safe harbour

when I think of what you stole
the hole
you left
in my chest
I feel bereft.

and I recoiled
you finished, I was spoiled
was dirt
and it hurt.

what you took,
it shook
me to the core of my being,
as I watched from the ceiling.

wondering ‘how could he?’
and ‘why would he?’
but it’s plain to see
you thought you were free
to take what you wanted from me.

years have passed
and I wonder
-when was the last
time you thought of it?

I wonder
do you realise what you stole?
how I haven’t felt whole
in years.
days and nights filled with fears.

and (since you asked)
for me, it’s a mammoth task,
to calm the ripples each day.
to fight the compulsion not to stay.

but it’s time.
to take back what was once mine.
the security,
the surety,
with which I walked,

the being
and seeing.
something else

and the comfort
-they say ‘any port
in a storm’

and I needed rescue,
that was true.

but the storm has passed,

and at last
I have found my safe harbour.
I have come farther
than I ever imagined I could go
and I just thought you should know.


the dragon, and the tears

proud, triumphant
the dragon and its gold
and oh! what a story
there is to be told.

there once was a girl
with long black hair,
pale skin and brown eyes
and not a care

in the world.
or so she thought
cos her tears were priceless
they couldn’t be bought.

the dragon he knew this
and he knew a wee man.
a man who was clever
-a man with a plan.

the man climbed through her window
every night without fail
and stole all of her dreams
it caused her to wail.

she cried and she cried
oh my how she wept,
and she shut herself in
where the broomsticks were kept!

a life without dreams
just wasn’t worth living
away went her laughter,
her loving and giving.

the wee man he was quick
he collected her tears
and sold them at auction
without any fears.

he ran from that place,
tried to keep all the gold,
but the dragon had heard
that the tears had been sold.

the wee man kept running
but just wasn’t fast
enough, so the dragon
killed him with one blast!

so now it sits high
on a mighty huge pile
the dragon, the gold
and a great toothy smile!

but what what of girl?
what of her life?
she met the knight of her dreams
and became his wife.


“baby you’re a firework”
– so the song would have us believe.

you were an IED,
an unexploded time bomb.

and maybe I lit the touch paper,
maybe I set fire to you and watched you burn.

but only from a distance.

after all,
we were always taught
never to go back to fireworks.


he stole my car radio.
so I sit in silence.
but sometimes quiet is violent,
pummelling ’til everything’s out of control.
and it’s taking its toll.

I hate driving this car,
it’s careering.
I struggle to correct the steering
– to limit the casualties.

but nobody sees,
the effort it’s taking,
the ease that I’m faking
the noise I’m not making.

I look at the hole
where the thing that he stole
is MIA
and I can’t pay
to replace it.

so I sit.
wound tightly
driving nightly
in ear-splitting silence.


the horizon is low
– sky huge and bright blue,
or ominously dark.

there are no obstacles.
that imaginary line feels like a precipice.

but somehow ordinary.

and you stand with eyes closed
waiting for the moment
– that wonderful second of flight –
before you hit

Doing too much

These past few weeks (or maybe months, I’m unsure. Time passes so quickly lately), I’ve been doing a lot. I have gone from doing maybe a couple of things a week, to doing something nearly every day. I realise this is nothing compared to having a full time job (and maybe doing things on top of it), but after years of doing not very much at all, for me this is a lot.

All the mental health professionals have told me to ‘do things’, to keep busy. That this will help my mood. And I’ve taken them at their word.

I have a weekly routine. I have one MH appointment a week (CPN, psychologist, and – less regularly – psychiatrist), usually on a Monday or a Tuesday. I volunteer for my church youth group on a Sunday evening, and have recently started volunteering for a charity working with young people on a Wednesday evening. I go to Recreational Therapy at the hospital for art group on a Thursday, and writing group on a Friday. I go for coffee with a friend most Tuesdays. Also, my mum and I are going to the gym two or three times a week. These are my ‘regular’ commitments. Individually arguably very good things to be doing, but collectively verging on just too much.

However, in addition, in the past month or two, I have done four training courses, and attended one conference. I have been to a Scottish Mental Health Arts and Film Festival (SMHAFF) symposium (one full day), done induction and child protection training for the charity I’m volunteering for (one half day, and one full day), Scotland’s Mental Health First Aid (SMHFA) Training parts one and two (two full days), and yesterday I did the required face-to-face training for SMHFA-Young People (one full day). Five and a half days may not sound much, but they have come thick and fast, anxiety has been through the roof, and it has taken a huge effort to complete them. And cope with the fallout afterwards.

I have been praised for how much I’m doing and been told I’m looking so much better. But the truth its very different. The truth is coming home and collapsing on the floor for hours, until day turns to night, and I’m sitting in darkness. It is not sleeping, even though I’m physically and mentally exhausted. It is fighting demons, even while busy with ‘good things’. Today, I am done. Those sneaky suicidal thoughts have crept their way into my head again, and I’m struggling to shrug them off.

Luckily, yesterday was my last additional thing, and I have a very good friend coming to visit next week. She is calming, and understanding and the perfect house-guest. In as much as I’m looking forward to anything at the moment, I’m looking forward to that.

In addition, I’m going on a really amazing holiday soon, with some of my favourite people. Depression is telling me that I’m going to ruin it for everyone I’m going with, but I’m trying had not to listen to it. I’m hoping the change of scene and pace will do me some good, and I’ll come home feeling like I’ve had a good break.



actions speak louder than words

Too often, actions
are reactions.
Publicly false, unnatural.
Or privately, raw, shameful.

Sometimes it’s not about
bold moves or grand gestures
but small words
whispered in quiet times.

But even when whispered,
some words cut deeply,
escaping painfully,
slashing and slicing their way into being.

So to writing.
Writing what cannot be said,
finding comfort in words
and safety through the control they provide.

the pen is mightier than the sword 


I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve
– never have.

Instead, I keep it closely guarded.
Solitary, hidden.

For years, my sleeves were a hiding place,
not for my heart – but for secret hurts on skin,
written deeply.

But now, wearing what I like,
I hide my hurts next to my heart.
And though I think about them,
I’m trying my best not to feel.

“You don’t LOOK depressed”


People make assumptions about what people with mental illnesses look like, all the time. If I asked you to describe a person with depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia…you could all probably make a pretty good stab at a stereotypical version.

Have a look at these photos. Can you tell me, in which ones do I look depressed?


It’s a trick question, of course. In all of these photos I was depressed.

It’s hoped that (the dreaded) awareness campaigns do something to reduce the  stereotypes, but the truth is, I’m not hopeful.

I’m not hopeful, because today, despite telling my CPN (a trained mental health professional), that I was feeling low and having thoughts of suicide, her reaction was “but aren’t you looking well”, “you’re so much more engaged”, “you’re getting out and Doing Things“. And while I recognise that these outside factors play a part in getting better, I refuse to believe you can judge the state of someone’s mental health solely on what they look like/how they act/how much they’re doing.

I am a people pleaser. I put on a face. I am aware that everyone does this to a greater or lesser degree in their lives. But I am a master at it. It’s part of the reason it took mental health services years to offer me the help that I had needed from the start.

The real reason that I’m “looking well” (have lost weight), and am “much more engaged” (talk more and make eye contact) and am able to get out and “do things” (though collapsing in a heap when I get home more often than not), is that they changed my medication. The last medication I was on, I found heavily sedating. I ate loads and put on a lot of weight, and I didn’t have the energy to speak, never mind do things other than attend my appointments.

So they have changed my medication, and I have gone back to ‘presenting’ how I did when this all began. I am told I come across as “bright, articulate and insightful”, while I crumble inside and my mind makes dangerous plans that I have more motivation for, now that I’m not ‘drugged up’.

But if a professional can’t see this, then how can we ever hope the general public to be able to understand?

For Mum

my child, I knew you well
each time you fell
I was there
showing you care
– scraped knees
became my expertise.

but as you grew
you withdrew.
and I knew
something was wrong
– not what was going on
because you didn’t tell.
but it was that smell
antiseptic in your room
which had become a tomb.
and I realised,
though you tried to hide
you took care
not to lay bare
the hurts you were making
punishments for him taking
something from you.
not that I knew
that then
how could I, when
you didn’t tell me?

so I pretended not to see
I gave you space,
let you take things at your own pace
and you sought help
but said it felt
not right
the fight
was leaving you
and you were leaving too.

you moved
as if you had something to prove.
I thought a fresh start would be good
but as soon as you could
you set out to destroy yourself
and I felt powerless to help.
nights of drinks and hurts
and more long sleeved shirts.

I often think
that maybe if I’d seen the link,
if I’d been the one
pushing for things to be done
life would have been different
not all bent
out of shape
and stuck together with sticky tape.

but, as you say, you weren’t ready
– needed to be steady
to be braver
not to waver
over whether you could accept
the help that was kept
just out of reach
until each
little thing fell into place.

now, when I see your face
I see hope there.
and I’m showing you care
once more
as you mend your core.