*REPOST pour ma Gandmere and for feeling helpless*
For she’s a jolly good fella… For she’s…. a she is..
not even a fella
She’s 83 today.
Big deal, right?
what is so special about her lying in a state care home in a periwinkle neglige?
She is someone I dread going to see -every single week.
I won’t stop going – even when every at every visit, I have to protect every orifice from catching the decay lingering in the air. The food smells like an institution – a broth of flavoured purgatory.
This is not the final destination- I will take the unknown every time.
Staring death in the face – eye to eye.
She fights with every breath.
‘Tu veux du jus?’ says, I – mentally fumbling about for something to fill the time. I pour her a glass of watered-down juice.
she grunts and moans in feral tones – I assume she means oui.
Usually, I am really comfortable at free flowing . This doesn’t flow so well. I’m in the thick of it. It’s a plot,alright. I’m standing too close to it to fill it with flowery words. but I have to get this out of my head.
My head shouts:
Over and over arrows laced with commands to make me revolt or dissolve.
I’m not so sure anymore.
I’ve got no other vices.
Thought about having a drink, taking more valium than I should but the outcome is always the same.
So, I sit here trying to process my thoughts. Align my feelings – they are like every kind of liquorice all sorts, except for the actual plain ones. The ones I look for when I want a taste of Life.
You don’t always get what you want. Well, you may have a winning streak for a while but you don’t know where you are truly going to end up, do you?
Sure. we have goals – Do you know with absolute certainty that no obstacle will come in the way and prevent that from happening?
Hey, Don’t stop the fight. We need more of you.
I’m not here to put you on a downer.
Tripwire, I fall into the firing line. A spray of bullets rains through me. Visualise it on a time-lapse sequence. Don’t call me a hero. I am a coward.
I see her fight.
83 years old.
She can’t remember,
she can’t even walk.
The rings she has been put through. It’s not evil it’s truly wicked.
She is so divine if only I could make her all fine.
Skin flawless. A wooden doll. so tiny. She has so much fire.
Burn in hell, Weak? they said.
She had it easy. (Life.) She didn’t for the fucking record.
Stop the record!
Now I can take the needle and jab any mother fucker in the eye, who dares to judge her with their hypocritical, artificial, over consumed minds.
It’s like like the song – easy like a Sunday morning.
We all get at least one of those days – some have a more fortunate hand.
When will this be over?
When is she going to die?
Another person, I love and could have done more for.
No regrets! the little sparrow bursts out a melody enough to make me weep.
Here I am bawling – feverishly knitting a blanket infused with Tsunami waves, suffocating myself, wallowing- staring at her – All I want to do is start hollering.
If I do I know I will get collared. One apprehension is enough for one day.
I get to be alone with her.
She sucks up at least half a beaker of juice.
I love you, gran’
Her eyes glisten – a meadow dew-effect. We connected.
She knew I knew she knew I knew.
It’s that befuddling.
I couldn’t hear the radio, I couldn’t see the lampshade glow. All that energy directed me to focus on her mouth.
she came out with the most grateful and graceful,
THANK YOU – I have ever heard. English is not even her native language,
to me – her own granddaughter.
Thanking me for giving her some juice. Seeing her an hour a week. It’s all sluice.
Drink up your purified juice. Punishment does not lie.
I ran out of that place- discombobulated.
Sometimes, I feel nothing. Other times, I am a gibbering wreck but I always have to collect and that is why I am a respected member of the poker face club.
I have my own Ma who needs me. My daughter.
I’ve made some crazy bets.
A lifetime of betting and I see only now, how important it is that I need to take care of myself.
There is a struggle – warfare -conflict within me.
Not thin enough to be hospitalised but thin enough to warrant concern. I still get appraising looks for this form I inhabit in now.
It awakens the Furies inside me. No, you need to accept me for who I am. Whatever shape I transform into.
I need you to. I need me to.
She is about 5 stone. She eats a lot – can’t put on weight. What a fucking paradox.
I restrict. I know I am putting on weight. I deliberately don’t do cardio exercise anymore.
I do walk a lot -like them L.A. girls. Power walk my way up ‘panic attack ‘hill and finally dwindle down into a corner. Shallow breathing. It’s better than hyperventilating and heaving.
Something to do with birth.
I have everything I need to get obliterated- fuck I could OD – I’ve always been the ultimate elusive escapist of life.
I had to talk to myself.
Me? Talking sense to myself.
So it was my Gran’s birthday today.
She is still clinging on to life. She is not hanging out with her fellow homies in the lounge downstairs making cupcakes or doing puzzles – listening to Polly-the ultimate nutcracker, sitting in her favourite chair and swearing. Put her hands down her pants to feel something. Nobody else cares.
I can’t swallow. These are not the most sprightly of places to visit.
How much longer has she got?
How much longer do we all get?
I wake up every morning to life- I stare at the innocence in the eyes – it’s reflected back to me in my daughter’s eyes.
Still, I have moments when I contemplate dicing with my own life. gambling it, frittering it away.
To have this kind of raw, exposed insight. To know better – is self-flagellation.
To sit with a belly full of food and a head and heart full of thoughts and emotions
and wonder …
I’ve done that far too much.
Escapology trick 101.
I wonder why I won’t accept my lot.
Am I the only one?
I’m not convinced. I’m sceptical like that.
I mean sure I’m special but c’ mon……..
I have issues- being a narcissist is not one of them – unless I am having I look like shit – no one liked my selfie post today.
Then it’s all about me mimicking others emotions to get what I want.
I’m not overly whimsical with this post.
On a lighter note me and my husband ( bless him) we fucked so hard yesterday.
We had a round two because I wanted my pleasure.
So I fucked him good and proper. I role-played, Gepetto, in retrospect.
I wasn’t bothered about his needs. For once.
It’s actually a kind of breakthrough for someone like me.
My Nose is not growing.
I could say so much but I may embarrass him. Oh, hang on. I do that all the time. That’s why he married me. I am truly one of a kind and so is he.
A perfect match.
Ladies, you know how when you have been fucked ( I’m not talking about making love and a bit of slap and tickle) I mean when you wake up the morning after?
Cliche phrase alert!
‘John Wayne’ has come out as a woman. It’s all good but its the after-effects of pedalling on a bike, cards t t ticking in the wind, bells tinkering the first time – all that bruising.
Serious bicycle abuse.
My Man- is hurting today. I’m laughing. I’m evil.
Don’t worry he enjoyed it. He keeps making sure I don’t forget it. 😀
Of course, I was on top.
My ride – my rules.
So I’m gonna leave it there – I think I’ve covered some pretty big themes.
Sex, Life, Death, Abuse.
Feeling vulnerable now. Do you mind if I put my armour of skin back on?
If you made it this far – fucking well done. Not patronising you. I promise.
Not my usual style of writing.
Life is short – make it sweet. Stay on top of the game for as long as you can.
These are my words.
* Inspired by my Life, Dementia, thoughts*
I’ve been a bit of a mess – mood wise – this last month. I know I am the only person who can change this.
So time to move forward and look to the future.
THANK YOU Morgan @ UNIQUELOVEHARMONEY for this awesome tag. I love your heart and spirit. You write straight from the heart and you are just a wonderful spirit I have connected with in the Word Press community. I have been saving it for a day like today. When I need to give myself a kick up the back side.
SIMPLE HAPPY RULES
1. Name 5 things that make you happy
2. Name 5 songs that make you happy
3. Nominate 5 bloggers to continue the tag
DAISY IS HAPPY BECAUSE:
I’m co producing and co facilitating my first Depression and Anxiety workshop for Parents, in Boothtown, U.K. , with Healthy Minds tomorrow 27/06. I did most of the ground work before the wedding and I can’t wait to hook up and finalise details and then roll on Wednesday and BOOM! We get to do something creative and hopefully helpful.
I have officially been given the go ahead to do the 5 day 9-5 pm WRAP Facilitator training in Mirfield , in September with Hope charity. I have done this 12 week WRAP course myself and I now get a chance to turn other people onto the power of WRAP- CHECK OUT WHAT WE DID .I am beyond excited!
WRAP PROMO VIDEO
I still have motivation to keep fit and do exercise. I had a really good one hour session this morning and my mood has lifted a little bit more.
I’m moving to France in the next two years. A new start. I a proud to be a part of the EU. I spent two days crying after the result. I am a humanist. I hate manipulation of the working class people and then them being told that they exercised their democratic right to vote. I love the French public because they give their government hell. The public demand to have their voices heard and I want to live in a place where my voice is truly heard and actioned
Finally I am married. I have a few more pictures from the day that just makes me smile every time I look at them. The people who were there made it even more epic!
Here’s what is getting me to smile:
FIVE SONGS THAT MAKE DAISY HAPPY
THE SONG I DEDICATED TO MY GAZ AND OUR FIRST AND ONLY WEDDING DANCE
EMPOWERING AND GODDAMN BOLD!
MY FUCK EVERYTHING SONG
JUST A GREAT TUNE
LOVE SNOOP – YEAH, IT’S SEXIST BUT I HAVE GOT A SENSE OF HUMOUR. – I’M A SUCKER FOR A DUDE WHO CAN MAKE ME LAUGH … SHOOT ME!
I could go on all day with music….
Oh okay – One more
5 BLOGS THAT NEVER FAIL TO MAKE ME SMILE – TAG YOU ARE IT!
- QUEEN BEE – I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC– a great friend
- SIMPLY ETTA D.– someone who motivates me
- LINDA G. HILL -Always inspires me to write
- CHARLIE ZERO – The sickest poet I know. The biggest heart too x
- Send Sunshine -Again she never fails to lift my spirits
- EVERYONE ELSE I FOLLOW AND AM YET TO!
‘Record. Ready to engage. This is ED500, the time 6 a.m., 12/02/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets (equating to the dosage of 1500 calories) taken. Weight: stable’
I close my eyes and open them, and when I look into my black bordered mirror, I see me but a younger, naïve me staring back. I inhale and exhale creating a crescent shaped smile. My hair shines vibrantly, my face: doll like. My mouth flushed, it appears to have taken on a bitten nuance of natural rouge. I smile to display ivory white teeth only a poacher could appreciate. In my world, white teeth are a rarity on someone from my generation. It has taken too many of us. I caress my prepubescent size breasts and so does she. Nipples aroused by the naked air. Small boned, fragile, envied. If Eve indeed took Adam’s rib, raw-boned: it should be on display. There is nothing more invigorating than this reflection. There is nothing more exquisite to be hold. That is all it is: a former reflection. I close my eyes and then open them again. I am back in my bathroom. The first course of treatment started five months ago. I have responded well and I have been able to observe the many seductive versions it shows of me, without resorting to previous extreme coping mechanisms. It was not always like this.
‘The starch whites’ snatched me away from my entire world because of it. Desperate to claw back some control of my life, I signed up to this new radical method of treatment for it. They inserted a hippocampus-morphic capture camera (H-MCC) into my brain. It creates recollections of all of a human’s senses. I only need to say ‘record’ to activate it. This is a part of the rules of engagement. There is nothing more innovative in terms of therapy treatments for it.
‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time is 6 a.m., the date 12/03/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets consumed.’
Numbers flitter up and down. I look straight ahead, my feet push firmly onto the scales. Like a corset it dares me to breathe .The difference in numbers is a knife-edge in reality, but it will try to emphasise how little control I have if the numbers goes up. Today it is stable. This is attempt 7. I close my eyes and for a split second the scent of oranges linger.
I open my eyes and I am blitzed by an array of green, red, and yellow coloured fruit. I pose and I am poised, in front of that golden gilded hall mirror. The reflection is of me, in the original inpatient stay clinic, before this modern therapy treatment was possible. Before the pandemic rise of it. Like the eye of a hurricane, it mischievously lulled a large portion of members of our community into a state of security, then sucked us up with one sinister intake of breathe. My reflection captures me in all my nakedness. My hair swathes over my scrawny shoulders and breasts. A pair of hands comes up from behind me, pushes away my tresses and cups my breasts. A deep throb pulsates in-between my inner thighs. I cannot fight it. I submit. My head tilts back; my mouth opens to reveal my tongue. It is like a red carpet, awaiting for a celebrity to enter. It is him. His dreadlocks tinkle with multi coloured beads. His tongue commands to explore mine as if it is a well-versed master of sorcery. I tremble from the hot expulsion trickling down my inner thighs .My eyes remould into wide crop circles. I realise that it has tricked me again. I spit out the clustered black mob of grapes into the bowl of fruit. I only have a moist stain as a reminder of his existence.
‘The time is 06:35 a.m. The location: bathroom. It feels more aggressive – not dormant as the manual states is what should be happening.’
‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time 6 a.m., the date is 12/04/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets taken. Weight: stable. This is attempt 8.’
I close my eyes and open them. I see an ashen me spiralling further and further away as the powder compact mirror is whacked out from my hands. I can’t see my reflection, so I start furiously tapping on my collarbone, urging it to jut out that bit more. Gristle grinds against gristle. My knees knock together repeatedly: agonisingly tender from the friction. It takes more pain to make me feel. I can hold my head up that little bit higher. A surge of power brushes a justified half -smile up my cheek, as they wheel me out of the ambulance and into ‘the starch whites’ base. I peer into my old inpatient room with its rosy shaded walls. The ‘starch whites’ are preparing for that time again. The battle with them every mealtime. Their lips are moving but I can’t hear them. My eyes veer to the sight of my legs- splayed wide on the bed. In between my legs, reveals the man’s body, which seemingly hustles in time to some primal, instinctive beat. His tongue flicks in and out of my moist swelling vulva. My inner thighs quiver. Combined sweat drips collecting evidence of our lust. The flicking escalates in speed. My chest rises and falls in breathily rhythm. I open my eyes and he is gone! Another trick! On demand it projectile vomits grotesque abstractions out of drink supplements and gourmet food; flung and hung pretentiously along the walls of that room. Cups, plates, knives are thrown about. It takes three of them to get that tube down me. Three!
‘Record. This is ED500; it is 2 a.m., the 13/04/2025 Location: my bedroom. There is an almighty sound of bells clanking. I am trying to do the breathing exercises from the prescription manual app but my eyes won’t register the letters.’
The contained puddle of letters on the screen splatter as my tablet falls to the floor. The memory is too potent. My back arches involuntarily, my eyes will not open fully. Seizing up, they flicker upwards into the half-moon gloom of my eyelids. DING- A LING! A bell rings. Saliva sloshes down the sides of my chin. My back is set against a cool wall; I look up and around and find myself in an unidentified location. The walls, the flooring- everything is a shade of white. ‘The starch whites’ hover around the location in an aura of purity. I fiddle with my zip jean and pull down my T-shirt as I try to cover a mound of excess flesh. I join the procession of the group gathered around the bell ringer. The wait commences. A stomach grunts hoggishly. Mine. My eyes sweep across the group hoping no one has heard it. In total, there are fifty of my kind. We all have the same scraggy arms and legs and distended stomach. We do not queue politely, but circle around the bell ringer like a pack, collectively growling, from the pit of our stomach, slavering: ready to attack. It does not do political correctness. It does not like conformity. Nobody wants to look too eager. It is part of the game. Parlour tricks. One involuntary twitch in the ringer’s direction and the game is lost. The bell rings again. I look up, it is him. He winks at me. It rages from him seeing me ready to engage in combat in the ‘labyrinth of edibles’. It gains so much power in numbers. Deafening whispers ripple around the group. Those that cover their mouths with their hands only heighten the grand faux pas of my behaviour. The smirking turns to vaporous laughter. I watch that retro version of myself, head bowed, arms folded, shoulders hunched, walk alone and into hostile territory- a vulnerable outsider for betraying it.
‘The time is 3 am, location: my bedroom. Urgent memo! I should be having more control over my flashbacks not less. ED500 needs to make contact’
‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time 6 a.m., the date is 13/05/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets consumed. Weight 0.2 grams more than 13/04/2025.’
I close my eyes and when I open them, I am naked and in what appears to be a floor to ceiling mirrored dressing room. Reflecting back in every mirror is us! The man stands behind me- pulling me in every direction. Every angle stabs at my eyes, repeatedly. One stab- that’s me! Another stab –no, that’s me! What am I looking at? An arm. The shards of deceptive flesh wound my eyeballs. An almighty shriek surrenders from my lungs; I see a pair of hands reach up to cover my eyes. Is this real? I grab an arm and pinch it, hard. The skin feels dimpled, not in that artistic stippled kind of way but in that bumpier cellulite fashion.
‘The time is 06:15 am location: bathroom. I feel out of control, I repeat I feel out of control. Urgent contact needs to be made.’
Dr Owle presses the pause button.
‘You have stuck rigorously to the manual?’ – I see that flashback projected onto a wall- paused and very much in control.
‘Well, of course.’ I blather, ‘That’s why I signed myself up for this whole spectacle. You told me that I would be able to control the memory and the sensory triggers. I can’t just flick the pause button on like you’ve just done’
‘The results when adhered to correctly have shown a 100 % success rate. Today is the final attempt. Are you still willing to engage voluntarily? ‘He looks in my direction. I nod sagely.
‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time is 09:00 a.m., the date is the 13/06/2025, location: Professor Owle’s office, two feedamile tablets consumed at 6:00 am this morning. My weight is 0.3 grams heavier than 13/05/2025.’
Final attempt. I close my eyes and open them. Astonished, I see a pair of muscular legs, a toned stomach adorned by a hint of hipbone. My wrists have a nodule of bone on each side, giving it a certain elegance. There is a fleeting recognition of this body. A fragmented puzzle of reflections pull together as natural as gravity. The magnetic pull, reassures, in the way that waking up before landing in a fall-dream- reassures. In the mirror reflection, I see him. A bolt of nerves implode in my brain, splintered nerves carve furiously.
‘What do you see?’ It’s the Owls-no, the professor’s voice: the professor is an owl? My mind steeps in ambiguity.
Then an almighty pressure forces my head to drop backwards from the weight of it. My hands instinctively go to touch the intruding protrusion. I catch sight of my reflection in the orange oblong mirror. My head is mal formed. I look like some freak, like some helpless victim with radiation side effects from some way out, imaginary town in Chernobyl. Grievous puss amalgamated to create a massive abscess.
‘I’m disfigured’, I scream. I feel his presence in the room as he moves closer to my puss-filled growth. Stretched, overcooked, fibrous skin. Heated puss bubbles away inside. He holds my head up.
‘It’s the man. I don’t know what he is going to do. He has something in his hand. He is going to kill me.’
Tortured screams echo around the space. Another voice penetrates through the pain.
‘Have you seen him before? Look properly. ’ it is Professor Owle.
‘No, I can’t bear to look .I’m repulsive!’
‘Don’t give up. Open your eyes and look in the mirror, tell me what you see.’
‘Something has gone wrong. I’ve consumed too much. The experiment has failed.’ I weep.
‘This is professor Owle. Tell me what you see!’ he orders.
‘Tell him my name’ the man urges, his dreadlocks shake off a familiar laugh.
‘He wants me to name him.’ I howl in pain, ‘He’s jabbed a needle into me! He has jabbed a needle in my head. He is extracting the puss. It wants more power. I will not name it. Never! The truth is what I‘ve believed from the start. You give it a name and it automatically assumes power’, I scream.
‘Look at me. Please!’ the dread locked man implores.
SLAM! A car skids unlawfully across the black ice.
‘Who are you, what do you want?’ a tone of hysteria.
BANG! Car tyres leave vicious tracks marks on a deer.
‘Are there any letters forming in your mind? The professor inquires.
CRASH! A body smashes through the windscreen.
‘Yes, but I’m too afraid to let them form. Abort the experiment please, Professor.’
The body lands with a nondescript THUMP. Blood marinades the icy snow.
‘You need to fight it.’, Professer Owle cajoles me.
My eyes burst open like a ruptured pea pod. I look into the mirror and this is what I see. It is me –a, hysterical woman with savage hair, screaming in despair I take both my hands and scrape my fingernails down both sides of my face. My grey slate- coloured eyes, dilated, search with hope. The man’s hand goes to brush away the tears trickling done my face. My hand goes up frantically trying to scratch away at the face etched with wretched wrinkles.
‘It is an older me. The growth has gone.’ Fearfully I take in the rest of my body. Again, I see reflected the same pair of muscular legs, a toned stomach adorned by a hint of hipbone. My wrists have a nodule of bone on each side- Holy shit, how can this be? This reflection is the missing piece to a surprising feeling of unity. I look over to him– he smiles. I look into his eyes- all I can see is admiration.
‘It’s me! Not perfect-far from it. But it is me!’ The man leans in to kiss my neck then his reflection turns around and leaves the room.
‘Very good, now carry on –what is the man saying? Interjects the Professor.
‘Professor, he has gone. ’, I turn away and around from the mirror to make sure that the mirror has not deceived me.
Gone. It’s me. Professor Owle. It’s me! It is Vesna. My name is Vesna Numeral’ I babble out.
‘Vesna? If this is Vesna tell me who the man is? Professor Owle enquires dubiously.
A wave knocks my emotions. I buckle. The reeds of guilt tangle around my legs pulling me down to my knees
‘Oh my God! No, it’s Raymond.’ I cry.
‘Bravo Vesna. Well done. You did it- you engaged until the very end. We can finally start the de-briefing process.’ The professor hugs me.
‘I’m recovered? ’ my tone incredulous. ‘All he tried to do was help me recover from it.’
Yes, Vesna. It was an accident…’
‘I couldn’t control.’ I conclude.
‘We now work together to start the process to rehabilitate you back into society.’
‘My family. My friends.’ A medley of images calibrate in my mind. ‘I will never go backwards, never! I have to keep ticking forwards’
‘Life will have a purpose again,’ the professor smiles
One year later and numbers still hold this world together. I can never completely get away from numbers. It might not possess me but it still haunts me every so often by catching me off- guard. These days a brief encounter with my reflection consistently reveals my broken half capped teeth and withered bones. These are the scars of my struggle. I remember the lesson Raymond tried to teach me. These days I tend to look into people’s eyes when I speak and I tend to listen more. It is so easy to get caught up in that negative internal chatter everyone has in them. These days in spite of my scars, I smile and look for that small break in the sky. My name is Vesna; and like a cloud that merges and transforms all too rapidly, I too refuse to be defined by it.