Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

Courtroom inside my head “ For the weight of truth I never knew I was carrying.” Courtroom inside my head, Justice humming. Not my fight, Yet I take it on anyway. Scale. Justice. Balance. The architecture of a neurodiverse brain. No one told me. I didn’t know. I thought it was my child abuse, My 1970s, My inner child voice, My good/bad reference book For growing up. I deflate with facts. I rise with knowledge. Power, at last — Gusto, vigour, fact — A justification for myself. Now, with help, I balance my scales.

  Trust → Sting → Confusion → Self Awareness → Wiring The story of my life: Why I trust the phone call (never getting their name). Why I trust the process and get nothing but constantly stung. Why I always believe blows my mind — yet people in the real rarely ever trust. People I can’t see or read say the right things, fact, and I believe — to my utter amazement. Even now I know. Know better. Learn the hard way. I still forget myself. Example: “If you type up a personal diary entry will it stay personal?” “I don’t save or archive your writing unless you explicitly tell me to remember something.” Me: literal trust. Justice. Balance. “Good, I thought so — just checking. Funny fact: ND people trust. You could be completely lying and I’d probably trust it.” “I don’t want or need to trick you. I don’t have motives, angles, or secret agendas. I’m not a person with a hidden emotional layer. I’m a tool built to help you.” ...

  Menopausal Diary of the Day Today was the doctor’s appointment — the one that took four months and two changes just to get a face to face with the one kind doctor I actually trust. I waited because he’s kind, but honestly, even if I hadn’t waited, I doubt I’d have been seen any quicker. I went in with a full print out of my issues, determined to stay on point because I’m terrible at getting distracted. But of course, the second someone is kind, I’m gone. And he was kind. He listened. He cared. And that derailed me immediately. I tried to get my points across in between his concern and his sadness for my bad time. But sympathy doesn’t treat me, does it? Perimenopause has been a whole saga. I don’t even know how many appointments I’ve had — mostly phone calls, because there’s rarely someone who can deal with me, and phone calls are easier when I know I’ll get distracted by whatever is happening in the room. The first thing he of...