, the need to sleep, the banging, looping, swearing and inability to communicate only makes it all worse. I have learnt that to try and constantly "make myself like look like everyone else" also makes things worse. We live in a new era of understanding and tolerance where expression is allowed and I want to say thank you to all my friends and family who make me feel safe and normal by letting me be and do what is "my normal".

Multi-tasking

G

This morning I tried to brush my teeth at the kitchen sink whilst waiting for spotify to download and pick cabbage out the plug hole from last night's dinner. One voice was shouting "do one thing at at time", another "no she won't" and another "you must be more efficient!" and yet another " leave her alone" "give up give up"everyone was arguing and trying to get their point over as the winner of the situation.

Then like a blinding moment I travel back to boarding school and it was Wednesday. On Wednesday we had to change our sheets on our beds. We all panicked on a Wednesday morning 5:30am rushing to add an extra job into our already tight schedules.

Each dormitory had about thirty iron beds in it. In the mornings we used to take a quick walk to the toilets and back again (running forbidden and toilets being outside at the end of the dormitory blocks) then we would quickly march back to make beds with perfect hospital corners (exact floor to top of counter pain height). The fold under our pillows a certain depth and our pillows evenly plum flat on the lumpy mattresses. After that we had to dress perfectly in our uniforms. Socks were folded three times down our legs to create the perfect ankle and  shoes had to be shining collars folded at the right height at our necks. Our legs and arms had to be creamed to stop dry skin and our hair brushed so as to not let any touch our collars. After that our lockers and foot chests had to be pristine and neat. We would all then stand at the foot of the bed and wait for inspections. 

Now the hard thing about inspection was two fold. One was the ability to hear he matrons working there way through the other dormitories dolling out the daily punishments and ridiculing those who had not met expectation or had wet the bed. The other was the absolute panic to have your own dormitory ready. Did you risk helping those that were slower or unable to get the sheets flat and folded and be found away from your area. Did you try and help someone who clearly had hair loose, after all we did not have individual mirrors we only had a small 12x10inch mirror situated at the furthest end of the long rectangular room.

Then there were Wednesday when not only did you have to cope with all the above but you also had

to strip the bed and change the sheet. As  I have said before the majority of us struggled with Wednesdays. This morning however as I tried to be an octopus, getting cross with the toothpaste I had swallowed and the sliminess of the cabbage making (its so hard to grip), I realised what drove so much of the panic. I realised that although our whole day at boarding school relied on time; being on time, doing things in time, waiting for time to be over or a new part of the timed day to start. Nowhere do I ever remember seeing a clock except in the prep room and school hall, everything else was communicated by bell. I realised how much power that lack of clocks gave the teachers and matrons. After all what better way to put the fear of God into several hundred 5-11 year olds than to hold them accountable to something that they have no ability to manage. It meant that we never stopped working towards the aimed piece of everyday and if you did take a breath or had a little day dream it could come back and mean horrible consequences.

So back to the present day I say to myself it's now ok to do one thing at a time. Brush your teeth then get the cabbage out the sink and then download the album you want to hear. Nothing is chasing you anymore. You are now aloud to know time, manage time and plan in time.

Regulation

I asked a friend last night to write a blog as she hadn't in a long time and now take my own advice. As I'm sure the whole country knows, we have just had the summer holidays. Now I enjoy my kids being off,  enjoy being able to travel, love seeing friends and sitting in the sun. I relish experiencing new things as the kids get older and this year we have reached a stage where we can all ride a bike on the road.

But as someone who also struggles with my brain the summer holidays present another challenge. My therapist is on holiday to which means the ability to upload offload discuss how situations can or are being handled is not there. I usually see this as a chance to put into practise all the things I have  learnt over the previous months, I see it as a marker as to how well me myself and my others are getting on and co operating with each other. I like to see how well we can remain in the present and not be swallowed by past flashbacks or future anxiety.

Films one and two.

 One year a very important event happened. I think I was about nine. Our church farm was going to be sent two films. Naturally we were all excited! We were one of the fortunate families in Zimbabwe to have a Betamax video and occasionally we would go to drive in movies. These films however were going to be for everybody. Even better than that these films were apparently going to

help save people. Now you didn't have to go a hundred metres to realise that there was a lot of saving to be done. As a country we were three years into a six years drought and our dam was drying up, the crops needed rain, people were getting extremely thin and our cows were being rationed for their dried husks.

I was so excited we were taken to our church building on town after dark and the little hall became rammed. The Pilgrims Progress began. However as Christine stumbled through his journey I didn't understand it at all and it just became more and more upsetting; he was having a horrible time and even when he was doing things that he thought would make him happy - they even end up hurting him. My stomach twisted more and more and I cried. It was a horrible film! I couldn't understand how on earth it was going to help anyone.

Sticking out

I once watched a series of you tube videos looking at how different communities embrace harsh experiences. For example if a whole set of people have experienced an earthquake then they journey together in the path to processing that experience and coming to terms with it. Everyone in the same boat wobbling along together, everyone having and giving support in the most basic form by just knowing what the other has experienced the same experience.

Similarly we at the moment in the UK have just been through the last few years of our banking system collapsing. Everyone has an opinion on it and has or knows someone that has been affected by the capital fear. Its a journey we as a country have travelled together and are still travelling together.

We have friends that work in the village in Romania (near the old orphanage which made us shudder on early 90s news headlines) and although divided in its opinions there is an understanding for those who grew up in the orphanage, there is a massive amount of unsaid communication as to what and why those individuals are the way they are. 

Trigger Warning Shame.

 

What do you do if your world view is lived through spectacles of fear. Some one might say, "do you remember that holiday?" and the memory  leaps into your mind as, "DO YOU REMEMBER THAT HOLIDAY!!!" or a comment "What a lovely sunny day" and you interpret it as, "UNKNOWN SUNNY DAY!!!". Here another classic "we are going out today" and you spiral out of control "WHAT?  WHY?  WHERE? WHEN???".

As I have discussed in previous blogs my world view only came mostly from one point of origin  FEAR! and I want to break another littlle chunk of that " fear off" so here goes.

I first met frog face through a girl on the school bus. Two other girls and myself would go to smoke at her house. I was 13 and the others where 11. Soon frog face used to ask us to go and collect more cigarettes from different mens houses off the estate. The men would ask us to sit on their laps and watch TV with them, in return we would have earn our own packet of fags. Over a few months things escalated and frog face started to send my friends on thier own to collect cigeretts (and now money to).

I, having already developed a pretty soild freeze response to threat became pretty useless on these "collecting missions". I still have incredible memories of beiing frozen sat at certain tables unable to move whilst smelling and listening to noise. Often the noise would be my friend laughing and giggling, deep inside me these noise's would cut thru me like ice. I knew things where not right. The smells were wrong!

Soon frog face would not even send me, instead she would do what was called the "staring game".  You see frog face had another power she practiced white witchcraft and claimed to be psychic. Frog face introduced me to smoking skunk with her, I felt guilty but important. She would draw pictures with me and make me dinner at the weekends, she would meet me straight of the school bus and take me to the chip shop.

As you know I came from a strict brethren  type back ground. I was not just smoking but smoking drugs, I was listening to music and enjoying it!. I new my friends were in trouble but I couldn't help no matter how much I prayed and I knew this was because God was angry with me. I was selfish so my prayers ment nothing. To top it all my new friend was into whitch craft. The shame was over whelming. The serect grew and grew. So to did my thinking that frog face really cared for me. She would stare into my eyes and claim to have read my toughts. I knew my thoughts were of how sinful I truly was, how evil I had become. So Pretty early on I cried and frog face would hug me. Not just a quick hug but a hug that felt like it would never end, she would stroke my head and until my tears dried up and I felt safe.

I dont need to write what happen in the months after as Im sure you all understand, and this blog is not about that its about sticking my fingers up at shame! 

 Back then in that religous world there was only black and white, there were leaders, elders, prophets, and their judgement it absolute. Often their understanding was fairly flawed. Having already got  a  reputation of unruly angry behavior from about the age of two, I was in the dog house with the majority of most people's thinking. I already hated myself and my reactions. It came as no suprise to me that I had "fallen way beyond" the point of grace. 

I decided that God had given me a way to redeem myself, that because me body was alredy filthy it could be used until such times as frog face joined the church. I decied that this must be Gods way of saving frog face and if I could just hold out she would have a damacas experience and everything would be ok. We could then just be friends she wouldn't  need to do thoes things to me any more and I would have helped save her, bring her to the narrow path.

Frog face played on this she stole bibles and but them under her bed, she put a picture of Jesus on her bedroom door and kissed it regulary, she would cry and say how awful she was but that the devil had her in his grip. 

 

After a while I gave up, my spirit broke as her "rituals" started leaving marks on my body. It was as if she never left me not even at school. I bunked PE because I could no longer get changed. One day I got  of the school bus two stops after mine so frog face would think I was not on it. I sneaked home. I realised I was going to have to hide and let God down. I couldn't  wait for her to be saved any longer.

So the shame grew. I had now let God down again! the one chance I had to redeam myself gone. I hated myself, I was thoroughly  disgusting. Frog face continued to stalk me for six years until I moved to Nottingham. My only way to try and fight back was to sneak out in the middle of the night. I took the dog and a knife to try and kill her. So the shame grew I was now lusting after murder, there was no goodness left, my heart must be black. To counter act this horrendous realisation I decided it would be best if I could get raped. I knew people got help and understanding and forgiveness from the church if you got raped.  I would be able to keep frog face a secret but get forgiveness. All my behavior would be understood and I would be acceptable again. So I now wandered at night into every dodgy palce I could find, and I would cry because I was to dirty to even be raped no one came near me. God must be so cross with me. So the shame grew.

I write this now because as I said I want to stick two fingers up to shame, I still sometimes have the thought as people compliment me, but what if people found out you tried to kill? (although I now know that it wasnt my fault),  Well  to you horrid untruth, I stick two fingers up! because now everyone knows!  

Bloggs, peeps and Netflix

Write a Blog

Write a Blog (to get it all out)

What a slog 😁😁😁😁

See through the fog

Fog that leaves you agog😳😳😳😳

WHAT!! WHAT!! WHAT!!!

Oh for crying out loud!!!!

hold your head up be proud!!!

Your not on a lonely cloud,☁️☁️☁️

Lets be old fashioned, for the people you see

they happen to love thee!💚💚💚

Feed off thier smiles hold their hands,

stumble rumble on in all the foriegn lands,🌄🗻🌅🗻🌄🌅

But every now and then take a rest,

and watch the Netflix you like best!!!!

📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺📺

From the valleys to the extreme heat

Quite frankly I have reached a stage where writing anything makes me sick with worry. So why write? Well I am also aware that part of the root of the worms living in my stomach is fear. Fear of writing the wrong thing, fear of hurting people, fear of creating conflict, fear of just mucking up without realising till its too late.

On reflection comes the realisation that these are the very fears that have often got me into so many pickles. So I want to push through.

 I was brought up in a "strongly faithed' family although not strict brethren we were a sort of off shoot 'radical type' style of brethren. Women adhered to the submission of men in a classic sense. Women wore head coverings and dressed in simple fashion. Main stream life/music/dress were seen as wrong and sinful  "of the world".

The men in our lives were strong larger than life dominate characters who took the younger men under their wing. Teaching them the same radical strengths they believed would  help build a more forgiven, holy cleaner world.

Now at this point the worms have wriggled into my core. You see I still have a very strong faith but only as a result of rejecting most of what I was brought up to believe. In fact I imagine if I were to sit down with any of those from my childhood, many would shake their heads at the way I have been 'polluted'. 

But I can honestly say my Faith is at peace now.

As a child my impression (rightly or wrongly) from an early age was of a danger, the world  simply being split between Good and Evil. The scary devil and the loving God. As a child my physical and emotional world views were full of extreme things, extreme situations, extreme environments, extreme beliefs and extreme change. No grey areas. 

The first environmentally extreme change came between the ages of four and five.

I had been born in a Welsh farm cottage in the middle of a valley, the world was mine I would wander and roam the fields and woods unhindered, it was often said that if you couldn't fine Carwen she would be at the bottom of the lane sitting in the big puddle, or watching snails gliding across  the wet garden stones (a pastime that is still well loved today).  On a Wednesday my mum would drive us to a village playgroup and then to a market for food, food that would last till the following Wednesday. That was pretty much how life ticked over. Simple, calm, isolated at peace. Very few people were around for the first four years of my life.

Then my dad decided to build himself a house from scratch in the village. We moved from the cottage and I started to attend the local village school. Only having 14 pupils it was small, but I remember grappling the mixed feelings of overwhelm, unwanted confinement, people and restriction. I would wet myself almost daily and once soiled myself which led to being teased for the first time. I was frightened by the girl who was rumoured to have a witch as a mum and scared of the boys who found it funny to run at me and shout 'boo' in my face to make me cry. I can remember the panic of watching the window getting darker and darker,  thinking it was late but I wasn't in bed? (winter evenings).

Then as I reached four and half my dad decided to sell his business. 

He brought  a Peuoght 505 estate, we travelled the country saying good bye to people and moved  into the hub of church life in a busy five storey victorian house. The house was in yet another foreign world (the middle of Toxteth Liverpool). 

For a few months my sisters  and I were put into a school full of more kids than we had ever seen.

Dad packed up two containers with tractors, wood work machinery and the newly brought car.

We said more goodbyes and were prayed for and we got on a plane.

Overnight (the length of the plane journey) our worlds changed completely and utterly forever. We woke  to a world that we niether recognised and I never made peace with. We had landed in the newly independant Zimbabwe. We were going to be missionaries!

To be continued......

Trigger warning! The gates of Mordor.

Sometimes I shut my eyes and see myself stood at the foot of a towering black gate. Its menacing just by its presents. Like something out of Lord of the Rings. I can be in two places. 

Standing at the bottom of the gate marvelling at its great width. I stand alone, singular, in the dry dusty desert one hand feeling the warm of the wood. The sun has heated and weathered the rough oak timbers  over time. This is my entrance to Mordor.

Whistfuly I find myself hovering somehow now miles in the air and I look over the gate. On the other side is mayhem. Orcs everywhere, slimy, ugly, angry. On the other side is noisy and intent on a fight.

 I hate what I see, I can't distinguish the noise of all the rabble. They are whipped into frenzy by thier own encouragement, I am scared of them.

Back down again at the bottom of the gate my heart pumps. looking  at the doors they are  tall, wide, huge, strong. For them to hold and 'contain' is easy. I reach my hand out again and feel the tar stained hulks of timber.

Then I realise that when the inhabitants of that world are pumped enough, the gates with be opened. My wants will mean nothing. Just like the film they will creak open, lumbering outwards to release a torrent of destruction, reaction. I will not be able to breath through the fear, I will be trampled without ever having been seen.

So to be asked "why dont you just face your fears?", makes me run. To be asked "why do you drink?", makes me fold in shame. To be asked anything without the speakers understanding hurts, I must hide. I will hide , I want to protect myself. I know the logic, I know the reasons to the gate, but nothing ever prepares you for how the stampede 'feels'.

Feelings eradicate logic, eradicate 'being sensible', eradicate who you really want to be. Brain triggered frontal cortex lame and useless. We must protect we must survive. That great gate crashes in an instance, the Orcs are free.

Silence - Friend or Foe?

"MUM!, Carwen won't speak AGAIN!"

1993 aged 16yrs and two years into being  secretly being stalked by Frog Face. One of the ways I coped was to write a diary in which I would never acknowledge Frog Face. I hoped in some way that I could literally write Frog Face out of my life and forget.

14:08:93

...Last nights dinner was another "take the piss out of Carwen event", I have now got to the stage where I can just shut off. I can hear them calling me 'deaf and dumb' because I never answer or defend myself against their insults. It does not matter any more as nothing can hurt me {as when I was younger} when I  made myself oblivious to physical pain, I can now shut down mentally. I have found fighting back never works and you only end up getting hurt twice as much. As the verbal abuse keeps coming you know inside you have won because you remain emotionless......

18:09:93

.....You know sometimes you wish something drastic would happen and then 'something' would effect you and maybe you would be 'seen'. Then when something drastic happens to you your not sure if it is drastic at all. I mean one minute all you want to do is cry forever and the next its just not reality. You seem to be shrouded in a haze of numbing peace. Maybe this is what people mean when they say in drastic situation "you just get to a stage where the tears dry and you just have to live on as best you can"........

06:10:93

.....Oh I don't know everything is upside down. I want to scream and kick till I'm blue in the face. I want to be alone but I feel so inhibited when I am. At school  sometimes there are so many people around all talking and making the air clammy and hot. I put on my walkman but although it helps me to forget I'm with people - I can't.   I want to run away and be cold, to breath cold fresh air, to be in some quiet place where I won't see anyone and they won't see me. I would put on a song and dance without worry. I'd be in my world singing at the top of my voice and dancing circle after circle. The air is crisp and dry, the sky heavy with light. My eyes drink in the beauty of my world into which no one else can come.  I am  without the thickness and stuttering, I am without having to try and speak properly.  It's impossible and I want to cry, I cant be alone.

I have an aching in my belly I just don't want to 'Be'. I spend most of my time in my fantasy world were I can escape. The thing is I'm spending more and more time there. It scares me as I know its wrong but I just need to be there and although I'm physically not free there - I am. Is that wrong do you think?....

Having never told my dysfunctional family anything I had gone through, my behaviour to them was really hard to understand. Each of us lived and survived our own stories of coping. None of it was "normal" and we each lived extreme confusing unseen lives.

12:10:93

....Quotes from dinner tonight referring to yours truly.

 "I hate you so much x2"....

"I really passionately hate you, you are so annoying!"......

 they speak to each other.. "I know I get that feeling when I look at 'It'... 

"mind you I never speak to 'it' (laughing) "I'm glad I only have to see 'it' at dinner"...

I'm feeling a tad pissed off! well no that's a lie I feel nothing to them. I am nothing to them. Its stupid to think I ever will be. The thing that scares me, I mean really scares me is that I guess because of me having my own world of silence and the three months of hiding that I  did over the summer I think I may have forgotten how to cope. I mean I used to go a few days without speaking or seeing anyone. I could always integrate back when I had to, now though I am more paranoid than ever If only I could keep this wall around me for longer; I just get so terrified of people. Crowds are becoming another problem, I can only speak to one person at a time and I can't cope if lots of people are talking.

In class I freak if the teacher asks me a question or looks at me. The other day I had taken soup in a flask to school and it must have got smashed inside on the bus. During history I took a sneaky swig and ended up with a mouth full of glass. I couldn't do anything about it so had to sit there for twenty minutes for class to end and go to the loo.  I generally feel ugly and pathetic, I don't know what to do. I can't tell anyone as there is no one to tell. 

I'm writing this because on my journey into discovering, I used to get so confused until I realised there is a difference between people who have experienced a trauma and those that grew up within trauma and have had their whole character / world view grown in it. 

I hear people comment on how they wished they could go back to their twenties or teen years as if the years of age are robbing them. When people talk about 'getting back to what they used to be' prior to the experienced trauma, I used to feel like failure until I understood I didn't have anything to 'go back to.'  I have never felt robbed by the age thing and feel every year I live is better & more free than the last; I am relieved I'm here. Ironically it's not because the years have made me stronger, it's because I am now safe and it's in that safety I am able to finally shed my strength, shed my walls and know I am still loved accepted and 'seen'. #CPTSD.

December!!!!

Christmas month... Thought patterns...

November... Anticipation of December intense intense intense intense.....

December..... Try and plan intense intense intense....... Want to get it right..... Intense intense intense intense ......... Must not forget first lists made...... Intense intense intense.

Dates start flying around, dinners drinks, being social.... Put in coping plans for each as I would like to enjoy them.... Intense  intense intense intesnse......

Cloths for events, I can't wear my usual. New feelings, new fabrics.... Intense intense intense....

Loads of lights feed my overstimulated brain cells, loopy, loopable, looping songs.... EVERYWHERE!!!.... Intesnse intesnse intesnse......

You get my drift... Present buying, family, friends, receiving gifts, trees, wrapping paper, Sellotape, hiding presents, stockings, eating to much, drinking to much, being mum, being mate, being mrs....... Intesnse intense......

You make think I don't like Christmas but you would be wrong. I very much like the values of Christmas. I very much like spoiling and showing my family and friends how much I appreciate and love them.

(But the love in my belly is hard to interpret into anything tangible). Living in my head means, Christmas, in all it's wonderful colour is a little bit like being a driver in the grand pre taking a hair pin bend...

woooooooshhhh, pre plan anticipate, take in enviromental conditions, assess road surface, apply correct throttle and brake, keep an eye on the other drivers woooosh!!!!! go into the corner reassess all variables, take corner, assess again, power out!!!! Wooooosh... assess straight.... take in all variables ...... Speed ..... Road surface.... Throttle.................

Love you all appreciate you all very much and I'm excited to live 2015 with you all!!!! Merry Christmas.🌸🌸🌸

Connections

I often wonder why I write these blogs?

I wonder what the purpose really is?

Some have asked me "but that's all behind you, why drag it up?". Some consider me to be attention seeking and making trouble. The phrase 'let the past be the past' can leave you feeling weak and stupid.

Originally I wrote because I wanted to learn how to write. A magical thing began, a blessing. I began to learn the peace of connection, explaining and giving meaning.

You see its all well and good if your past is in the past but for me my past was / is very much in my present, I am going to write quickly now in case I end up in a muddle. 

Imagine your a maths professor. Now imagine there was a maths formula you could not understand. You mull it over in your mind and think about it day and night (sometimes even when you don't want to) it haunts you. You seek solution to the formula by chatting with others who may help you read and research similar maths problems. You keep going until you have found the solution and then you have peace because you understand and have meaning for the formula. That formula then gets filed under 'understood'. Occasionally you are even in the position of being able to help another understand the formula in a quicker way than it took you, you enjoy the victory of understanding by connecting to others who have also understood the formula and can talk with you about other maths issues.

Frog Face

1991 aged 14 and 'frog face' started to follow me. I did not get away until 1997 then aged 20.

Frog face would wait for my school bus and lurk in the roads opposite. Frog face would watch me through the door to the sweet shop I worked in. Frog face would call, send letters and sit on the other side of the road watching our house. Frog face could appear at any point, at any time of day. I could not shake Frog face.

You may think that Frog face was a figment of my imagination, unfortunately that was not the case. For almost 6 years I was stalked.

As previously discussed I have a complex history. Frog face was just part of what has made that thick strong 'C' in the word complex.

Already fairly damaged in my world view, I found myself having to learn to live being disempowered daily. By the 'fear' of the 'ifs, maybes' by the potential of Frog face appearing without my control. I would stand on one side of my front door not knowing, would there be another note on the other-side. I jumped if ever the letter box clanged, or the phone rang.

For reasons I cant go into in this blog, I was unable to tell any one about my situation. All I will say is that Frog face was an adult who held a secret over me. To endure those days at the time, I believed outweighed the shame of anyone finding out. (As I said my perspective was already damaged).

So why write this? if I don't want to write about what happened and why?

Well I love brains, I love how they cope and how they protect themselves. During those years I found my brain doing just that. Protecting me in the best and most honest way it could. You see my brain was my greatest friend. We argued, we fought, we had stand offs! we did all the things together that BFFs do. But it has only been in the last three years that my best friend 'brain' has aloud me/us to share our friendships with others.

Over those long years my identity went from singular to plural. It still remains that way today, I am not an 'I' I am 'we'. At first I split myself in half. The day belonged to Frog face but the night was mine. During the day hyper vigilant, my whole focus was on avoiding and planning ways of out witting Frog face. At night I sewed a hidden pocket into my jeans. In it I tucked a protective knife 'we/I' would go out walking with the families fat springer spaniel. I'd walk in freedom owning my world and revelling in the sense of safety.

Pretty quickly I realised another split was needed if I was going to avoid anyone  knowing what was happening.  At school I created another split in another world as although bullied, it was at least 'seen'.

This splitting carried on until I was nine different people / personalities.  I jumped between these personalities daily depending on the environments encountered.

Soon we were all defined enough to speak for ourselves. We made an internal community. We had all our answers, we did not need anyone. Having lived through this process quite naturally and at the time logically. I have nothing but respect for grey matter.

I met Zippy and so started the great clamp down on the now completely dysfunctional set of people living in my head.  The greater the safety I could trust, the greater the need to want to quiet everything down into something less confusing. As Zippy says 'Carwen nothing directly bad has happened to you now for 13 years'. Today my personalities have been whittled down to bare shadows. Only their voices remain with me. I have learnt to accept them and accept us all living and chatting in my cortex. On good days we are friends, on bad days we are enemies  (especially when I'm tired), there is sometimes just complete overwhelm. But as my strap line says. I am Colourful Carwen, a crowded brain learing to be at peace with itself and its inhabitants!.

Can't sleep

So I thought I would just make sure there was a reason to still be taking a sleep aid a night.

I find myself writing this in a catch twenty two, having not taken my little blue pill at the prescribed time of 9pm I potentially now will loose a whole  nights sleep!!!! Boooo!!!!!

Or, it only bring 1am I could take one it would kick in by 2am. As these little beauties last twelve hours, It would mean loosing half my day tomorrow. Or a the least being awake made of concrete.

That's a basic! The next issue is that my mind is free to play. Humph!!! And I am not alone.

 I have been fighting to try and stop going to the toilet every half an hour as one voice suggests 'your bladder is full'. Another had me obsessed with finding a song from zippy's computer, which I finally listened to by blue toothing it to the steroid in the kitchen.

 And No!!! I do not want to 'go on the exercise bike' till I'm exhausted!!!!! And No!!! I do not want to 'go and check if the fox is pooing outside!' 

I feel resigned can I cope with seven more hours of this. This which will only get weirder and more intense. Why oh why did I not take the pill. Oh yes I remember know because 'what if I'm ok now! What if I'm better! What if people found out! I relyed on pill induced sleep. I am ashamed. Surly I should be better than this!

I fight to make sure I am not just feeling another's pain interceding on some poor disempowered behalf, and so have send emails and texts to make sure everyone is fine. Now paranoid I have to cope with the possibility I woke them all up.

My ears are ringing and banging. Do you know what, writing this has helped. 

Instead of me working up to waking zippy up in another two hours (probably in floods of tears) asking, 'what I should do?', my head is full of people and banging and ringing and suggestive voices!! (Poor zippy,humph!!) and him asking, 'why didn't u take your pill?'.

I choice the blue pill!!!! 

Triggered and overwhelmed.

Overwhelm is a funny thing. Everything is exaggerated, every sense on full and above full. 

Sounds hurt, they are to loud. Crisp packets and ice cream wrappers thunder. Metal gates are as loud as shotgun bullets, crunching shoes on pavements can seem as if the very ground they were built on may crack.

Whispering becomes loud talking, talking becomes shouting, and shouting makes you want to curl up in protective ball.(overwhelmed).

Switching regulating emotional states in any appropriate way seem impossible, far to hurried. It's as if you need everything to go into slow motion to understand or comprehen. 

So standing there shaking the world of touch, taste, sound, reaction, vision all in Incredible Hulk mode! What and earth do you do!

Nothing that's what! ABSOLUTLY nothing! There is another element to this crazed sensitive state of overwhelm and that is the world of paranoia. If the world outside your door is dangerous, if your head is telling you that no one is trust worthily, that everyone will try to kill you, that you are separated, that isolation shut down is the only option. That no one will understand and so you must never rely on anything. What do you do?

Now I could give a text book reply here or I could give you the truth. As I have never been one for being fake I'll give you the honest truth. You sleep, lift your heavy body to do the bare minimum and sleep more! Gradually you become hungry, you try to eat well, and you sleep. Slowly each time you have enough courage to push the boundaries of the paranoid voices and heightened senses they become manageable. 

When you feel safe enough you start to re establish contact with the outside. A trip to the shop a text. You then sleep heavy exhausted day and night, a five minute conversation can be a marathon, and you sleep. 

Safety creeps further into all the damaged pain, meaning returns, thoughts return. People in a non threatening perspective return. You test the waters to look for truth. Eventually a wobbly corner is turned,

you carry on.

Changing a tyre

Recently I have been acutely aware of how much Zippy has to plan ahead for our family. I have, in light of this and the doubling of my meds, been trying to take more pro active responsibility.

The tyre in our car needs changing! I am going to be pro active! I am not going to leave this for Zippy to do!

Boldly I set out to 'Sam Tyres'. I gulp and reason with myself that 'garage land' is a land I understand, I can do this!!!

The car pulls right and immediate right again into the thin blue gates 'Sams Tyres'. The first thing that strikes me is a scene of utter chaos and the noise. 

I have pulled into a car park of Turkish, Afghan, African, Polish, Eastern European 'man land'. Theres a man with velvet red slip on shoes. Another with fake crocodile boots, yet another in sports direct steel toe caps, all covered in plaster dust.. It goes on.

Somewhere in my vague consciousness I can here all the various languages. I'm aware of a very un-English like jumble of cars and vans all trying to be 'next' for a new tyre. Horns are honking and in the din I realise I have parked right in the centre of the gates.

I have no clue how to express or navigate me and my car's needs. I get out, breath and look for eye contact with some one who understands I am a customer.

No one steps forward or reasures me with a helpful glance but I'm bloody minded and I stride up to a ford transit perilously balanced at 45degrees. I demand help from the mechanic by standing in a way that casts a shadow over his work. He speaks first "tyre?" he half shouts in an accent, I'm taken aback so I nod. "Tyre!" He goes on using his fingers "One two three four?" He looks at me questionably.

I'm not sure what to do, aware that velvet red shoe man has turned with interest in his skinny jeans. I hold a finger up "one" I reply to the mechanic who is already strutting purposefully towards our Citreon.

Taking a cigarette out of his top pocket, mechanic man lights up and roams around, "two" he says challengingly. "One" I say firmly, pointing at my offside front tyre. 

He seems disappointed, I feel triumphant that I didn't give in. "Drive your car" he commands pointing at what looks like an impossible path to the garage.

I feel myself freeze, I know I can't do it and my heart pumps. I hold up the keys and squeak "you". He looks disappointed, or at least resigned, and hops in the car.

Honking the horn repeatedly, an incredible vehicle dance starts. Men seem to appear from everywhere. Guiding, suggesting, hustling, whistling, until my car creeps its way through all the others to the front.

I myself am guided into a ply board makeshift hut. A hut containing three white garden chairs. I feel ridiculous,  have lost control and can't leave! My car is now trapped by others and I'm sat in a little 2m by 2m hut with its low roof and walls painted in yellow gloss.

Wondering how to keep calm I struggle to sit. Should I cross my legs, sit forward or sit back. Knowing none if the panic is really relevant, I watch as my car is jurked up and down on the trolley jack and air drill screeches. I remember all my lessons on tyre nut torque and wince. Then I look in horror as at incredible speed and co operation due to yet more honking and gibbering, my car is skimmed out of the garage across the car park and out the gate.

That's it I crumble! I don't know whats happening! Have they stolen my car? Are they test driving it? Where's it gone? I'm supposed to be collecting the kids from school in twenty minutes!!!

Body frozen unable to move, the same mechanic ambles over, "your car is dirty", I stare at him unmoving, "dirty your car", he seems slightly unnerved. I hear from far away a voice exclaim in a very posh voice "oh it's terribly filthy, most disgusting".

The words have come from me only I don't recognise them or the accent at all, dismayed I realise I must try and match that accent, but I'm so confused by it myself that I cannot. 

"Thirty pounds" says the mechanic. Not understanding all I can think is wheres my bloody car! "Thirty pounds for tyre and car wash" he says pointing out of the gate, "you pay card or cash?". 

Now when frozen (those that know me understand), I can not move until some bizarre thing goes ping in my head. However if someone else gives me a command then I will move instantly.

Thankfully mechanic man at this point gave me his full attention, (mostly because I think he thought I couldn't pay), squaring me full in the face he firmly repeated "come pay, come pay" waggling his finger at the bright blue hut opposite the yellow century box.

Having payed by following his blunt instructions, I then walk with concrete filled legs across the endless length of the car park. (Im sure it's tripled in size and velvet red shoe man is still wandering about on high alert). 

Through the blue gates and through a similarly styled yellow pair, in relief I found my car. Clean, sparkling, glossed tyres, polished interior and smelling of sweet spring flowers. 

Shocked, I smiled, marvelled and slid into the drivers seat. Looking at the gleaming gear stick and buffed glass. Where else but Tottenham could you get such a multi cultural experience, a full hand valet and a new tyre for thirty quid?

Conversations

Silence is a very safe space.

Silence is something that's easy to achieve but silence is a mock friend. It is impossible to build bridges out of silence.  Similarly only listening and commenting on what everyone is doing with their lives is equally one sided and isolating.

So what are these things called group conversations. How on earth do they work. I find them terribly confusing but am determined to persevere.

Recently I realised a great longing to be connected to people, however, I have not got much training in the correct ways of making this happen. The following are some of the formulas I have tried to work it all out.

A simple mess.

Sometimes things build up and get overwhelming; the flat crusts up as if it were a piece of metal rusting in the rain (wet cold and unyielding).

The ability to deal with the rusty crust and to know how much effort it's going to take to sand it back to to metal stops me in my tracks (fear creeps in I gulp it down and look again). I know what it needs. 

You need to fill the dents and prime it up. Give it a first thin coat so it doesn't show a drip and then a second (possibly a final third coat) so it ends finished  in a lustrous deep colour of white.

Ah yes! when the flat creeps into a concentrated mess of layers and sub layers. The easy thing to do would be to sit paralysed  and unable to take your finger out of the dyke for fear of drowning. 

Boldly I learned one day from a friend the following: Go into the mess and pick one thing up. Ask yourself "were does this belong?" Take the item and put it away, if it had no 'home' then make it one. 

Remembering

31/1/14

Today I am exhausted and I can't take in any more! A friend once described it as your head being like a bucket with water in it and sometimes theres to much water and the water starts to flow over.

That's where I'm at I think and my bucket has had ten taps on full..... maybe theres not even a bucket or maybe I'm an exploded fire hydrant water uncontrollably everywhere?

So where am I?  In bed trying to calm down and trying to cope with what I've heard, what I'm hearing and what I will hear .

My body is still but  heavy. I'm stuck to my mattress made of concrete.  I'm aware of what feels like bubbling under my skin and tingling. Every now and then  a limb, or over a part of me, will experience a shot of fizzing (inside the bubbles) like Champagne  being poured in a glass.

This is not an unpleasant thing I experience and I used to have it daily. It's a type of paralysis; a deep meditative place thats calm and safe. 

Apart from ringing in my ears,  it's quiet and my mind slows to just filtering suggestions and voices in a way thats singular rather that eight or nine.  Eight or nine conversations  I  can't quite grapple with and one conversation with ringing is the safest quietest place I get.