I've decided to write an entry about the affect typing my story again has had on me so far, just to give words some air, have a good vent and hopefully splash some colour onto this page that others might recognise and, by doing so, help them feel less lonely with their own 'paint by numbers' kits. The most profound pictures that have evolved lurk in the chapters of my childhood and teens, which, in the story I type, tangle together with the pages through my 20s. When the trauma therapy began in January this year, I thought my story started the day I met the man who inflicted so much pain during the eight years I was with him, but working backwards has helped me see a pattern through my formative years that had a massive influence on how I became an ideal target for someone who can only feel adequate and powerful if they can control, manipulate, humiliate and cause harm to a vulnerable narcissistic food source with no personal boundaries or self-worth. A gass-lit mouse with ingrained shame is an easy victim to suck dry, squash in a cage and hide behind closed doors. In my story, I'm calling this particular vampire 'M', so that's who he'll be here. 

I've been learning about shame and it's place in the pages of my story, and there, in big, bold, black letters, I can see that this awful burden to carry was plonked on my shoulders years before I met M. I'm not sure if the people who sucked me dry during my childhood and teens knew they were vampires, but they still fed on my sense of identity and worth to satisfy their hunger to control and/or feel powerful.

The road map of trauma comes with it's own free marker pen of shame, with it's thick nib and black ink. It's not for us to use - it's firmly gripped by those who mistreat and abuse us - as they scribble obscenities and insults over our skin until we don't recognise ourselves. As layers and layers of perminent ink thickens, how the heck are you meant to scrub it off when you're free of the hands that held the pen? And what if someone you're close to is still adding more layers? I'm learning to improve my metaphorical Martial Arts manoeuvres at the moment so I can defend myself and keep that pen away from skin that's raw from all the scrubbing. I've also isolated myself from my friends and family, and although shutting myself away helps me feel a bit safer, it's an unhealthy and incredibly lonely way to live. I've become a hermit to feel safe from hands holding marker pens, but also to prevent others seeing all the horrible words layered on my skin with black ink that tell me I'm a worthless burden that doesn't matter enough to anyone. 

One hand that holds a pen is my dad, who I'm sure is unaware of his artistry with a permanent marker. Since re-writing my story, I can see how much he loves his daughter, but I can also see his narcissism and need for control. He's overt with his behaviours and after a lifetime getting to know him, I can read him like a book. We used to have a bond, but when it broke three years ago, the rose-tinting glasses I admired him through fell off and I didn't like what I saw. I blamed myself for that break for a long time, but I can see now that his decision to distance himself from his daughter wasn't my fault. He's been telling me my physical disability makes me a burden to him and others for years, and he openly admits he had to break contact so he could shut himself off from my troubles and spare himself the worry. That doesn't help the daughter he leaves behind though, while she's battling with the frightening deterioration of a progressive health condition, with absolutely no medical help at all because her hospital consultant won't listen when her suicidal patient pleads for effective pain relief and some support to prevent further damage caused by years of misdiagnosis. After typing that out, it looks like my consultant holds a marker pen as well. 

The social isolation is lonely in a room full of people too, especially when those people are close friends and family. I've learned a lot about my Complex PTSD diagnosis and this has given me a useful road map that helps me understand why I feel like a ghost haunting myself. I feel like I died a long time ago and the apparition I've become frightens people... according to my dad who feels I should hide my pain to protect others from discomfort. So when I have to be with other people, I wear the 'I'm fine mask', and when I can't hide how dead I feel, my insides want to explode because folk sure do say the most ridiculous things when they don't know why you're struggling so much. I wish they'd accept how profoundly shit I feel without needing evidence, but my choice to keep all the reasons why I'm covered in marker pen secret, only seems to increase their tendency to compare me to others with real problems, reach misinformed conclusions and bombard me with minimising comments and solutions meant for those who have troubles that can be easily fixed. No one feels they need to help someone with small problems. I can't bare the thought of sharing details with them, but I also can't bare the loneliness of being invisible, so the whole thing leaves you in a bit of a conundrum. 

This is where a good vent will be therapeutic. When my mum begged me to tell my brother about my past early last year, all I could tell him was that M was abusive and used my body without my consent for eight years. It's an easier sentence used quite often when I choose to share a snippet of my past. When he said: "Maybe M didn't realise he was forcing you," I said: "He did know," and left it there. But I craved validation from my brother and couldn't bare hearing him defend M's intentions, so in my head I said: "M coersed me with insults and threats, platted my hair to the bed frame, called me 'his little wh**e' and told me 'I was just a hole', and raped your crying sister a few times a week while staring at a photo of your girlfriend in a sexy silver dress that he stuck on the headboard to keep him hard... and then made me sleep on the floor without a pillow and blanket because I was a crap shag." It all stayed in my head for his sake. When my step-mother witnessed one of my panic attacks on my birthday this year and said: "The sunshine will make it all better... tomorrow's a new day... embrace and enjoy it," with well-meaning but toxic positivity, I boiled inside and wanted to tell her that the weather has no affect on recovery from from trauma, there's no easy fix, and knowing tomorrow is a new day fills me with dread because it's yet another day I have to battle through without killing myself. But I kept that outburst safely tucked away too and smiled my fake smile to help her feel she was brilliant at giving advice. Every time someone close to me, who knows how I am and the reasons why, says: "She's just a bit under the weather and feeling a bit sorry for herself," to others, I want to beg them to be honest, because although profound shame is etched all over the disgusting shell I'm trapped in, I'm not ashamed to be ill... and every excuse that covers the severity of how crap I feel with a description of something menial paints me as a drama queen and distances me from people who might reach out to offer support if they knew the truth. 

Writing my story again and reading it to my therapist each week, two years at a time, validates events for me though, and helps me see the timeline and how one messed up chapter led to another: from my early years with an over-protective, controlling father who had affairs I wasn't allowed to tell my mum about, to my childhood and teens in a church where leaders pushed me to the ground, held me down, and exorcised demons out of me in the hope I'd be cured of my physical health condition and no longer need to use a wheelchair, blamed me and my lack of faith when healings failed, and labelled my anxiety disorder as a gift of premonition from god... telling me I could save my family from their pending deaths and prevent the apocalypse if I prayed hard enough, to the boyfriend I spent my teens with who left wounds and scars on my skin with knives, pushed me into walls and forced me to vomit meals up when I was in the grips of anorexia, all the way to my 20s when I met M. 

If you've read this and recognise any of the colours splashed on this page, do know that us lot here on this forum can see past the words that have been left on your skin by cruel hands holding a marker pen.... and even when you feel like a ghost, we see you, we're not afraid of you and we believe in you. 

Yup... that has turned out to be a therapeutic typing session. Thank goodness for this forum, the opportunity to blog your thoughts and for all the survivors who gather here. 

In my first blog entry I mentioned how writing is, for me, like picking up a brush to paint a picture. The words are my colours, and today there's going to be less black in the picture. Over the last few days, the world has looked a bit more colourful. The 'Trauma Train' (described in my last entry) has stopped off at the AS rest stop and is now rumbling along through greener territory, a few birds are singing and the weather is brighter. I'm pleased to be here in my private space with my brushes, palette and canvas - painting away with a calmer head. 

The first part of my picture shows me in my wheelchair, ready to slide into my local swimming pool like a seal, and then I'm gliding through the water with freedom I don't have on land. The taste of chlorine leaks through the big grin on my face and the pool water hides and absorbs a lot of tears that have been trapped for far too long. All because the pool managers changed their policy and now allow folk on wheels to take their freedom machines to the poolside. Having to wait for a member of staff to wheel you from the changing room to the pool in a little white chair was a crap idea. Being told that you're a health and safety hazard makes you feel like shit. But their new policy (finally!) helps people like me feel welcome and allows us dignity and independence while we're there. They have a booking system while Covid is being an arse, so I'm booked in for tomorrow afternoon, my swimming bag is packed and, to my surprise, my swimming costume still fits. 👍 

The second part of my picture is me with my laptop, piosed to type the story through my 20s that brought me to AS. I typed my story for this forum a while back, but I'll be typing it with 44 year old fingers this time. The 44 year old me who wears a different head to the 'me' who typed it out a couple of years ago has new memories from that time, fresh revelations and a different outlook on how and why it all happened. I'm facing the memories with new, frightening emotions I'm learning to regulate and I'm desperate to be able to look at them without being pulled back to the past. My trauma therapist suggested the idea yesterday, and from lived experience I know how much it can help. Over the next four weeks we'll focus on the timeline - two years at a time. I'll show her the pictures I paint, and as the weeks pass I'm hoping to be able to look at the pictures painted by my 44 year old fingers and see them through 44 year old eyeballs. That's the thing - while all the memories are jumbled in my head, all I can do is see them through the eyes I had back then. Getting the most updated version out on my computer screen could help me see the spider web weaved by 'him', and how I got trapped in it. 

It's time to put my paintbrushes down, carefully cover this particular canvas, and open my laptop to paint my story with 44 year old fingers. 

The train carriage I'm in at the moment is empty, it's just me here and I hate my own company. I hate the shell I'm trapped in and frighten myself silly with my own thoughts. I'm so lonely. Then I remembered After Silence - a train station where you can safely get off, if you choose to, and be in the company of people who truly understand without judgement. I can stick my head out of my carriage window here and say 'hello' to others who are on their own Trauma Trains, people who won't walk away when I take my 'I'm fine mask' off. So here I am, after a long period away, saying 'hello' without the mask on. 

The last couple of years has been a bumpy ride with too many dark tunnels. I'm not sure if anyone can relate to this, but the latest tunnel, which is far too long, is making my thoughts echo with feelings of intense anger and grief. I was brought up to believe that feeling and/or expressing anger is wrong, so feeling it now is incredibly difficult. I don't know what to do with it so I'm taking it out on myself, leaving emotional and physical scars behind. 

What I long to do is climb onto the roof of my train carriage and scream at all the people who hurt me, but most of them are in my past and won't be able to hear me scream... not any more. I often wonder if they're enjoying a picturesque route on a beautiful train while I'm on this ugly, frightening one. Are they travelling through life believing they're decent people? Am I a decent person for wanting to scream at them? That's the difference - I want to scream at them, not because of them. I want the screams to make them feel like shit, not give them pleasure like they did in the past. 

I did manage to have a bit of a scream at/with my biological dad recently, which prompted an apology of sorts for his part in the church stuff during my childhood and teens. For him to admit he was wrong to support the exorcisms performed on my cousin and I released a few of the angry bubbles in my shaken up fizzy pop bottle, so maybe I was right to be honest with him. I was honest about other things he didn't know about during that time as well, which was important to me because he does tend to minimise and dwarf my struggles. 

So that's one person I could scream at from the roof of my Trauma Train, and the next stop could be my hospital consultant for years of neglect, misdiagnosis, lack of care and for all the comments that have made me feel I don't matter.

I want to grab hold of the people I thought I could trust - the people who I have been 'on tap' for when they've needed a friend - and scream at them for every comment that has made me feel like a drama queen on the few occasions I've felt brave enough to peek out from behind the 'I'm fine mask'. I want to scream at them because the minimising comments and/or complete unavailability to lend a pair of ears or some comforting company has made me want to dissappear and be invisible. Ignoring and downsizing my pain doesn't make it go away, it just makes it more unbearable. 

I then long to find 'him'... I can't say his name anymore. I want to ask him why the years of abuse gave him joy; why I was an object to him; why he made me sleep on the floor; why he took the small amount of money I earned; why he had a list of punishments that I thought I deserved; why he locked me away; why he destroyed so many of my precious belongings; why he destroyed me; and, of course, the reason why I'm here on this forum... why he did what he did for so many years knowing it was causing me so much pain. But finding him fills me with dread - I fear seeing him 'on-route' and I'm terrified that he'll find out the abuse isn't my secret any more. 

I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD last year, which has given me some kind of route map while I'm on this train journey. What I don't have is a map to finding myself; the person I could be at the end of the train tracks or the person I could have been if the abuse didn't happen. Is there an end to this horrific experience? Can peace be found on-route? Does anyone actually care that I'm being haunted by so many ghosts? Does anyone care that I feel like a ghost and hate haunting myself? Am I a burden because of my messed up head and body? Do I deserve to occupy this planet? 

So that's me without the 'I'm fine mask' on, sticking my head out the train window pleading for someone, anyone, to come and sit with me while I'm feeling so trapped and lonely. 

If you're struggling with your own Trauma Train, do know that I'm reaching out the window for you with so much care. That's the thing, we know what it's like from lived experience and that drives our train towards others, like us, who need to see a kind hand reaching out to them every now and then. 

I'll hurtle off now along the train tracks and hope to say 'hello' to you all again soon. 

"I believe you" - three important words. The golden ticket to the help you need to process it all, and it's not just about eligibility and access, it's about how you can now, finally, allow yourself to redeem that ticket and accept the support. 

It's not always as straight forward as that though, is it. Sometimes there can be a battle with ourselves and others. I'm hugely grateful that I haven't had any battles with others during the process that brought me to After Silence, but I have had conflicts with myself... as I know many of you have as well. I'm working through that war with myself (in the right direction) and hope you're able to do the same. The experiences I've had trying to be heard by those who are meant to be looking after my physical health have been dramatically different. I'm going to have a cathartic vent about it here, as well as highlighting the unexpected positive outcome that has brought relief with it - all because of a voice I never thought I'd be allowed to use. 

The purpose of this blog entry is to paint a picture with words that might help me (and hopefully you) compartmentalise the snowball effect (or butterfly effect in my case) this journey creates - from those first, vitally important, validating three words to the realisation that what you've experienced, and what you're going through now, is serious enough to matter. 

I felt compelled to use this therapeutic platform after an appointment with my rheumatology consultant on 16th December. I spent weeks before the appointment tormenting myself with premonitions of being minimalised, brushed off and blamed as I have been throughout my adult years, by doctors and my abuser. I was preparing for a fight - but also expecting myself to roll over and accept the usual apathetic response in the consulting room. 

For as long as I can remember I've been hypermobile with widespread pain, unstable joints and muscles, unexplained bruising and a variety of other symptoms that have been disabling, lifechanging and, unfortunately, ignored by medical professionals. I've used my wheelchair (freedom machine) for a number of years but doctors have never been able to explain why I've lost my mobility, apart from suggesting I should exercise more, which has cultivated a proper petri-dish of shame, self-blame, confusion, fear and a belief that I'm a weak, lazy hypochondriac. Whenever someone says, "if you don't use it you'll lose it," "she could do with the exercise," "she likes the attention," or "she's just faking it," the destructive mould grows, over-flows and settles in even more. All because a fibromyalgia diagnosis doesn't fit with my symptoms and certainly doesn't explain why they've got progressively worse over the years. 

My GP told me years ago that I had problems with my connective tissue but I've never had a concrete diagnosis with a treatment plan to help manage the condition. My dad, brother and I share the same symptoms, I didn't walk until I was 18 months old and have always had pain, I dislocate easily and was famous for my 'bendy body' party tricks in my youth... all the answers were there from the start but I've never had the courage or sense of self-worth to ask the right questions and fight for help. 

Last Wednesday, while my consultant was casually minimalising my symptoms and sending me along her conveyor belt as quickly as possible, I used the voice and self-worth I found during the aftermath (and healing journey) that brought me here and said, "I'm in so much pain I want to die." I lost it and begged for help, I panicked, listed my symptoms, yet again, and with my brand-new nice but firm 'I'm not a doormat' demeanour I asked for answers. 

After being bent about, prodded and questioned, the consultant expressed belief in me by giving me a diagnosis of Hypermobile Elhers Danlos Syndrome (hEDS). It's the least serious, most common form of EDS but explains why I'm in the physical state I'm in now. It's a disorder I was born with, and if it's not managed properly it causes damage to connective tissue and nerves. Symtoms are progressive and it's normal (and acceptable) for those with hEDS to need a wheelchair. It's a real, physical condition that I couldn't have made up or exaggerated. It's not my fault, I'm not to blame for the loss of mobility and when the next insensitive, judgmental idiot questions my need for a wheelchair I can metaphorically hit them with a medical label I'm still learning to pronounce.

The battle to be heard is over. During my trauma therapy my counsellor suggested I learn to like and value my body, but it's tough to do that when the only thing that doesn't hurt is your hair and you have no idea why. It's challenging to value a body that constantly let's you down and frightens you, which makes emotional recovery after rape difficult and triggering. I'm relieved I have answers, my head feels calmer and I don't have a thousand questions swirling round my messed up head, all because I used my voice and stood up for myself. I now have the answers I've craved for years, I feel I can get to know my body without self-blame and constant questioning of my sanity, I'm starting to feel like a proper adult, I'm proud of my voice and I'm feeling a little stronger...

...and it all started this summer when I voiced secrets from my past to a friend and he said, "I believe you." 

What others see on the outside has never been a priority to me (or my husband...thankfully), and I certainly don't judge a book by its cover, but comments can hurt, cause/feed damage and be triggering when deep-seated, complex issues are involved. 

Those dreaded comments: 'You've really let yourself go.' 'You've put on weight.' etc, etc have harmed my core to the point where I'd rather sit in a bath of open safety pins than go out and 'be seen'. It's another person's responsibility to adopt tact before opening their mouth to express thoughts like that, but I also believe my reaction is my responsibility - not theirs. I now choose to 'not give a f**k'. 😉 Any inner turmoil I have (and why) isn't their business. They see a snippet of information, make their judgement, say something inappropriate and then carry on with their day, and I'd like to know I can carry on with mine without feeling destroyed because they chose to voice their misguided observations. 

It hasn't always been (and still isn't) that easy though, and there are reasons why.

From the age of 17 I've battled with anorexia, and since March this year I've worked my arse off to move into the next stage of feeling freedom from it. Now, at the age of 42, I'm delighted to say that it's worked and I can now eat a slice of toast and marmalade in the morning with joy rather than shame, I haven't cried at my dinner plate for a long time, and since asking my husband to help me manage sensible usage of the bathroom scales I haven't felt panic when I approach and stand on them. After a tough (but rewarding) journey over the last few months, I'm proud to say that my clothes are tighter, the increased number on the scales gives me a sense of achievement rather than terror, and I frickin' well LOVE food without feeling guilty about enjoying tastes and satisfying hunger.  

Then there's the reason I'm here, this aftermath and the difficult process of learning to see my body as my own after how it was used by an awful person in my past. 

Since the UK Covid lockdown started in March my husband and I have chilled and worked at home in what we call our 'comfies'; baggy jogging bottoms (or sweat pants as they may be known in other parts of the world), over-sized T shirts and, in my case, pink and grey knitted slipper-boots with super-soft fluffy lining. Pre-Covid, I'd work from home in the same easy attire and make myself presentable for work meetings and social gatherings, and my husband would shoot upstairs to get into his 'comfies' as soon as he arrived home from his office. Lockdown has allowed us to enjoy our comfortable, baggy clothing 24/7 and that suits me (and him) just fine.

During this aftermath, anything linked with my body and appearance triggers painful memories and uncomfortable feelings. The prospect of wearing anything other than plain, unattractive baggy clothes fills me with dread, the thought of putting make-up on is alien to me, I hate seeing myself in the mirror and don't recognise the person who looks back at me, and I recoil in disgust when someone says 'you looking nice today'. I guess I can thank 'lockdown' for allowing me to be pretty much invisible! For reasons poignant to me I had my long hair cut into a bob a few weeks ago (I wrote a blog entry about that!) so I'm embracing having control over my locks, but the rest of me is a bit of a challenge. 

A dear friend of mine is currently getting support to heal from abuse during her childhood and trauma in her adult years. Wearing colourful clothes with carefully applied make-up helps her feel strong, so I've found that super-hero capes come in all forms and styles - some are designed to be empowering and some are made and worn to offer comfort. My friend has 'high-fashion' capes and I have plain, over-sized ones...usually borrowed from my husband because they're REALLY baggy and I love how they smell of his 'Lynx' deodorant. 

As survivors of rape and sexual assault, is there common ground we share with self-image and how we want others to see us on the outside? Is it about protection from what we fear others might see and feel when they see us? Is it about personal control over our bodies and how we choose to cover it? Is it about how we want to present ourselves to others on the outside to reflect inner-strength or hide pain? Is a need to wear 'comfies' all day linked with a passive neglect of self-care and poor body image? Is it our right to have a rest and wear what makes us feel safe, comfortable, protected and soothed? Maybe it's a combination of them all and much more. 

One day I'll open my wardrobe and pluck out one of my favourite tunic dresses, don some leggins, slap on a bit of eyeliner and feel like 'me' again when I do it. My make-up bag and favourite clothes make me cry at the moment - there's too much grief, and the thought of making an effort to look even remotely 'attractive' turns my stomach - but I'm working towards seeing a wardrobe filled with superhero capes and a make-up bag packed with war paint. 

Many of my strange foibles and reactions to situations over the last three decades now sit in the 'bigger picture' perfectly when I look at my jigsaw as the final image takes shape, but plenty are still a mystery. Over many years, even through childhood, certain songs and genres of music set me off into a spiral of tears, grief and panic. For as long as I can remember, unwrapping a birthday/Christmas present digs up this deep shame I've never been able to fathom. Holding sentimental gifts (yes, I'm a proper hoarder of treasures given with love) triggers overwhelming grief and guilt, and I have no idea why. There are many more but this is a blog post, not a novel. 

This year's triggers are easy to understand, considering I have reason to be here sharing my rambling thoughts on a site for survivors of terrible crimes.

Pretty much anything that makes me visible to those I don't trust flips the switch of my time machine. A brand new trigger emerged this week, and I'm going to type it out, get it all out and hopefully be able to breathe easier afterwards. Work is a blessing and a curse at the moment because I've just had a 'promotion' of sorts, an additional role, and although I'm really happy and excited to be offered the job (and intend to do my best) I'm terrified of being more visible... but most of all I fear letting my bosses down. I'm a designer for a publishing company and I've now been given the 'posh' title of Social Media Engagement Coordinator. My 'next in command', the lovely editor (I'll call her Linda) of a magazine I design, is encouraging, supportive and kind. She recommended me for the role in the first place and is cheering me on as I settle into my new 'social' marketing duties. It's been a week and I'm doing well so far, but a stumbling block has just landed at my feet in the shape of a weedy little shit with too much 'alpha male' energy. He's a new member of the sales team, and he's really good at his job. He's good with the customers, he's ambitious and he's passionate about his sales skills. That's great, but I don't trust him. He's been asked to 'mentor' me as I learn about social media reach and analytics, so I'm going to need to wear my 'strong mask' for this. I know I can learn a lot from him and I'm keen to do so, but I fear his intentions. He's ruthless, manipulative, talks and walks like he's sprinkled amphetamines on his cereal that morning, he over-shares how brilliant he is far too often, he's sly and too clever with the gaslighting. Over the last couple of days he's pushing our 'big boss', the owner of the company, to give him the social media role instead. He's playing me off against my colleagues (including Linda) so I'm being forced to continuously reinforce and defend the bonds I've built with my valued work mates. He's busting a gut to isolate me from the team, bigging himself up while shrinking my abilities and sense of self-worth. He's so much like my abuser - the man who's crimes brought me to After Silence. It's a major trigger and I'm not even remotely comfortable with it. 

I want to scream at him, ask him not to flip that switch every time he behaves like a parasite that's eating away at my job security and self-confidence. I don't want him to cause a 'failure' scenario if I have to tell my friends and family I don't have the job after-all because someone better was chosen. I want to plead with him not to take the pending pay rise away from me and my husband, because finances are a juggle and the extra money will relieve so much stress at home. He has no right to know, but I want to tell him that he's behaving like the man who squashed me in a box, shrunk me to nothing, moulded me into a loathed object and used my body without my consent multiple times a week through my 20s. I won't tell him any of this - but in a way I feel that I have... just by typing it all out.

When I wheel myself into the 'Covid-safe' office next week for the team meeting about my new role, in my head I'll crave telling him how frickin' hard I work, regardless of my disability. I'll imagine myself describing the Complex PTSD I'm having intensive therapy for, the constant physical pain and the tiny amounts of sleep I manage to grab each night, the antidepressants, sedatives and napalm style pain killers I have to take to function each day. And through all that I still meet deadlines, I learn new skills with excitement, I work for hours without a break, I always strive to do my best, I haven't taken time off sick since 2014, and I've never let my bosses down. But, instead of saying all that out load, I intend to 'sit' tall and let him make a prat of himself. 

On a positive note, I've started setting the dials on my time machine to revisit good times in my past. My husband (G) and I have shared almost 11 years of happy marriage together, and we have so many great memories stored up. A couple of years ago, while G and I were cooking one of our vegetarian feasts together, we talked about how much we loved our 'chef seshs' in our small, retro kitchen. We play music, drink wine, chat, share tasks, laugh and generally enjoy each other's company while we look forward to eating the meal we've made. I told him how the uplifting music, the aroma of caramelised onions, the sound of a cork popping out of a wine bottle and the scent and taste of a rich, full bodied Rioja will always take me back to these good times in our future. He then said, "Today's memories are tomorrow's naustalgia." What a brilliant thing to say. I still carry that phrase with me, looking for positive sounds, smells, tastes and experiences that will trigger happy and comforting feelings in years to come. I'm a photographer (my camera is called George). George helps me freeze time... capturing countless wonderful moments to treasure in our digital albums and frames around the house. I have so many good memories and I'm doing my best to stick around with my sanity intact to enjoy more. 

Thank you for reading my much needed 'vent', I do appreciate it. I typed the part about G and our small, retro kitchen with a big smile, and I hope it brought a grin to your face too. I wish you the very best while you negotiate and learn to cope with your own triggers, and I cheer you on as you master those complicated dials, and hopefully, over time, gain full control over your time machine. 

Emotions are fresh and unfamiliar when the 'I'm fine mask' doesn't fit any more, and it's tough learning how to ride them when they hit us. Emotions can be so strong when we're out in the open away from our 'reinforced structures' that feel secure.

I don't know if you feel the same and/or can relate to this, dear reader, but I'm finding emotions challenging to negotiate right now, but I'm on the right path.

Learning to feel and express anger is a multi-layered trifle of sickly sweet gloop that I want to take into a private, sound-proofed room and throw at a wall.

The sadness and grief makes me feel like I'm haunting my own house - no one can see me and they're unwilling to believe I exist... or they see a glimpse and avoid contact because they're scared of ghosts.

Happiness is an odd one! I'm bloomin' well loving the legal high I get from feeling happy! But there's that weight of guilt hanging on my back telling me I don't deserve good things. 

The last few months have been a proper storm of trifles and ghosts, and the uphoric highs have made me question if I'm allowed to enjoy them or not.

I'm in the process of learning how to fly like Harry Potter on a Nimbus 2000 broom during tornados - looking for the eye of the storm where it's meant to be calmer. I'm searching for a room with adequate sound-proofing and walls big enough for the trifle that's going to be zooming towards it. I'm learning how to feel more solid and use a voice that can be heard. I'm facing ghosts from my past and learning how to put them to rest without burying them. I'm tentatively prodding the legal highs of happiness to see if they're safe to accept, and then dancing (in my head) like a kid on a sugar rush because I can't contain the joy of feeling so alive. So that's a good start, and I value that.

Dear reader - whatever emotions come your way, know that you're not swirling around in your tornado clutching a trifle alone. When you're high on the good things in life it's your right to enjoy it... and after/during all the turmoil you deserve a good laugh and smiles that can be seen from space. You never need to earn good things, but after what you've been through/are going through, anyone with a brain can see you deserve a break. And when you're feeling like a ghost we're keen to listen... we see, hear and believe in you. 

On the phone this morning, while leaking from my knackered eyeballs like a burst water pipe, I just said a word beginning with 'R' to my GP. I can't believe I actually said it. 

He's been our family doctor since I was 10 and has watched me grow, shrink, struggle, adapt, cope, fall apart, mend, break again, come back stronger and then melt into puddles of new catastrophe over the years. My family and I are very thankful that he's the opposite of a shite doctor, and my call with him just now has reinforced that. 

Amongst all the physical and mental health issues he's supported me through, he didn't know about my past. He does now... just snippets using words I never thought I'd be able to say to him. The words just fell out my mouth like coffee does when a bit of it 'goes down the wrong way' and you can't hold the rest in when you cough. I phoned him because I was desperate for pain relief, but it seems my head was crying out to plead for more than that. 

I feel strange now, like it's all just a dream, so I've turned to my online journal to throw my tumble of thoughts at my little phone keyboard and this valued AS community of understanding souls. Let me clarify... I don't, and will never, disrespect any of you by 'throwing' words at you - they're offered with gentle sensitivity for your own circumstances and trust for your ability to empathise in a way so many others can't. 

My doctor wants to see me this afternoon (well...half of my face due to the stylish 'anti-covid' mask I'll be wearing) to talk about possible options for more help. I'm scared to death but relieved. 

I've been quietly crying out for help for so many years and I think I've finally found a voice to cry out with a bit more confidence and self-worth. I don't want to burden NHS resources, especially with a global pandemic going on, but facing my past, accepting the fact that it actually was really crap, and being able to rewrite my story with a head that can now label experiences properly, has helped me realise I matter enough to be heard and helped. 

It's the physical pain that's tipped me over the edge so often since my healing journey began, and that's what has happened now. Since my first diagnosis when I was 10, the connective tissue disorder deteriates, over and over again, and I adapt. Health professionals offer long-term management solutions (which I'm grateful for) but concrete answers have never been given because my voice has been too damn quiet, and I haven't felt I mattered enough to have them. I've just fumbled along, trying my best to cope with the impact of it all independently, with grief for the mobility I've lost, waves of terror for the unknown, but also pride for my ability to shed my skin and come out the other end stronger. 

I'm not sure what help my family doctor will offer this afternoon, but if I can use this new-found voice with confidence I think I might be able to welcome him into my 'dream team' of trusted people who are helping me 'hold on tight' during the challenging twists and turns while riding this profoundly frightening (but rewarding) rollercoaster. 

Update after my GP visit: My GP did indeed reinforce my confidence in him - he really is the opposite of a shite doctor. He's now getting the ball rolling for more help, and I now have a bit of hope for more support, concrete answers and the possibility that my pain could be managed better. It looks like an extra member joined my 'dream team' today. 

"The thing I love most about you is your long hair." A very nutty boyfriend.

"If you cut your hair short I'll leave you." A boyfriend who turned out to be nuttier than a bucket of muesli.

Waking up to find that 'bucket of muesli boyfriend' had plaited my hair to the ironwork of the headboard again made me crave a short bob. 

I had hair that I could tuck into my jeans throughout my teens and 20s. It was part of my identity and I treasured it, but when it was used as a method of restraint during traumatic times it became a curse. 

After eight years of haunting my own house with the 'muesli bucket' whose cruelty brought me to this After Silence community, I finally realised I had a metaphorical intolerance to nuts and escaped in 2007.

My long locks followed me into the happy relationship I'm in now, and my dad asked my new husband to look after me at our wedding during his speech... "And always make sure she keeps her lovely long hair!" he bellowed, as our guests cheered and applauded. 

11 years later, I'm now in a place on this strange, rocky rollercoaster of recovery from my past where I can say, "There's a mind under this hair, and this mind matters."

"It's only hair! Don't write a blog entry about your hair!" I hear my mind say... but I have reasons (that are poignant to me) why a change would be therapeutic. 

As well as my long plaitable tresses triggering times of restraint, terror and control, my hair is one of the very few parts of my body that isn't affected by the connective tissue disorder I have. But, trying to manage multiple inches of tangles with arms that are affected by my condition causes problems. As part of my trauma therapy, I'm getting to know the shell I waddle around in as a good thing... one body part at a time. Learning to like, value and trust your body is challenging when everything hurts and limits you so much. So, I'm currently working on my hair because it doesn't hurt, it's easy to change to reflect the more confident me, it's going to be a delight when it doesn't become a trigger for emotional and physical pain, and it's also my protest against anyone who dares to dictate the length of it! 

On Saturday morning I went to my Covid-safe hair salon with a fierce 'f**k you long hair lovers!' level of confidence and left with a shoulder length bob that's impossible to plait... and I frickin' love it.

Something so insignificant in the whole scheme of things has marked a milestone of new-found emotional independence and adult bravery I should have known a long time ago. Embracing the bob on Saturday morning was my way of popping a Champaign cork while planting my flag in new ground, and it's my megaphone to announce my freedom.

And the fact that my split ends don't land in my dinner any more is an added bonus. 😉

I like journaling. I find it therapeutic when clogged up thoughts spill out onto a page, freeing my brain and leaving space for new ideas and more peaceful moments. Clarity can be found on that page when all the words are there - I value that too. 

I love this online community of survivors. I've never been part of an online forum group before, or even a 'support network/group' of any kind. So this is a first for me, and it's one of the most important decisions I made while dealing with the aftermath from my past. To the survivor reading this: I love the empathy and sensitivity here. You are all understanding souls who 'get it' and hear others without judgement... because you know how complex it all is from your own experiences. I love this trusted, safe space because it's comforting to know you might feel soothed and less lonely when you post topics, receive supportive replies, aquire new insights and ideas for healing from a thread, share buried pain and find ways to process it, and develop new friendships with good people. I love the fact that I have the chance to offer support to you and our fellow survivors, how we gather and stick together with good, trusted intentions... because we care about each other.

So here's my blog - it's going to be my platform to share good stuff, express difficulties (and share my solutions to them), and to generally waffle on because writing is my way of picking up a brush to paint a picture. It makes me feel better and I hope my finished pictures won't look too obscure!