I feel like crying.
I’m so conscious of the fact that I haven’t written in three weeks, not because I didn’t want to, but I just couldn’t, feeling completely crippled with the inability to express myself. I hate it when I can’t write. I do have a partial excuse though for the three week hiatus: I’ve been away to Devon for 9 days to my happy place for the second year in a row: the idyllic, off-grid shepherd’s hut in the middle of a smallholding where I needed to exhale for the whole time I was there but interrupted by a silly notion fueled by my compulsive doing-energy goblin that lives in my psyche. Following my previous post, where I candidly expressed how my pain body controlled me, I was left with an itch: I didn’t feel I’d expressed myself wholeheartedly and knew there was much more to be said on the matter. Maybe subconsciously I’ve been holding back? I felt a nagging urge to write something more profound about about my ‘pain body possession’; there was something else begging to be expressed. The problem is that I was desperately trying to get that post written before I went away but my writing was surrounded by a heavy, thick and disjointed energy along with a tightness in my body; there was no fluidity and it felt too contrived, forcing the flow and trying to make words fit on the page rather than just saying what I wanted to say. The stream of consciousness that normally flows through my fingers effortlessly felt like my fingers were wading through a bowl of sticky black treacle. After 110 or so revisions, I gave up. It was like the potter’s wheel turning way too quickly and clay flying off the wheel and spattering into a mess on the wall. That’s how my writing felt. And the post is now sitting in my drafts like like a wet blob of clay that just requires my creative, undivided attention to mould into something. Actually a lot of my writing starts off like that: a spontaneous, incoherent, rambling stream of consciousness captured into my drafts when the mood strikes, sitting there; lots of wet blobs of word clay waiting to be moulded into something coherent.
It’s very cathartic to write these posts and my writing is ritualistic cleansing, these archives serving as an altar to my healing. So when I can’t write, like I’ve been feeling these lately, I feel lost, listless and adrift and I feel crippled, like I’ve lost something very precious. It is a precious gift, one’s creativity, a gift we are born with that no one can remove which is why it feels so debilitating when I can’t write. Of course I haven’t lost the ability to write; I’ve been pressuring myself to get something written and to get things done having lost so many months of my life earlier this year. But my creativity doesn’t like to be hurried, neither does it like pressure nor being caged into timelines.
I desperately needed a change of scenery as my home has felt and become very toxic lately – if you’ve read my previous posts you’ll know I’ve had a shit storm to deal with this year with a legal battle I was foisted into that lasted around 4 months, an energy behemoth which hoovered up those months of my life that I’ll never, ever get back. That ordeal gave my already fucked up, dysregulated nervous system a pounding it didn’t need. After the High Court hearing was over in mid-May it took me 4 weeks just to pick up a vacuum cleaner and tidy my house. I’ve been feel totally flat, paralysed and depressed. It was mid June when I mustered the motivation to actually peel myself off of my settee and think about tidying my home. My home was a mess. That was most certainly a reflection of my inner state – a collapse and total mess. And of course like any battle there are frayed ends to deal with in the aftermath so it wasn’t completely over in the courtroom. For me, there’s nothing like time in nature to soothe and bathe my crying soul. So I booked some time away to decompress in my usual panacea of unbridled nature: breath taking panoramic views of rolling countryside and the idyllic peace and beauty of morning sunshine and birdsong. That, a shepherds hut, an outdoor shower and loo, no electricity, no wifi, just a few animals and 3 acres of a small holding to myself and a scant 4g and mobile connection on top of the hill if wanted to make contact with the outside world. However whilst I was packing for my solitary countryside break, a notion crossed my mind (engendered by the toxic doing-energy goblin I mentioned earlier): perhaps I might be able to write being away and finish the 110x revised post; and then, as thoughts do, it morphed: “why not turn this break into a mini writers retreat?” “Yes! What a good idea!”
Impulsively acting on the notion, I packed my laptop as well as a decade of journals – yes, I mean it – a decade of journals. A big, huge, heavy cloth tote bag full to the brim of beautifully embossed, hard-back, metallic, magnetic-closing journals, my descent and breakdown indelibly etched into them. Since 2013 I created the habit to indulge and treat myself to beautiful looking journals, embossed with all the things that make my soul sing: eye-catching designs of flowers or birds or butterflies that just feel good to hold and caress with my hands. I thought the peace and quiet of the countryside would inspire me to write the 110x revised blog followed by lazy days mining my journals. And, in addition to a decade of journals, I packed my art pad and pastels, in case I wanted draw. My laptop, a decade of journals and my drawing materials. Really, what the actual fuck was I thinking? Did I forget that I was only away for just 9 days, not 9 months? What did I think I was going to achieve in 9 days and wasn’t the point to try to decompress from the warfare that I’d been subjected to? Suffice to say I think I got the writers retreat part all wrong…it just didn’t feel right…the compulsive ‘doing’ energy was misplaced there in the peaceful countryside. I needed to ‘be’ no ‘do. I put the goblin in its place.
I’m sure the toxic, compulsive ‘must-do-this’ energy stems from the wounded child part of me. Toxic doing is survival mode after all, something that most of us in some way, shape or form are afflicted with as a symptom of living in a very sick and unwell ‘modern’ society. Having the tracks of trauma within makes me hyper-susceptible to toxic doing, one super-fast speed setting, survival mode on steroids, as thriving doesn’t and never has come naturally to me. It’s an effort to slow down and thrive and make decisions based on my wellbeing rather than survival. Suffice to say I did sod all for the last 3 days of that break and I’m glad I just lazed around in the sunshine, it’s what my body and mind needed the most. I’m thinking perhaps I need to get away again and do it right next time? Learning to slow down and thrive that is – I’m still learning to thrive, it doesn’t come naturally or easily to me.
With the stark inability to write whilst away, and feeling creatively crippled, here’s something I scribbled out on Whatsapp to myself (a thought note as I like to call them) on day 6 of my break (there’s a 4G connection at the top of hill where I was staying) – raw and verbatim…unedited exactly as it came out:
11/7/25:
I cried this morning for no reason. Well it’s a build up of emotion. I came here to decompress but in my head I thought I’d make it some sort of writers retreat, go through all my old journals for a Substack I want to create – there’s about 15 of them. I’m all prepped with my linux mint laptop too and try and get the blog written. But I didn’t realise that the task of going through old journals is onerous. Or perhaps deep down I didn’t want to come here to ‘work’ on my moving forward; I came here to stay still and experience stillness. But I’m pressuring myself to get things done. That’s not the point of getting away to a shepherd’s hut for solitary time with yourself and nature. I still have this compulsive ‘doing’ energy. TO DO. Which ironically my very early journals that I was reading from 2013-2015 were forcing me to do – keep moving forward and not to stand still whilst I was breaking down…
What is this compulsive energy I have brought with me here to get things done and at that, get it done quickly? I’ve got nowhere to go and nothing to do. What do I think I’m going to miss? It’s a toxic energy I’ve somehow either brought here with me, lives in me or is a pre-dominant part of me when slowing down and chilling out is what I came here for and what I’m supposed to be doing. I don’t have to do anything today if I don’t want to. No one is judging me (apart from me). Nothing to do. Niente. I’m still crying a bit. The donkeys (Jeff & George) have sneaked up behind me in the field that I’m sitting in front of to hold space for me. They must be feeling my pain and upset. I turned around abruptly but they got spooked. That upset me I needed their presence in that moment.
I still have this strong survival setting of getting things done quickly. Get the photos and videos to people quick of where I am and what I’m doing!! Why can’t later or tomorrow or next week be ok??! I cut some flowers that the host is growing, my favourite, dahilas, put them in a vase on the small cast iron table outside the hut on the decking that overlooks the field, and my compulsion is to send the pictures straight away to her (I only sent it to my mum). What’s the compulsion to do things right away?
I’ve been regimented for the past few days since I got here – get up (early), exercise, shower, eat and do the journals – it’s felt far too structured, too orderly, too regimented for being away to get away from it all. There is no real order in nature – it’s perfectly imperfect – I should be learning from that and imbibing lessons from nature.
On my 2nd cup of coffee and it’s only just gone 10am. I still feel a toxic pushing type of energy that I’ve still got to wash my hair, exercise, eat and that I might be meeting friends at 7pm. I think the only way to get out of this energy is counter it head on. Perhaps I might not do anything today.
The energy is NOT inspirational – it’s a nagging energy, a tugging energy. It is toxic. I feel like I’m going to leave myself behind if I don’t get through all my journals quick and have a plan that I can hit the ground running with when I get back. That’s what I thought this break would be but it’s not. I needed a mental break. I needed to de compress and come out here to do fuck all. To just be and do as I please.
Why am I restless….?
I was supposed to come out here to try and heal, not force myself to be doing all the time…just to go with the flow, enjoy the animals, the scenery. Opened my sketch pad but the flow wasn’t there and it felt so shit. The feeling place was just not there. I brought too much with me lap top, art stuff, journals, Substack notes which I haven’t read. I just needed a break. I needed to decompress. Should have just brought a journal and art stuff and left everything else behind. I feel like I’ve wasted precious time trying to do too much – what the fuck was I thinking?
I must be releasing some grief which explains the tears. Never chanted yesterday. Chanted today and cut some flowers and pottered around. Now I’ve decided to stop pushing it feels like something wants to be released. A pain body. What am I afraid is not going to get done? This is definitely not flow state. Is this to do with my inner child? Why can’t I slow down? I’m forcing myself to slow down and I’m crying. Something wants to be released right now. There’s no need for any rush or haste. Things will work out in their own time – you can’t force the flow. I feel like I lost 3 months of my life in that shitty legal battle which carried on afterwards for weeks, I’m the only one taking the reigns with all the shit where I live and it’s all soaking up my time and I desperately trying to make up for it. Really I need to just let go. Sitting on this bench at the top of the field listening to sheep baa-ing, cows moo-ing, birds tweeting and calling each other, distant sound of farm machinery, wood pigeon coo-ing, chattering congregation of crows squawking, it’s peaceful and idyllic and I should be soaking it all in. Perhaps if I just do that – soak it all in, do what I want when I want and follow what I feel inspired to do rather than what I ‘should’ be doing, then I’ll have my head back in order. I want to come back feeling refreshed, not unaccomplished or a failure for not ‘getting things done’. I need to let me do what I really want to do. It’s either a resounding YES to whatever it is I want to do – no ifs buts or maybes – YES or nothing – no pressure to do anything. Just be and go with the energy where it flows…
Was also pressuring myself to write the blog post but just couldn’t….creativity doesn’t like pressure or a cage…
There is also a journal entry in the Moomins journal I wrote yesterday about a shit sticky feeling going through my journals. This time away was for a mental break. I’ll do what I can but I’m not going to try and do too much….
In the back of my mind I’ve got moving house, going back to the BS of where I live, if the house will sell, what if moving to the countryside isn’t for me? Where else to move to. It’s not been the break I thought it would be….
If baring my soul to you (and the world) has moved or touched a part of you in any way, then your support would be very welcome. To help me on this healing journey, perhaps you’d like to buy me a coffee (although mines a tea) via the link below:
Leave a Reply