Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

To pee or not to pee, that was never really a question ? Sleep Stanza — with ND line added (for texture) When I lie down, there’s no sensation at all — just part of the sleep ritual, waking at 4 a.m. thinking, “I should go,” but not knowing if I actually need to. Sometimes a waterfall flows, sometimes a trickle that barely goes. And only recently I learned this is an ND thing — to not have the feeling at all. Footnote full poem https://hello-wall-hormonal-heart-poetry.blogspot.com/2026/03/to-pee-or-not-to-pee.html

  To Pee or Not to Pee To pee or not to pee — that is the question I never knew. This is about finding out that you never know when you need to go to the toilet or you don’t. I’ve never really had the sensation of needing to wee. I think it was something I always did with my children when they were young, because I don’t really remember being a child and dealing with this problem. I think I did wet the bed late, but then I had a lot of childhood stuff going on, so I just put it down to that. As an adult, I think I would just go to the toilet when everybody else did — just for the sake of going. It never occurred to me until a few years back that I would suggest you went to the toilet before we left the house. You know — you’d go in the morning or at night, but I never really had the feeling of needing to go. And then it gets worse, my story. Around my 30s, I kept getting to the front door after a run, putting the key in the lock, and I ...

  Life’s Potential / Possibility I. Potential Life’s potential. Life’s potential. Every day, this potential. Every day, there’s life. Everyday life has potential. And everyday, life is taken without potential. So, potentially, I could win. Or potentially, I could fail. Potentially, eventually, I will be successful. I just have to keep trying. II. Possibility Do we have infinite possibilities, or only a finite handful? Is there a moment in life when you’ve had all of yours, and that’s it — the rest is just aftershocks? Am I possibility ed out, or is there still something waiting for me? Have I reached my full potential, or are my possibilities only just beginning? Here’s what I know: possibility doesn’t run out. It shifts. It changes shape. It waits for you to notice it again.

  Memoir Blast — Childhood & Marriage Number Three Three: Mr V & Lucky I was about eleven, the age where I’d already been reprimanded from going to Derek’s house because I’d run away once (caught, obviously — that’s another blast). My brothers were there that night, but I refused to go. So I ended up at my auntie and uncle’s house party instead — proper 80's style, everyone in the kitchen, cans of beer, the whole house party as culture thing.    The whole room was full of barely‑adults themselves — alcohol, children, smoking, dancing — everyone pretending they knew what they were doing. That’s where I met him. A kind man in the kitchen. Tall Paul. Black hair. Huge hands. Ice blue eyes.  (he knew my uncle some how) I can still see him now — sitting in the window ledge part of the kitchen, flicking his hand through his fringe. Black hair is soft; it never stayed back. It looked like a reflex, nerves or confidence or both. (He...

Memoir Blast 20 — Torquay, the Mirrored Bedroom, and the Canal Story This was Mr V’s friends — Mick and Marie — in Torquay. They’d just got married, My Mum to Mr V so honeymoon or maybe it was simply a holiday, but in my memory it arrived labelled honeymoon, so that’s what it became. And there we were: all four of us children, turning up like an unexpected travelling troupe. What kind of honeymoon includes four kids is beyond me, but that’s how it happened. Their house sat on the steepest hill I’d ever seen, a proper Torquay incline that made the world feel tilted. And the palm trees — I’d never seen them before. They looked like something from a postcard, not England. Their garden was wild and rocky, full of tropical plants thriving in the seaside warmth. It felt like a different country. The whole house felt like another planet. They even had a bar — an actual bar — which blew my mind because bars belonged in pubs, not people’s homes. Another sign that adults lived differently, on so...

  Memory Blast: The Malta Sandwich   The best sandwich I ever had was made by a millionaire on his boat, moored in a harbour in Malta. We were sitting in the sun when he asked if it was okay to make us lunch — the traditional sandwich he’d grown up with. We said yes, and he started making it right there, no fuss, no washing his hands first, which would normally bug me, but somehow didn’t. He rubbed mint and oil straight into the bread with his hands, pressing everything in the way he’d learned as a child. Flavoursome, strong, simple, poor man’s food. Everything had to be rubbed, worked in, coaxed. Then he squashed the sandwich together so the oil and herbs could soak and marinate — olive oil, proper oil, the good stuff. When I say the taste exploded in my mouth, I’m not exaggerating. It was unforgettable. Easily in my top five sandwiches ever — probably number one. He didn’t ask what we wanted; he just made it. I think that made it taste even better. And the sun...

  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. ...

The Queen of Her Own Castle — A Three Act Becoming I Married a Lost Boy 🎭 ACT I — THE DREAM (see post) 🎭 ACT II — THE REALITY (see post) 🎭 ACT III — THE AWAKENING (see post) A spoken‑word journey of girlhood mythology, adult reality, and late‑in‑life sovereignty. The Queen of Her Own Castle — A Three Act Becoming traces the path from marrying a lost boy to reclaiming the throne of your own life. Three Acts. One woman. A lifetime of patterns unpicked, boundaries built, and a crown finally claimed.  (but is it?)

  The Queen of Her Own Castle — A Three Act Becoming 🎭 ACT III — THE AWAKENING The princess became a queen. Living her own dream. She dusted herself off. Put up a barrier. To protect. To heal. She runs her castle now. Footnote: This act is reclamation — the moment the woman steps out of the movie, out of the fantasy, out of the roles she inherited. It’s the neurodivergent awakening, the self naming, the sovereignty. The castle is no longer a metaphor; it’s a boundary, a kingdom, a life she built with her own hands.

  The Queen of Her Own Castle — A Three Act Becoming ACT II — THE REALITY A baby at eighteen. What did I know? Was this true love? Or just the man from the movie? My wet dream. My fan fiction. Footnote: This act is the collision between fantasy and adulthood — the moment the dream becomes a mortgage, a marriage, a responsibility. It’s the part where the heroine realises she’s been living inside a script she didn’t write, stitched from childhood patterns and survival instincts.

  The Queen of Her Own Castle — A Three Act Becoming 🎭 ACT I — THE DREAM Impossibility. Probability. Of falling in love. The teenage me— in love with the lost boy, long-haired, a character. Footnote: This act holds the mythology of girlhood — the cinematic crush, the fantasy logic, the neurodivergent pattern making that feels like destiny. It’s the origin story of a queen who didn’t yet know she was building a castle.

Scammer or Not — The Act Scammer or not, I carried his glance too long. He was cold, I had warmth. It wasn’t cash, it was calories, a glance of dignity— the act was real. Footnote: this is taken from a long poem.

  Queen of My Castle Empowerment and Peace I will try to walk beside, And not ahead or fall behind. I carry my own bright light To share—but not theirs. Though my shoulders are strong, And my back is not broken, I have carried the load. I love without rescuing. I stay without losing. This is my castle. This is my crown. This is my peace. My throne is for me alone.

  Queen of My Castle Change or Acceptance Two options in life—this is the choice: To change something, Or to accept it. Make peace with what is. Relentless is resistance. So don’t resist it. I choose to— Not I have to. Emotional openness. Accept the is-ness. The is-what-it-is-ness. And that’s the beauty. It will roll with or without you. Wheels of life set in motion. Momentum moves you, Or participation guides you.

  Queen of My Castle Boundaries and Relationships You can be responsible to other people (aka family, friends). We—I—can Care about them, Hypothetically hold them tight, Account for them—always. Make them matter. SHOUT: LOVE LOVE LOVE. But we can’t be responsible for them. We can’t— No matter how hard a mother, Wife, or lover tries To take it, Be it, Hold it, Fight it, Take it away, Shield it, Hate it— We can’t Make their choices, Find their happiness, Be their solutions, Become their supply.

  Queen of My Castle Identity and Ownership I am. Am I? Responsible. Responsibility. Let them, let me— Be queen of my own castle. Feel or reign: freedom to be me.

  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...