Weaving through breathlessness

Posted on March 17, 2014


A week later and i’m not especially great. I’m okay.

Knockbacks graze my knees and my spine curls.

There was this one thing keeping me going whilst my grandpa was dying, and it came in the form of a couple of texts ‘I hope you’re okay’ and ‘Hopefully see you next week?’ a delicious collection of international words if I’d ever seen any. Yay: a new love interest. A successful date that had ended in nice kissing and the words ‘we need to do that again’. My grandpa died but the circle of life never rang truer.

Or shortlived.

Premature excitement on my part. Vulnerable naivity maybe. And just down trodden bad luck perhaps.

The silent treatment sucks. No explanation. No goodbye. Just a vapourised fantasy that felt warm and fuzzy for a fleeting moment as the universe seemed to be saying ‘it will be okay’.

Sometimes its nice to feel the cold gravely earth against my palms, my nose squashed against the wet grass as I almost melt into netflix brainlessness to avoid the sweltering pit of loneliness that sometimes engulfs me.


A mild panic attack on the bus en route to the job centre made me draw slow oozing blood as I take something sharp to the delicate skin on my neck. My mind bruises from the sudden lack of assurance that I’m okay.

Repeated visions of knitting needles in eyes have become a familiar sign that I’m not particularly fabulous at the moment. I’ll be talking to someone, perfectly normal. And there they are. Oddly stabbing at the pupils.

It’s hard to admit that one thinks these abnormal and quite frankly worrying things.

My therapist didn’t seem to think it meant anything, but here I am six months later. Needles. Eyes. I can’t work out what it means.

Posted in: The Truth