Unwrapping the Candle

Last year’s writing experiences included surprising insights. I unpicked my adolescence and refashioned it. I wrestled with my inner world conflict and attempted to capture the elusive turning point with anorexia. Profound moments hit me like bowling balls skittering pins.

Life challenged me and I lost and met myself over and over. My bucket filled and overflowed. I relived the discomfort of inner world overcrowding. My health suffered and insomnia robbed me of clarity. I spiralled in on myself like a Nautilus Shell. And in the darkness of near defeat, I finally accepted the profound effect of trauma on my life.

This poem reflects the complexities of the search, the gift a metaphor.

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Spring Winds and Scattered Petals

I’m watching  the blossom fiercely wrenched from the trees by spring winds. A metaphor? I too, am suspended in the whim of the universe, a dance so random that I can’t always keep up. I’m still writing. I’m trying to encapsulate the process of self-empowerment, an adolescent anorexic turning the tide. It ebbs and flows a staccato experience.

Writing has given me the courage to shine light into my deepest recesses. Words fail. How do I convey my truth and share something that drove me to deny myself over and over? Like the blossom, I’m stripped bare by spring winds of my pen.

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Conflicted about Conflict

Conflict? Is it beneficial? Soul-destroying? Or an opportunity to learn? Can we become addicted to conflict? Writing my story, I’m in year eleven of my high school experience battling anorexia and I’m forced to address conflict. I was at breaking point. Something had to give and it couldn’t be me, good girls don’t make waves.

I’d made a huge discovery, I didn’t like the life I was living anymore. I’d had enough. Would this ensure recovery? Would it be enough?

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Inspirational Top Up

Last week was like standing by the Southern Ocean in a gale. I ran into the wind, trying to keep up with the ‘should’s’ in my life. Monday morphed into Friday and then the weekend came. I’d tried to write but the kept deleting the fragments on the page. Poetic words floated past evading my intentions to capture them.

Stress does that, a cement beanie on the soaring mind.

But I had something to look forward to the first Sunbury Literary Festival and my closest friend had bought tickets. We went.

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Rupertswood Mansion: photo Lindy Schneider

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The Time Capsule

Sitting in the car, country drive, Spotify time capsule, John Denver’s ‘Sunshine,’ plays. Music does that rockets you back to the past and I’m 15 sitting in my parent’s unit. It wasn’t just the music, I’d been doing some serious edits.

Edits can’t help but take me back to the cesspool of my adolescent ED (eating disorder). I guess my mind traversed two realities already, the unknown ready to sprout. A new thought had formed since my return from overseas, nagging, bugging and buzzing around my head like an elusive mosquito.

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The Role of Dark Emotions

It didn’t feel good then. But as I began to write, there’s been an unravelling of me. My story came out haltingly. To my surprise, I had to prise it from my memory. Once again, I touched the darkness within.

and I went to write

dark emotions threatened the page

so virginal and pure

empty space stared back at me

dare I disclose my struggle?

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