day 100

One hundred days since I started writing.
How much has changed in one hundred days?

One hundred days ago,
I was working in a job that made me miserable,
I was in a relationship that wasn’t making me happy and I didn’t know what to do about it,
I was relatively healthy –
or at least I didn’t know how sick I was.

Now I am in a new job,
and I am struggling but I leave each day happy.
I left that relationship and discovered my propensity for cruelty
and my complete lack of empathy.
I started chemotherapy and had an ovary removed
and I have come to terms with the fact
that nothing will go back to how it was
and that’s okay.

One hundred days ago,
I decided to stop screaming into the void
and start whispering into a crowded room.

I learned to be my own summer.

the day of

Liquid fire
searing through my veins.
The worst pain have ever known
and I have been through
three miscarriages.
I cannot stop crying.
What I would give
to never feel this again
and yet I have to endure this
if I want to live.


Like a child on Christmas eve,
tonight I cannot sit still,
It is not through excitement
of Santa visiting with presents
but through fear of what is to come.

This day has been two and a half months in the making,
and yet it feels like a lifetime
of panic and anxiety and not knowing.
It is chemo eve,
tomorrow I open the gift
of poison fed directly into my system
that will save my life.

At least my insides will match my attitude.

mummy issues

They say the first love you know
comes from your mother.
The first memory I have of my mother
is being out shopping with her
when I was two and a half years old
and trying to tell her that I needed a wee.
She shouted at me in the middle of Argos,
told me to cross my legs
and not disturb her again.
I ran out of the shop in tears
and proceeded to piss myself
in the middle of the street.

My mother has never loved me.
She has resented me from before I was born
and this has only got worse with age.

At the age of five,
when I was being bullied by older boys,
she shouted at me for ruining my brand new coat –
when I had been pushed into a muddy puddle
and I spent the rest of that winter with just a cardigan.
At the age of 13,
when she found out I was bi,
she kicked me out.
At the age of 15,
when I weighed around six stone,
she called me fat and disgusting
and told me no one would ever love me.
At the age of 17,
I told her my boyfriend had hit me
and she told me I probably deserved it.
At the age of 20,
she walked out on me and my dad,
and told me his heart attack was my problem
because I had caused it.
At the age of 23,
I was diagnosed with cancer
and she has not been there for me
at all.

“You have a face only a mother could love –
but even I can’t manage that!”
is what she says while she’s looking at me.

Sometimes I wonder
if my mother had been a little kinder,
maybe I would be a little stronger,
have a little more self worth,
be less of an easy target for abuse.

moving clocks run slow

For the last three and a half months
I have been reluctant to plan anything
in the future
because the future felt so uncertain.
Will I be well enough?
Will I even still be here?
The future felt overwhelming
so I hid away from it
and tried to live in the present –
and ended up fixating on the past.
But this is keeping me stuck
drifting aimlessly
when I need to keep moving forwards
so here I am,
making plans for November
in a promise to myself
to keep going.