Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

  Two of my grandchildren having a conversation - one aged 5 Aria learning to read and write  and the other Willloughby aged 7 at this point unable to read and write.

  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...

  Filling Your Vessel - (Detachment / Armour / Vessels) The more you become, the more you fill your vessel with the world — with worldly things, with what your friends tell you, your family tells you, the world tells you. Your heart becomes armour plated. You think the more you fill your vessel, the more you shine your armour — but the thing that always gets me is this: the people you love the most know how to shoot straight through that armour. Therapists are said to be vessels — vessels filled with our stories: our inner child, our inappropriate adult, our journey. We fill these vessels. But if they become everyone’s vessel — to empty, to fill, to contain, to hold — do they become just empty bottles, warriors who fill with our words and help keep the lid on? How can anyone be an infinite container to fill? I wonder about this. I ask the question: Does your heart become armour plated to stay untarnished by what affects you ...

Spill Out  (reflection and advice) Be the cup half full because brimming leaves you no space for broken. We don’t need to spill out, speak out, cheer lead. We need calm, quiet, reflection. And in the words of Philippa Perry: one‑word answers for children. No fact, no fiction — one word. Their little brains can’t take your story, your spill, your teach. One word each answers. (With exceptions, maybe two words required). Book Reference - "One Word Answers " The Book You |Wish Your Parents Had Read, author yes you guessed it PP. Vessel Collection   - Do Not Fill to the Top Poems and life lessons about overflow, overwhelm, and the beauty of leaving room. A collection for anyone who has ever mistaken “full” for “fine.” Blurb A collection of poems, metaphors, and lived wisdom about being a vessel in the world — not overflowing, not performing fullness, but learning the art of capacity. These pieces explore the truth that every vessel needs breathing space, and that half empty isn’t...

  Vessel Collection Motherhood & Boundaries   (VERSION TWO) I am that person — the one who filled my children’s vessels. When theirs emptied, I filled them. A bit more, a top up, just enough to spill over the edge. And now, as adults, they spill out again — a heavy stone dropping in from above, and I rush in with positivity, with fixing, with rescuing, with saving — and the water just sloshes over the sides. I need to stop being that person. Let their water spill out. Let their vessels be filled by themselves. Let them be them. Do not fill anyone’s vessel. Stop. Stop filling everyone’s vessel. Don’t be the jug of water. Be the empty cup. And here’s the irony — I’ve always said “ a cup half empty.” But maybe half empty is the only way to leave room to be topped up. Not constantly full. If my love keeps filling their vessels, how will they ever learn to love themselves? How will they ever grow the confidence I have...

  Vessel Collection Motherhood & Boundaries   (VERSION ONE) I am that person — the one who filled my children’s vessels. When theirs emptied, I filled them. A bit more, a top up, just enough to spill over the edge. Did I cause the mental health issues? Was I too much? Did I do enough? Did my diagnosed ND effect my children. And now, as adults, they spill out again — a heavy stone dropping in from above, and I rush in with positivity, with fixing, with rescuing, with saving — and the water just sloshes over the sides. I need to stop being that person. Let their water spill out. Let their vessels be filled by themselves. Let them be them. Do not fill anyone’s vessel. Stop. Stop filling everyone’s vessel. Don’t be the jug of water. Be the empty cup. And here’s the irony — I’ve always said “ a cup half empty.” But maybe half empty is the only way to leave room to be topped up. Not constantly full. If my love keeps filling their vessels, how will they ever lea...

  QUESTION “If you are a vessel to fill, will you become armour‑plated ?" Vessel Collection   - Do Not Fill to the Top Poems and life lessons about overflow, overwhelm, and the beauty of leaving room. A collection for anyone who has ever mistaken “full” for “fine.” Blurb A collection of poems, metaphors, and lived wisdom about being a vessel in the world — not overflowing, not performing fullness, but learning the art of capacity. These pieces explore the truth that every vessel needs breathing space, and that half empty isn’t lack; it’s room to live.

  Vessel — Half full half empty And here’s the irony — all my life I preached a cup half full attitude, as if that made me positive, good, grateful. But I wasn’t half full. I was full full — brimming, spilling, overflowing into everyone else’s life. I thought “half empty” was the negative one, the failure, the flaw. But maybe half empty is the only way to leave room to be topped up. Not constantly full. Not drowning in my own overflow. Footnote : I got the metaphor wrong. In my world “cup half full” meant positive, and “half empty” meant failure — but now I know half empty is capacity, breathing space, room for me. Blurb A collection of poems, metaphors, and lived wisdom about being a vessel in the world — not overflowing, not performing fullness, but learning the art of capacity. These pieces explore the truth that every vessel needs breathing space, and that half empty isn’t lack; it’s room to live. Inspiration Molly my amazing dau...

  Vessel Collection Cup Logic — The Identity Poem Cup Logic Don’t be the jug. Be the cup. All my life I said, I’m a cup half full. Because in my world half full meant positive, good, grateful. But the truth was I wasn’t half full — I was full full, brimming, spilling, no room for breath. But the truth is I was the cup full. Too full. Brimmed. Spilling over on everyone and everything. A cup that’s always full has no space for anything new. No space for joy, for rest, for breath. So now I choose half empty. Half empty isn’t pessimism. It’s capacity. It’s regulation. It’s permission. It’s space for myself. FOOTNOTE: (I got the metaphor wrong — in my world “half empty” meant failure, but now it means capacity.) Blurb A collection of poems, metaphors, and lived wisdom about being a vessel in the world — not overflowing, not performing fullness, but learning the art of capacity. These pieces explore the truth that every vessel...