untitled_20201103 – mature content.

(1169 words. 24minutes writing time)

A couple of shaky breaths is all I can muster before I am pacing the length of the hallway again. I rub my hands over my face, trying to soothe myself with the touch, but it doesn’t help. I shake my head in disbelieve. My hands reach for my face again, but this time, they run across my eyes, over the forehead, and through my hair. I contemplate pulling at the long strands, but that wouldn’t help the issue either. The nervous energy in me is trying to bring me down; my entire body is buzzing. And then you appear from nowhere, really. You put your hand on my arm, but I have to shake it off. I cannot be touched right now, or I will fall apart. But you know me too well. You know exactly what I need.
“Stop!” you order. I want to move, but I know this tone in your voice. Usually, you reserve it for the bedroom, but it seems to work outside too. I shake my head and look at you with pleading eyes. I want you to stop this, to make this go away. You step closer, invading my private space. I feel like running, like running away. It’s not because of you, but I am afraid to be touched. I am searching for an exit, for a way to get out of this situation; at the same time, I want you to help me; I need you to make this go away. You put your hands on my shoulders, fixing my eyes with a glare. I see understanding and something stern – you will not tolerate any of my weird antics. You would never hurt me; I know that, but you have a way to calm me down that always works. Your hands run down my arms until you are holding my wrists. You tighten your grip. It is not painful, it just stops me from moving, and my mind is not racing because it is focused on your hands around my wrists and how that feels. It feels warm. And tight. Pulled together. The skin on your hands is rough and calloused because of your day job—manual labor.
“Breathe!” you order. Part of me wants to defy you and hold my breath; the other part of me is grateful for the guidance. But I don’t comply. I am overthinking until your right hand tightens and releases its grip around my wrist. You raise an eyebrow, and I begin to panic. Please don’t let me go, I want to say, but there are no words. There are too many thoughts in my head.
“Breathe!” you order again. And I do. I take a deep breath, so deep that it almost makes me dizzy. You nod your head once, and it is all the encouragement I need to exhale and inhale again. I know the breathing techniques, but when I am in an agitated state like this, I cannot remember them. I focus on one of the letters imprinted on your t-shirt and repeat my breathing. I am calmer now; my heart isn’t racing or burning in my chest. But I feel fragile and foolish.
When you tug at me, I follow you without taking note of where we are going. I stopped thinking. We enter a room, and I hear the lock click behind us; no one will disturb us here.
There is a painting on the wall, abstract with squares in different shades of blue and purple. And as I am trying to understand the piece of art in front of me, I feel your lips on my neck. I sigh and turn my head to give you better access. Your hands find my breasts, massaging them through the layers of clothes. I bite my lip to silence the moan that wants to escape my throat. One of your hands wanders further down. And I like where this is going. I can feel not only my own arousal growing but yours too. For a brief moment, I wonder if having sex now is a good idea, and it makes me chuckle – there is only one answer to that question. We make short process of pushing the hindering clothes down and aside. You grip my wrists behind my back and push me against the wall next to the painting I inspected moments ago.
“Palms flat against the wall!” you order. With a grin, I oblige. I am too far gone now. Everything I feel is too intense and not intense enough. With one hand, you hold me in place, and with the other, you enter me. The position and our pants around our ankles make moving a bit weird, but you still reach the most important places in me. I am afraid to be too loud again and bite my arm. It’s the only place I can reach to stifle my moans. You fill me deeply. In and out. Faster and faster. Harder with every thrust. Our thighs slap against each other, creating an obscene soundtrack, and I can’t stop moaning and smiling. You are sucking my neck, breathing heavily, all the while, you keep my hands pinned above my head, and the rhythm of your hips drives me nearly insane. I feel you growing inside of me, and I hear your breath changing. You swallow your moans while I let my out freely now. “Cum with me!” you order. But this time I can’t comply. I cannot orgasm like this. Not in this position. I think about faking it, but then I am surprised with your own orgasm filling me. Your grip around my wrists becomes almost painful, and Your legs are trembling. A strangled noise leaves your lips as you withdraw from me. You urge me to turn around, and the moment I face you, you attack my mouth with a kiss.
The end of the kiss sobers me. We separate enough to pull our pants back up, and once my belt is in place, the overthinking begins again.
“Don’t,” you say, and I am not sure what you are referring to; too many options. Having sex in a stranger’s office is highly inappropriate.
“Better?” you ask, and I nod because I am.
“The divorce is through?” you ask, and I reply with an unsteady “Yes.”
“Hey babe, look at me!” I raise my eyes to his. “You are free to do whatever you want and to love whoever you want. But I will not leave you. Got it?” I don’t know what to say, because being free is scary. Being left or abandoning is scary too.
“Okay,” I reply nonetheless.
“Ready for the walk of shame?” you ask, and I cannot keep the laughter inside.
“I am,” I say, and he unlocks the door.
As I walk down the steps of the court, watching the man walking in front of me, I realise that he is right. For the first time in my life, I am free.

crippling self-doubt

Yesterday I posted a chapter (admittedly everything there is) of a thing I called Upside Down. I wrote those words late, and I was quite tired by then. I am sure there are a couple of mistakes and errors in there… But as a faithful reader, you are aware that every post has at least one typo. Be it as it may… I am not sure how to proceed and if anyone who follows this blog wants to read things like that. My overthinking and self-doubting self is a bother again. I am not expecting an answer because in the end I will do whatever seems right to me and comes naturally. If you say yes, I pressure myself too much. If you say no, I doubt myself and my capacities as a writer. You can’t win. I cannot either.

I am a tired woman wearing bright green pants (with huge white flowers – hideous pants) who is seriously considering giving Milly Baker and Josh Weller a backstory and making their characters come alive. The last names were a spur of the moment thing.

Thanks for letting me vomit my self-doubt on your screen. I could go on and on about it… But who wants to read that?! And I don’t want to write it.

Thank you for your time.


Life between clouds and feathers – walking the wire (9)

Connor is walking the wire. In his mind he is. On one side, Thomas is holding him, on the other is an abyss. Connor doesn’t dare to move. Neither perspective is one he is comfortable with. But he prefers to be on the safe side. For now. Frozen in place, his mind is blank, too. His mind and his body are vacant. Mechanically, he lifts his arms to be helped into a t-shirt, and other clothes. He barely registers his stomach pains and the urgency to empty its contents into the toilet bowl. Everything is numb. And it is scary. Connor is used to be dominated by thoughts and urges. This nothingness is scary. Every routine that is etched into his brain is followed with determined ease and showing his attention to detail. He moves around Thomas as if he were a piece of furniture. And Thomas doesn’t object. He just watches Connor doing his thing. Connor scrubs the kitchen with various cleaning products, fully focused on his task. In passing, he takes the note he left for Thomas to read, scrunches it up, and throws it into the trash as if it is a used tissue. The more he cleans and files and organises, the calmer he becomes. Following his daily rituals help too. The wire in his head becomes larger and easier to navigate. The abyss is not as deep anymore, and he doesn’t feel the need to be held anymore. However, the emptiness he now feels is new. The void that is spreading in him is a threat he has never felt before. His mind is racing. His heart is too. He feels a new wave of nausea hitting him and he runs to the bathroom. Dying by asphyxiation must be less painful and embarrassing than the stomach cramps he is experiencing after an overdose with different vitamins. Thomas is at his side, holding out a wet towel for Connor to clean his face. He avoids touching him more than absolutely necessary. Thomas stays stoic and silent. His presence is enough to keep Connor from disintegrating. His silence is welcome and comforting. And Connor continues to walk the wire. Slowly. Because the calm is not reassuring. It opens doors for new demons.

Life between clouds and feathers – saviour (8)

Thomas hurries up the steps and reaches for the potted plant in front of Connor’s door. The key is still there. Of course it is. Thomas takes it out of the small plastic container and quietly opens the door. He can hear the water in the bathroom, but nothing else. The apartment is neat and tidy. Everything is arranged in a certain angle and organised by colours. Very Connor. On the coffee table is a note. It would worry Thomas, if he didn’t know the truth. Connor is not dying. He is not successful with killing himself. He can’t be. At least not with the pills that he has in his house and which aren’t fatal in high doses. Thomas knocks at the bathroom door. Connor is sitting on the floor trying to mop up water with wet towels. His movements are frantic and he is constantly sniffling. Tears are on his cheeks. Thomas steps past him and turns off the tap. “Connor, I order you to stop!” he says in a stern voice. He wishes that he could pull Connor in his arms, but that is not how Connor is wired. Connor is different than most people. Special. Connor looks up. There is defiance in his eyes, but he drops the wet towel with a splash and gets up. His clothes are dripping wet. “Strip! Remove the wet clothes.” Another order Connor tries to obey, but the fabric clings to his skin and getting it off is harder than anticipated. Connor exhales audibly when he folds the wet clothes and puts them on the lid of the toilet.
“Why?” he whispers. And Thomas knows that it is time to speak. “I switched all your meds because I was scared this would happen soon. You took vitamins. Nothing dangerous.” Connor shakes his head. “I will always be there to catch you. Even when you push me away. I promise not to hurt you anymore. Here, let me help you.” Thomas takes a fresh towel and reaches is out to Connor. Connor doesn’t take it. “May I?” Thomas asks. He waits for a consenting nod and begins to rub Connor’s skin in soothing circles. “Everything is okay. You are safe,” he whispers. To Connor’s surprise, he believes Thomas. And there are no conflicting thoughts in his mind about it. At least not for now.

Life Between Clouds and Feathers – Clouds and Feathers (1)

He is living a life between clouds and feathers. Some days, his heart is free as a bird and light as a feather. Some days, his hearts is dark as a storm and heavy as a raincloud. Moods change as often as the hand of fate touches his soul. Every moment is loved and lived. Relived and perceived as hell. Where is he supposed to go from here? And more importantly; how did he get here? He whispers these questions during the day. He screams the same words in his dreams. His lonely existence is in vain. But without him, this earth is an empty place. Heavy as a cloud, light as a feather. If his mind were a bird, it would have left its cage a long while ago. As it is, his mind is embedded in a grey cloud.

did you make your bed?

Some days existing is hard. Breathing can become a struggle. Being is exhausting. Getting out of bed feels like an unachievable task.

Yesterday a good friend shared a thought with me, and it made total sense. It is about making ones bed in the morning. Here goes…

As I stated above, some days it is hard to find the strength to get out of bed. Making ones bed becomes an insurmountable task. I never bothered to make the beds. I never even considered it. Until we moved, 3 weeks ago. From the first day we lived in our new home, I made the beds. It felt like the right thing to do. Weird and out of character, and yet… The right thing to do. Now, the thought of my friend: if you make the beds, you have a first achievement of the day. Because it is a mundane task, but you did it. And if you had a bad day, you crawl into a made bed at night and you can fall asleep with the fact in mind that you got up that morning and did something. Making the bed was an achievement.

Now, for most people it doesn’t sound like a lot. If you are in a depression, the smallest things become your biggest achievements. A small task can be an insurmountable mountain. (I used the same words twice in two paragraphs, am I losing my mojo or am I just tired?)

It took me a while to admit to my situation. To address it. To ask for help. To speak about it. But it slowly dawns on me that there is no reason to hide the truth.

I am suffering from depression. And it is okay. I am going to be okay. (She said and hadn’t taken her medication in two weeks.)

I am going to undo my made bed, sleeping. Now… Remember, small things can have a huge meaning.



A raven’s wings

Crushed under the sunset’s rush
And the moon is new
And the stars are asleep.
Drawing patterns with my fingers
Tasting the last of you that lingers
And my mind calls for you
And my heart can’t recall you.
Crushed under the sunrise’s rush
The sun burns me
The light hurts my eyes
I fly into the dark
On a raven’s wings.


Fear. I don’t know fear. I never have. I am not able to feel fear. Well, maybe I am, but I am not allowed to. Fear lets one make mistakes and mistakes are deadly. Fear. I am afraid to feel it. To be paralyzed by it. To let it rule me. But here I am and I feel it creeping up my spine and spreading on my neck. Sweat is forming on my forehead, my view becomes blurry. I cannot afford to lose my senses, but here I am; blind, deaf, mute. I cannot see because sweat is constantly running in my eyes and I can’t wipe it away or make it stop. I cannot hear because the pounding of my own pulse is the only noise in my head. My blood and my thoughts. The rest of the world is silent. I am silent too. I am silent. Deaf. Mute. Nobody knows that I am alive. Nobody knows that I ever existed. Fear. I was never able to feel fear. Now I do. I made mistakes. They paralyzed me. Fear. I don’t know fear. I am fear. I am ruled by it. Fuck fear. Fuck anxiety. I just want to hear, to breathe, to speak. I want to be me. Fuck fear…