on ringing doorbells

 On Thursday i ended up at the nation on southbank, leaving the theatre at 11pm, my phone dead and no house keys. my flatmates were all in, this wasn't the end of the world. an inconvenience for them if they were asleep but not the end of the world. but i fucking spiralled. i had a panic attack on the tube, i stood up on the empty carriage because i didn't deserve to sit down, thinking about all the stress i would cause everyone, how it would be the end of my life in some small way. i was reminded of being blackout drunk and high and stumbling home with no phone along the thames, somehow finding my way home. it reminded me of the years i spent doing that in my hometown, sleeping outside because i was too fucked and ashamed to go in, blacking out in the car. i couldn't go in. i had already planned where i would sleep outside, which bit was safest on the street. but my legs took me to my flat and after much hand wringing, for one second i thought: what would i do if this was one of the girls? and the truth was: answer the door. let them in. be inconvenienced but not furious. and so i rang the bell. and the craziest thing - they let me in. all i had to do was ring the doorbell and they let me in. 

AA felt like the first doorbell i ever rang. and i shared that today at my meeting (one that takes place in the morning, in the woods) and everyone loved it and i felt lighter and reminded to keep on ringing doorbells. i deserve to go in.

gratitude in march

new macbook pro 

cosy room with warm lights

time at home with mum and chunk to rest

m's baby news

vapes

sobriety

audiobooks at lavender bedtime 

first term second year almost completed

bali birthday plans

uncle d

my flatmates who feel like family 

no makeup days in bed 

flexibility of time and space 

macbeth 

baby beginnings of shadow work 

voices notes with n 

dove pampering body wash 

cerave body lotion 

olivine atelier beachy oil 

the putting down of the hatchet 

b6 size journals 

whiter teeth 

e-books 

sunday dinners with a,c,y 

old favourites with new perspectives 

aveeno oat facial serum 

MY LIFE

MY MOTHER

EVERYTHING.

Packing and unpacking the dream room

 so my little dream room looks gorgeous and open and fresh and cosy and warm and cool. i've tidied and cleaned it all up for the room viewing tonight and this week because A is moving out. i'm switching into her old room, something i didn't know if i wanted to do at first but the more i thought about it the more i did. her room is bigger, way more storage with a much bigger window. i saw it today in the late afternoon winter light and it was all bright and gold and i knew i'd made the right decision. but still, it will be the end of some kind of era in that little room. i got sober in that bedroom, i started school in that bedroom, got over C in that bedroom, did all kinds of trauma work in that bedroom. i did a lot of picking the weeds and keeping the flowers in that bedroom. and i'm ready to begin again. i'm ready to start afresh. i take the dream room wherever i go. the dream room is my personal bedroom - like my own personal studio. i pack and unpack it. but i'm so happy. that room is gonna be my new little blossoming. i can't wait to keep growing new stems, to keep on blossoming and blossoming and blossoming. 

and nothin hurts anymore i feel kinda free

 This Christmas i have reminded myself a couple of times that it is simply a day and i do not have to do everything in power to be seen to be witnessed, that i exist even if it's just me and my mum in the living room that we've spent twenty years in. and it helped. everything is different and coming home for christmas with n like we've always dreamed about - we got out and we choose when we come back - has been beautiful. i have nothing to run from and i know full well that life will continue to grow and develop and be beautiful and one day i won't be here, doing this christmas, with j & g on christmas eve in the same way. i think we will always come back to that christmas eve but i think sometime in the future my mum will be in a bigger, safer, warmer house. with high ceilings and big windows for light. and she'll have someone to love and appreciate her, who makes her howl with laughter and who drives her wherever she wants to go. who keeps her safe. and i'll come back to a bigger christmas, with a bigger family, with my own family. and it will be even more beautiful than this is. 

my hair is blonde and long, my skin is good because it treat it good, i'm a couple stones lighter and fit into some beautiful jeans again, some beautiful jumpsuits and dresses. i'm vaping too much, but i'm christmas warm sober and i'm dancing every day, moving my body and feeling it without judgement for the first time in maybe ever. 

i am so grateful for all of this. for my two homes, for my sobriety, for my mum saying i was the best she's ever seen me on christmas eve, that i laughed the most i ever have, even though normally i'm two sheets to the wind. i'm grateful for N, for M, for my girls. i'm grateful for all that's happened. i'm grateful for my car and my cat son. i'm grateful for all of it. for school and school friends. for all of it. 

Scraps

 party girl was a character, a fun, naughty, dangerous one. it stopped people seeing the real me. which drinking and using did too. the way a cold glass and a fag stopped my hands feeling empty, drugs and alchol stopped me feeling empty. i was a character. but a shadow, a real ghost of a girl, a pencil sketch outline of myself. 

i went to the piano works last night in the west end with myself. scraps of it, but scraps of my real self. i hold the scraps in my hands and offer them to the others. i can give you this little piece: this little piece of me loves paul simon, this little piece doesn't know what to do with her hands, this little piece didn't hear you the first time, this little piece isn't very sure of herself anymore. but they're real this time. there's something real this time. in the few hours i spent with my friends last night they got more of me than i used to give in a whole week. sober, you can see me now.