Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

  “ The Attributes of Becoming Me” I thought I was magic. Witch - born. Star - touched. Reading signs in black cats and rainbows and sparks in the air. But it wasn’t magic. It was my brain — wired loud, wired bright, wired to feel everything as if it’s happening to me. Every film, every tear, every heartbreak that wasn’t mine but still felt like it was. I saw patterns everywhere — not because the universe whispered, but because my mind connects dots like constellations. And my “witchy friends”? Just my people. My pack. Brains tuned to the same frequency, hearts turned up too high, empathy spilling over the edges. Growing up without Google, without guidance, you learn your own rulebook. You survive on instinct, on hope, on believing the ending will be good. But midlife hits and suddenly the truth lands: It wasn’t magic. It was autism. It was ADHD. (audhd) Not superpowers — but still mine. Now I’m learning. Researching. Na...

  The Clock and the Hope When I wake, it feels like an eternity— but it’s only 12, or 2, or 4. I glance at the clock, even though I shouldn’t. One day, I think, it will be 6. I’ll have slept the night away. I try all the tricks. Still, it washes over me. I yawn. I breathe deep. I find my happy place— my paradise— for eternity, or two hours before… Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Half full, never empty. But it hasn’t happened yet.  

  “Letters and words won’t change my life any more than perimenopause has. Whether I have  ADHD,  autism,  AuDHD,  dyslexia, or any form of neurodiversity — being on the spectrum won’t change a thing. The only spectrum that changes my life is the colourful one.”

  I was raised to trust a uniform I was raised to trust a uniform, to trust a teacher, to trust the police, to trust the doctors. I was raised— they were mostly men. Trust the policeman, trust the teacher, trust the doctors. But as I grew, beliefs dissolved in whispers, news of family, stories of power abused. I do not believe in God, so trust was my higher power. Raised to believe in helpers, raised to believe in need— until every hand I reached for tightened its grip. Now I trust nothing. No one. Not social media, not the BBC, not Parliament. Once, I was young, full of trust. Now, in midlife, trust has vanished. And I wonder— when I need someone, who will I trust? Who can have my trust? That’s the question. Perhaps no one. Perhaps nothing. A question I will carry to the end. And still— who will I trust, who can have my trust? (breathe) if anyone

  Leaves: The Original Inspiration for Sequins (17 th November 25) As I stand at the window, I watch the leaves. Some sway gently, some sparkle in the light. They shimmer — almost iridescent — like a party dress from memory, a cascade of sequins, fish scales, glinting with movement and mystery. I’m a true magpie, drawn to anything that reflects or dances in the sun. My gaze locks, soldier-still, on the branches swaying, on the golden, yellow, green parade. Below, the grass glows orange — a carpet of fire, a festival of fall. I can’t look away. It’s like fireworks, sparklers, twinkling Christmas lights. The mighty oak calls to me, a treasure chest of light and motion. I collect it in memory, each glint a keepsake. Every day it changes. This is my tree. In autumn, I don’t just glance — I stare, enchanted, thrilled, encapsulated by its beauty, by its sequin leaves, by its sway. What will it inspire today? What did it inspire yesterday? This tr...

  Bob and His Coat of Many Colours  1986 Embarrassed cheeks burn red. I have never seen a limb removed, a prosthetic body part. I don’t know where to look without hurt, without overwhelm. My masking comes undone. 1987 A chewed jumper sleeve, red and black uniform, three miles home to no one until Bob. Boxer shorts, floppy hair, gap-toothed grin, plastic arm never sitting straight. Stew simmering, dumplings rising, the smell filling the house. Embarrassed cheeks burn red, he rubs my head with his stub, laughs, tells me to lighten up. Bob the street fighter, Bob the Hells Angel, Bob the prisoner, Bob the friend in our shed. Always cooking, always singing, always stitched into that coat of many colours — beer brand towelling mats, hand sewn together like Dolly’s song, joy recycled, a nod to time already spent in HMS. 1997 Letters salted with hunger, peppered with longing. He joked: eat the pages. I wrote of food, he carved a...

  Tiny Hurts (Crushing Impacts) We fill bags with the minutiae of life until the bag is full. Put the bag down — you’ll feel free. You’ll stand tall and straight again. It’s not about letting it go, even though you definitely should. If we carried happiness and positivity the way we carry sadness and negativity, the world would be a different place. Take my advice: if it doesn’t break your back in your mid 40,s, it certainly will in your 50,s. Let go. Drop the bag. Stand up. Walk forward. And every now and then, if you feel like it, go back into those dark depths of all the things you carried — but as time goes by, you’ll forget to. You’ll be more focused on the future and the good things coming, not the things that are gone. Look forward, not back. Step forward, not back. Be present. Don’t live in the past.

  Burnout & Sparkle OR Wrapped in Chaos, Ready for Calm I was eighteen, a mamma, my Christmas order — my turn, realm, baton, me — began in 1992. Stockings, brothers, memories stitched together because my teenage years had little joy. And I carried it, year after year, twenty four years of chaos carried, twenty four years of Christmas storms. With a joy filled heart, the pulse of the race, pulled me. Mum and dad rolled into one, organising, cooking, pleasing everyone. Married to the Grinch, but still I lit the tree. Years of sparkle, until sparkle burned out. I gave away the decorations, the trees, the plastic, the endless rush. I stopped. I loved Christmas— the carols, the lights, but not the presents, too much pressure on giver and taker. Why not a £10 gift, just for gift’s sake? But it never washed. The family grew, the mix got heavy. Juggling places, juggling people, juggling joy. Stress I carried alone. N...

  The Bath As I Slip Under 1992 — Emotional Development Having a baby at 18. I thought I’d be really good at it. My mum was — she had four. I just had a pamphlet. There were some classes I tried, but everyone was way older. I attracted the wrong sort of attention. I stood out when I didn’t want to stand out. I already stood out. I was a child with a baby bump. Always half full, not half empty. The person I saw in the mirror was the same as I’d always been — the child I knew. I couldn’t do my jeans up, but I knew once the baby was gone, I’d be able to. I watched the lines creep up my stomach, down my legs — part of a part, part of pregnancy. They will come and go. The pain started. The panic kicked in. I held my breath. I screamed inward. I had never felt pain like it. The panic. Holding my breath. My mum had four. I can do this. It will be easy. By the time I got to the hospital, with barely any centimetres, I was already screaming. ...