Some days I can’t sleep. I just see a fist flying at the headboard above my bed, the ghost of my infant son in my arms, and I am wide awake. I can’t take the quiet. I hear every single sound and brace myself for someone coming to yell at me. I flinch every time someone holds something up in front of me, fearing it will be thrown at me. My hands tremble. I grab my head. I try to cry, but stop, afraid I will be accused of emotional manipulation again. Words will not come to my mouth, I wonder what the point of saying anything is, all of those closest to me didn’t believe me anyway.
And then the trembling turns to muscle pain. My limbs stiffen and seize. I can feel the cortisol and adrenaline coursing through my system. It feels like bugs crawling inside me. I tremble all over, still incapable of crying. I withdraw from everyone, know that no one wants to hear my suffering. I have lost too many people already trying to speak my truth, my side of the story, and they don’t want to listen. Those who were closest to be don’t believe me. They want me reassessed, they want me medicated. They want me to shut up again. They are not afraid to yell it at me.
And once again I find myself believing I am a problem not a person. I don’t deserve anything. My mother told me that. My son said he believed the same thing. He told me a bully at school told him that. At least it wasn’t his mother. And now I am not even able to speak to him at all. Once again I want to cry, but the tears won’t come. My crying is pathetic. That is what I was told.
I have spent a long time trying to put myself back together. To pick up the shattered pieces of myself, to relearn how to hold my head up high. I have been fortunate enough to find many lovely people. People who were willing to listen to me. People who validated my sense that what was said and done to me was not okay. I am grateful to every single one.
I remember another particularly low moment, one in which I was hiding in a house in Rothesay Bay. Not wanting to talk to anyone I knew, but knowing I needed to talk to someone I called 1737 (the helpline). The wonderful person on the phone asked me why I wasn’t angry. She helped me realise that I was. The anger was useful as ignited my passions again. Stoked the creative fires so I started writing again. Poetry at first. Then I started planning this blog.
It took months of iterating what this blog was to be before I found something I was happy with. A starting point for sharing my story. As a creative, a compassionate content creator, I have always said I would not ask anyone to do something I myself was not willing to do. And I am asking people to share their stories with me. Of course I have to share my own, not just the pain and suffering but all the weird, wonderful bits too. And I have done some strange things for my art. Having an octopus in my pants is definitely up near the top of strangest things. Yet it wasn’t when I was doing things like that when my family thought I was ‘crazy’. It was when I was desperate for help because of the psychological and emotional damage from a very toxic relationship that they decided I was ‘crazy’.
That makes me very angry. But just as the anger can be useful to channel into creativity, it can also be a curse. It makes me blunt. It makes me see red. It makes me react to things happening in ways that I don’t like. And it is so hard to reconcile the anger because there is no accountability from any of the people who did these terrible things. They can say whatever they want, they can make accusations, they can yell at me, even hit me and there is no repercussions. But when I try to share my story, when I try to explain what is going on for me, when I get angry or upset, the consequences for me are dire.
Because I am vulnerable if I am not on top of my emotions. My neurodiversity comes with impulse control issues that are only an issue for me personally if I am in an overly emotional state or in sensory overload. At its worst I have meltdowns constantly. So I hide away from everyone, try not to be the burden I have been told so many times I am. Yet, the quickest way for me to get out of that state is through people. Specifically kind words. In Madonna’s song Joan of Arc there is a line “One word of kindness it can save me.” And it’s true…
But after so many people have turned their backs on me, I am terrified of oversharing, of pushing those people who are around me away, so I hide. Really I get homesick. I miss Gisborne where every single day someone is kind. The compassion in that city outweighs every other city, at least in my experience. There are far more people willing to smile at you even if you are having a bad day.
And yet even in Gisborne I have experienced a lot of issues. The world is not a very nice place at the moment. There are not many people willing to hold space for people who are experiencing or have experienced trauma. It takes someone who has been there before themselves, or someone with a lot of compassion to be there for someone through the tough stuff. That is why currently I enjoy the company of the streeties. I am able to help them, and they are able to hold space for me. They always treat me like a person, and always smile when they see me, even when they are telling me to fuck off.
And that is the one consistent thing I have noticed no matter where I go. It is the people who have the least, the people who have the most issues of their own, the people who are struggling too, those people are the most compassionate and caring out of everyone. Having been among them for so long I understand why. When you don’t spend all your time protecting your image, protecting your belongings, protecting your status and just live every day the best way you can, you have much more capacity for compassion. The rat race doesn’t leave a lot of time for empathy.
The only tears I am able to cry freely are the bitter sweet ones. I miss my Dad everyday, and although I know he wouldn’t be impressed by some of the situations I have found myself in, I know without a shadow of doubt that he would be proud of me. He would be proud that every day I do what I can, not only to help myself but to help those around me. Because that is what Dad did. He helped everyone in his life, as much as he could always. I am very proud to be his daughter.
And on my worst days, I remember him. I remember the good times with my son. I remember all the amazing things I have done. And then I start to dream about the great things I still could do. Because in the words of Martin Phillipps “No one can take the memories away from me.” And not all my memories are the awful ones that create PTSD spirals. It just takes kind words from compassionate people to remind me of that sometimes.
Look after yourself and look after each other.
Kia Kaha
NJP
Blindspot Busters 
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