Skip to main content

What Am I?




 

What Am I?


I think about the rules.

I hate authority.


I live my life in black and white —

but my life is in colour.


I watch my money,

or I spend like a millionaire.

I count my pennies,

or I play Russian roulette.


I trusted doctors —

trusted them to have the answers.

That one doesn’t work.


I love myself,

but I don’t love others.

No…

that doesn’t work either.


I shine bright —

Yet, I don’t like bright lights.


I follow the rules,

and I shout out.

I shout out loud.


I dare the rules —

I interrupt.

I can’t help it.

I have to say it out.

I thought I was friendly,

but apparently I’m inappropriate.


I can hyperfocus —

yet I can’t concentrate at all.


I can do one thing at a time

while a hundred things

roll around in my brain.


I am literal,

yet an amazing problem solver.

It’s got to be opposite —

what’s the opposite of literal?


You ask a question,

I answer it twice —

once with my voice,

once with my brain.

The real me,

and the masked me.

While I punish myself,

scold myself,

because I feel less than.


I’m incredibly good —

Yet I’m incredibly bad.


I know no boundaries —

yet if given a list of rules,

I will follow them to the letter.


I need to look into your eyes

for eye contact,

to read people —

yet I hate eye contact.

I can’t stand still.


I can never look into a camera.

I always pull a face.

But in my mind,

I’m still and smiling.

In my eyes,

they’re always looking away.


I speak clearly —

but I repeat.

I feel concise —

but I lose my track

and go back to the start of my story.

Why is that?


I don’t have a routine

or any order —

yet if it gets broken,

I have to start again.

And I’m angry.


I don’t have a routine,

really any order —

but if someone disturbs it,

I have to start again.

And I get very angry.


Routine.


I won’t move an ornament —

but if I move one,

I’ll move a million.


Tidying the house exhausts me —

yet I can rearrange the whole house

in one day.


Bossing me exhausts me —

yet artistic creation enthrals me.

footnote: my original art - ask permission to use.


Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter.

  Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter. So if I got paid for every time someone told me my daughter looks fabulous, I’d be a millionaire. A millionaire for every doctor who ignored you, for every professional who let you slip through the cracks, for every moment when the full information, the full picture, the full respect wasn’t given. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Today is for you, Molly. And for the future generations of our family — because this is genetic, because this is inherited, because someone needs to notice and someone needs to ask the right questions. I have become, by necessity, a hormonal expert. A mother who had to learn what the system refused to teach. And through it all, your husband — your rock — has moved mountains beside you, carrying what others refused to see, loving you through every unseen storm. I wish PMDD looked like your arm falling off. Because if people could see it, they’d care. Docto...
Post a Comment
Read more

Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way

  Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way A menopausal purchase is planetary. The sun must shine. The temperature must be just right. You must be neither dipping nor surging — just perfectly balanced in the hormonal moment. Because unless you buy exactly when the stars align, it will get returned. You’ll love it on the day. But if the scales tip even slightly — by the next morning, it’s on the fence. If you’re lucky, you’ll return it. If not, it’ll sit in your wardrobe for 28 days until the return window closes. Then it’s either sold on Vinted for a quarter of the price or left to haunt you. There’s a lot resting on a menopausal buy. It’s not just a purchase — it’s a mood, a moment, a miracle. I never realised this until I saw how small my wardrobe was. Not because the shops weren’t there — but because I wasn’t there when I got there. You leave the house feeling great. You arrive at the shops and suddenly… not so great. So the purchase is less than mediocre. ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Baby Whale and the Circle of Sharks

  🌊 The Baby Whale and the Circle of Sharks A children’s story inspired by Maverick George’s real beginning Intro for Molly and Ryan When Baby Whale was born, the ocean shook. The Sea Health Service — the SHS — whispered to his parents that he had the rarest lung trouble they had seen in sixty tides . His mum, the gentle whale Molly, had just brought him into the world. His dad, the brave whale Ryan, stayed outside the coral surgery cave for hours, swimming back and forth, bringing news, bringing hope, bringing love. Baby Whale needed help right away. Not because he was weak — but because he was special , and his tiny blowhole needed extra care to learn how to breathe. That was only the beginning. 🌊 Chapter One: The Circle of Sharks From the moment Baby Whale opened his eyes, the sharks were already circling. Not the big, fierce sharks — not the ones who bite in one terrible snap. These were the small‑bite sharks . The ones who take tiny nibbles, again and again, never enough to ...
2 comments
Read more