Born from the smile
Not from the frown
Tumbling forward
Deep in the down
As gravity calls
And I delve low
I realise it then
I’ve no where to go
I ground to the sole
Loosen the steer
And hand you the wheel
My God, my peer
Born from the smile
Not from the frown
Tumbling forward
Deep in the down
As gravity calls
And I delve low
I realise it then
I’ve no where to go
I ground to the sole
Loosen the steer
And hand you the wheel
My God, my peer
“I’ll tell of this love that I know”
She said to me one day
“So please, if your will should allow
Listen and hear what I have to say”
She spoke of the soil cushioning her
The grass tickling her ears
The sunflower towering above her
Yellow soothing and easing her fears
She told me of seeds and their spurt
How spirit moves heavens on earth
And the force that grounds deep roots
Is the same as us knowing our worth
“Don’t forget you are no different”
Her whispers I still hear
“What makes the sunset so beautiful
Is you seeking you, my dear”
And with all this love that I know
From the listened word, not spoken
I conclude that I was, all along
Whole, not once ever broken.
Spirit, lead me someplace to find you
I ask them to make themselves heard
And make it bright, with flames I’ll see in the mist
I waited, for a day or two
Their response I’d so clearly plotted
To which I believed they’d ignored
I prayed to the moon
Clasped within a wishbone cage
“Am I to ask you instead?”
Sunk are my pleas as I notice nothing
So I tug at myself, limbs that entwine senses
I must find a place to curl into these wonders
Surely the fineness of these landscapes know something?
And with broken tissue, I fight on
Nothing came
But soreness, buried
How am I to know the order of this chaos?
The beginnings of inquisition, I cannot remember
But I do remember answers, logical
Yet still the questions poured
And deeper I clawed
But the crawling, it hurt
So I cry to the clouds
“You impersonal temptress!”
Enough is enough
I’m too tired for this precision
Instead, thank you and goodbye
For your love is swollen
And I’ve no time
Thinking time is all I have to waste
But darn it, it was me
Holding on for instruction
And I am bursting at the seams with knowing
Harnessing needs
Silencing birth pains
And thank god, spirit transcends suffocation
I asked for forgiveness, for the blaming and taming
But not before my cells resonate
With the unfolding of bestowed blessings
Mastery in motion
To see myself as that
In the dirt, with blood on my knees
And pimpled skin and bones that ache from dancing in the dark
Brilliance is what I am
I am the perceiver of every sign I need
And I’ll dance as one
With those I’d once requested reassurance
No longer asking
But thankful to know already.
I saw you
Above the tiles that promised to keep out the rain
Your eyes were opal, that’s how I remembered them
And the sun was always setting but your hair was more golden than the light
I sat crossed legged
Like a child waiting to hear a fairytale
Your nails were short
But not bitten, you had been working on the land
And your fingers were stained by the soil
Or the cigarettes you used to smoke
You told me smoking was bad for your health
I assumed you stopped, you never told me you had
And we were there
Saying very little to each other but then we never did speak much
My joints loosened as you spoke and your rhythm pulsed within me
Your voice
Still, those whispers caught in the tide
Are your way
Go North you told me
Catch the red berries
Place them on the ground around your shivering body
Breathe into your cold palms
And let your warmth remind you
That you are enough
I called you a witch
Because I couldn’t pen you down
You were defiant against description
Beyond the madness of sanity
I was haunted by you
And as I prayed to understand you
Your craft I wished to home
I was gifted with an empty note
And a furious breeze
That beckoned towards the northern sea
Keep moving, I hear
Don’t stiffen with the wanting
As then you’d be like those
And I, I hear
Have become, already.
Bury me where the brambles grow
Sliced by unforgiving thorns
Let my tears crumble
Like salt drops repelling the slugs
But let them come
And leave silver trails across my breasts
Whose majesty I’ve only imagined
Let me feel the break in my bones
And scream as discs slip and roots wilt
So shallowly planted by frightened fingers
I have known to ask of moulding discreetly, to feel common amongst the mass
But my shedding mimics no other
What comes up, too big to fit
And the dirt under my nails
The dirt now choking my rusty cords
Feeds the hunger I feel, surpressing the swell
Full on words I’ve never spoken
And they claw deeper into memories, ripened words sculpt outside of me
Developed in your world
But fallen in mine
I am calling you, death of a stranger
I’ve known what I’m allowed
But forgot why I yearned for less
For a naked me, stripped bare for saviours sake
I request that my core, sore and bruised, may rot
Welcomed back home
Please bury me where chunks can be bitten
Where I can feel worthy enough to feed the worms
And grow again, live again
Die, again
Because I’m a woman
I weep
Unapologetically
I feel
Unapologetically
Wisdom soaks my morning prayers
Forget intellect
I woke up
Aware
I did that, no one else
Stifled by words, sometimes
But not my words
And to know the difference
Is key.
Because I’m a woman
I bleed
To shed
Not die
I bleed to renew
To birth
Again and again
To birth new linings
And cushion precious beads
Because I’m a woman
I may worry what others think
When hair blesses my body
And I leave it alone
But not worrying enough
To intervene
With art
A rawness
Flourishes
Stripping layers of education
Of how one should be
In being
Fuck should
Is
Is enough
Because I’m a woman
I delight myself
My own touch
Stroking flesh
My breasts, enjoyed
Just because
It feels good
My shell responds so sweetl
To me
Never alone
Each night it is me who brings love to bed
Because I’m a woman
I sting
When I want to
I fight
When I need to
I pull myself apart
Rip chunks of rotten doings
Rotten sayings
From the core of me
Yet my own forgiving hands
Catch misshapen identities
To bring home
To sculpt back
There is nothing insignificant about me
Because I am a woman.
My veins are full of iron
I’m not so sweet as you think
When my shadow pours acid rain
Don’t be mad that I muddied your pink
My eyes reflect what you want
To be as you want me to be
When I am the way that I am
Don’t act disappointed in me
My hands are to fondle this earth
To feel what my heart needs to grow
If I pluck something different to you
Don’t tell me I’m wrong and don’t know
My breasts will swell each month
And my body is mine to bleed
When I choose to nurse only myself
Don’t say that I pay you no heed
My legs they have shape and much strength
To explore lands my soul can call home
If you steer me someplace I hate
I’ll walk my next chapter alone.
Arms raised
To coast the rippling beat
Hair a mess from the scorching heat
Sweat dripping like rain from the roses leaf
Drenched is the crevice of her porous reef
With bare feet
Her toes skim the ground
Fingers clenched to her Venus mound
A violent thrust punches her core
She coils
She arches
Releases her roar
Skin like golden fields
Craved
Devoured
Enjoyed through the night into morning hours
Hands catching the fire
Branded with burns
Scars deeply set as she listens, she learns
A feral like creature
So skilfully wild
Taught from a knowing held dear since a child
She dances
Her smile salutes the moon
She dances
Hips sway unique to her tune
Labels, I don’t like them. However, being a vegan (yep, a label) does warrant a need for labels on certain foods, i.e. has a cheeky pinch of milk powder gotten into this whole-food power bar, or is there animal bi-product in this bottle of wine? (why ALL wines are not vegan is beyond me). I try to live as simply as possible, not thinking about designer labels and trying desperately not to label and judge others due to their political views or dislike of animals (although in my eyes, animals are the best)
So there you go, I can’t deny that labels have taken on a vital role in our society. We are labelled as soon as we are named as children. We’re labelled at school to help with the testing system, seen as mass rather than individuals. We’re labelled at work with our job titles. We’re labelled depending on the colour of our skin or the god we worship. Labels are un-escapable, not just in the modern world, they’re part of our history and traditions too. It distinguishes left from right, the ‘good’ from the ‘bad’, it can give people a reason to feel powerful, the hierarchy of society – high to low. It’s safe to say we invest much of our sense of self into the labels bestowed upon us, or the labels we willingly adopt to fit in, merging with a tribe that suits us best. However, the most damaging labels can be the ones we give ourselves, building a limiting story and often being so far removed from our souls purpose that ‘failure’ is the most believed label, even before we give life a good shot.
However, over the past few months I’ve been discovering there are moments when labelling yourself can be the most healing decision, the only decision in order to surrender into feelings. To label the pain in order to admit it, no matter how dark, this can often be the only way to move forward.
“What’s happening to me, why am I feeling like this, am I going mad? Oh shit, I’m a crazy woman!” Leaving ourselves open, like a free for all for every emotion, not knowing why or how or what we’re experiencing can be the scariest thing of all. This has been my reaction to life for the past… well many years now. I’ve not wanted to label any of my thoughts, I’ve been leaving my front door open for a miracle to casually float into my erratic space and clean up the trash I’m pilling high. All has been a whirlwind because of my refusal to admit to myself; to lean into my discomfort, to scoop up the rising issue that I’ve been battling over the years. The truth of the story is, the agoraphobia I once ‘suffered’ many years ago has returned and it ain’t going anywhere, not right now anyway.
I didn’t want to admit this to myself as I’ve been here before, riding the road to recovery when I was 15. Being labelled agoraphobic at such a young age was one of the most difficult paths ever I’ve taken and this is why I don’t like labels, this is the story I’ve been running from, trying so frantically to erase.
“You can’t do this again, you’ve already battled this, you’ve conquered this already so don’t let it come back, you’re too old to be going through childhood trauma again… GET OVER IT! You have to, your future depends on it” Yes, I’ve been that harsh on myself and when I see those words written, just as I hear them in my head, I know I’d certainly never speak to another being like that, so why so hard on myself? This is why writing is so healing and marvellous on many levels. Reading the hateful words I genuinely felt, seeing them on the screen has been the dose of medicine I so greatly needed.
Battle, that’s the word I needed to see, battling myself, battling the labels, battling my way through life so I don’t have to sit through that pain I once persevered. Battling against myself. What craziness to be at war with ourselves, yet it can be the easiest habit to fall into, so readily done each and every day.
I did battle agoraphobia when I was young; I refused to go to school, as it became such an impossible task. I couldn’t socialise, I felt weak, pathetic, the black sheep as I couldn’t do all the things my friends were doing to live a ‘normal’ teenage life. I was at home, all the time. I was reading about alternative methods to heal (blessed with a mum who believed in the holistic path, who shared her knowledge and who loved me unconditionally) as I refused to take drugs, knowing even then that mood suppressants were not the fix I needed. However, as my whole family was included in this battle and we were being inspected regularly by social services, the need for my recovery was getting stronger. The law instructed that I had to get back into the classroom so it became a necessity to find a way to immerse myself back into the scary world, even if that meant jumping before I was ready.
Every effort was made to mask the open wound; I had GCSE’s to take and due to persistent reminders from the external world that I’d surely fail in life if I didn’t take my exams, I had no choice but to plaster up and face the world. I hated being the sensitive girl; the girl who wouldn’t go to the pub or the sleazy clubs that seemed so vital in the girl-snogs-boy process (it was the 90’s, snogging was our favourite word). I didn’t understand why I felt this way, even after a year of therapy the mystery of this complex mind matter continued. I’d been classed as mentally ill and I needed to be like everybody else to prove I was no longer sick.
I see now that although I did recover in order to continue with school, finish my exams and go onto university, I was running off the wrong fuel, adrenaline was overriding the pain, I’d planted my seeds in completely the wrong conditions, they were suffocating.
I did get back into the world, I did make it to the pubs and clubs and drink vodka most weekends even though it tasted like every sip was stripping away a part of my intestinal wall. Although I was back in the game, I’d made it, I’d battled an illness that was only working against me, my soul was deeply aware that I was so far removed from the real ‘me’. The cracks were deepening and I was craving something else… of course at the time, I didn’t know what.
The label of agoraphobia that I’d once found so debilitating, so isolating and uncomfortable is one I never thought I’d be facing again. “I can do it, I’m powerful, I’m bigger than my fears, I’m strong, I’m strong, I’m strong” Yes, I am all those things but I am also sensitive and shy and scared sometimes and I cry about things that happened over 15 years ago. And that is all OK. I’m done with battling, war never leads to peace, war never leads to forgiveness and love and acceptance.
So here I am, I’m labelling myself as agoraphobic, not because I want to slump into the pit of despair about the difficulties in my life at the moment or feed the struggle I face being in busy, public places. It’s not because I want to throw my hands in the air and say, ‘you got me agoraphobia, I give up, I’m not trying anymore’. I’m ready to step into this label again because I want to honour the girl I was, who fought so hard to become the woman I am today. I’m honouring her tears and pleas for self-love when all she could feel was shame and guilt and distance. I want to breathe hope and compassion into every moment of panic; I want to cradle the inner child that never recovered properly, who never got to express her true feelings or desires. I want to edit each page, adding words of strength next to words of fear, to become the healer I wanted to become before the filler of quick fixes hardened across the seeping wound.
I’m labelling myself agoraphobic as sometimes you have to take full ownership of something before you can let it go.
Agoraphobia is only one part of my story, it’s part of my now but that doesn’t mean it has to be written into my future. All I can do right now is inhale light and exhale acceptance until this chapter ends. If anxiety must live alongside my true being then all I can do is promise my soul that I’ll continue to listen and never declare war on myself, ever again.