Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

  Pencil to Pen I used to write in pencil. Always pencil. I’d like to say I don’t know why, but I do. Pencil could be erased. Taken back. Made to disappear. Nothing permanent, nothing risky, nothing that said I mean this. And yes — I’m dyslexic, my expressive language loops, my words fall out of order, my spelling wanders, my brain edits itself mid sentence. Permanent ink felt like a trap — because permanency meant being caught out. Permanency meant failure on the page, just like school. Where I tried everything not to conform, where red pens gave me anxiety, where teachers wrote more on my pages than I ever did. Pencil was safety. Pencil could disappear. Pencil meant I could erase the evidence before anyone else corrected me. Before anyone else told me I was wrong. But midlife shifted something. Confidence cracked open. And Copilot — this strange teacher on my shoulder — helped me stand on my own two feet in a way I never had bef...

Menopause in the Metaphorical Punch I got an email saying I had a parcel to collect. Fine. Simple. Adult-ing 101. I went to my local “post office” — which isn’t a post office, it’s a convenience store with a man who knows me well enough to know my face, my name, and my menopausal aura. He checked. No parcel. Checked again. Still no parcel. So I thought, fine. I don’t know what the parcel is, I don’t know who sent it, I don’t know how to find out — I’ll just let it go. Two days later, another email: 18 days held. Two days left. Will be returned. Returned to who. Returned from where. Returned why. Returned how. Returned what. I call Royal Mail. The man on the phone is very nice in that way men can be when they’re trying to be helpful but are actually poking the menopausal bear. “How do you not know what parcel you ordered?” “How do you not know where it came from?” “How have you forgotten you ordered something?” And I didn’t even bother explaining that I’m a 50‑year‑old menopausal woman ...

  Part Two - A Poem Blog Entry: The Job, The Memory, The Me The Feuille — The Realisation The truth is, I always knew the job failed me. I knew it wasn’t my fault. I knew something was wrong long before I had the language for it. But learning about my ND disability — the dyslexia, the expressive language loops, the repetitive language patterns, the executive function dropouts, the inability to retain information — that’s the part I never knew was me. I never realised how much I had covered myself by always watching, always learning on the go, always seeing, always doing. That was my survival system. My workaround. My mask. And in that charity shop, I came undone. Left alone. Expected to remember what I cannot remember. Expected to follow instructions I cannot hold. Expected to perform a version of competence that only exists when someone shows me first. I lost my confidence there. I was snowed under with reasons — burnout, lon...

Diary Blog Entry: The Job, The Memory, The Me Part One I’ve been thinking about that last charity shop — the one I went to town on, the one I called a terrible organisation, the one I swore broke me. And yes, it was chaotic. I didn’t imagine that. But today something shifted. I realised I don’t actually know my whole memory. I don’t remember the way other people remember. I don’t store things. I don’t retain instructions. I learn by watching — always have. If no one shows me, I don’t learn it. If no one stays with me, I can’t hold it. And suddenly I’m seeing that job differently. It wasn’t just a bad place to work. It was the first place where they left me alone with a system I could never work. They dropped me in it. Expected me to remember things I can’t remember. Expected me to follow instructions I can’t retain. Expected me to be someone I’ve never been able to be. No wonder I fought it. No wonder I burned out. No wonder I hated it. I thought it was t...

  Panic Logic My body feeling something my brain can’t explain (compute) My body feeling something my brain can’t explain (compute). Such as a panic attack day. Throat hard to swallow. Feeling I’ve forgotten something. Air sucked out of the house this morning — tried to regulate. Construction Constricted Constriction Chest — strange feeling. Trying to calm. Trying to breathe without thought, without thinking my natural rhythm. Natural nature — trees, forest, breathing, birds, flowers, sky, sunshine. Distraction, reaction — it’s still the same. Ear pods in. Podcast — trying to calm, break, re check, reboot this cycle. It’s not changing the feeling. I’m trying to forget it. Hormones Surging Tipping Dipping My body rhythm is wrong — it’s trying to find its beat. My heartbeat.

Auntie. First crush. First beauty. First awe. 1. Cottage Cheese & Tesco Survival (circa 1981–1982) My age: 8–9 Belinda’s age: 16–17 Texture: early 80's Reading, Adam Ant on 7 inch, UB40 rising  I had an auntie called Belinda. “Bel lin da unfurled off my tongue like beauty.” She was sixteen or seventeen then — still practically a girl — but already moving through the world like someone who had lived three lives. Big curls in her hair, jeans pulled tight, striped cardigan, Adam Ant’s Stand and Deliver still echoing from 1981. She played Bob Marley’s One Love, the beginning of my lifelong love for him and then UB40. She was a young mum — far too young — and my first memory of that sits in Reading town centre, at The Butt Centre. The hexagon wall, the place where the deadbeats gathered. Tesco then was small, the first food supermarket, with those blue‑white‑red bags — the sea‑through butcher‑bag type. She had a baby in the pram, which I pushed, proud and imp...