That is what I was doing with these words all along: creating something.
Nails, makeup, small handbags, hair accessories.
I’ve had such a deep sleep, fully submitting into it; waking up felt like crawling out of a cave.
Writing is the connection I need.
That toxic energy: don't get too excited, too happy, too hopeful, or too big.
She gave me a small glass of pink hibiscus water to drink and told me that my throat chakra was blocked.
Why can’t I write?
She loved it and shared it with people she knew: this gave me a new energy to go forward
Cutting out gluten, going to the gym, breathwork classes, long walks.
Feeling anxious and spaced out, just wanting to be home.
Maybe suggest waiting until spring, and then tapering off to summer.
Afterwards I just thought, I’ve had enough, enough of this energy.
Day after day of watching this violence on your phone and then just getting back to work, the ash covered bodies burned into your screen, swallowing it down, never crying or despairing.
I cried silently in the dark of the church as the choir sang.
A few frustrating hours in the studio, sick of the thought of it all—then a walk through the marshes under a lilac sky and a huge moon, parakeets screeching in the darkened trees.
I ate a piece of cake for dinner and then went to the gym.
I was letting it all flow into the wet clay; I felt like it was almost earthing me, drawing in all my anxieties that could later be transmuted, burnt away in the kiln.
It makes it so hard to be creatively limber, to pull these ghosts of ideas out of my head and onto paper and clay.
I cannot be cheerful about it anymore.
Tea towels, an A4 organiser, camera film, washing tablets.
I can make writing my refuge.
I know in my heart that I want to create these little sculptures.
It was such a useful morning and I felt relieved to have had a successful creative weekend.
I wished I had invited them over for wine and spaghetti; I desperately wanted their warmth and company.
She was strikingly good-looking, with dark eyes that carefully watched us complete the tasks she had given us, and long brown hair shot with grey.
It felt like such a good vibe: well organised, neat, generous.
Some nice, warm, sweet name.
I’m glad it’s the last day of October: what a disappointing month.
I needed a day to get back to myself, to shake off the weird feeling that the trip had given me.
Wondering how a series of things that felt promising could suddenly turn so sour.
Took the dog for a muddy walk through the marshes, ate lunch and then collapsed into sleep.
Dreams, shopping lists, grief, despair, vanity.
As soon as I feel any happiness with my ceramics it quickly turns into discontent: jealousy of other's work.
Staring at my phone, watching TV—unable to sit without some sort of electronic distraction.
Feeling calm and well, having visitors in my home.
I dreamt that I was getting into a plane that I somehow knew was going to crash and kill everyone; as it was turning on the runway I was desperately trying to get off.
Let September be September; listen to the birds' caw, and the tinkle of the ice cream van.
I woke up to a huge electric storm overhead, thunder and lightning so big and loud that the dog got under the covers and clung to my thigh.
I’m scared the wheels are going to come off, but maybe that’s good—I’m proceeding cautiously.
I put on a one shoulder top, indigo jeans, velvet mary janes, a big blue silk scrunchie and a little black bag, styled my hair, applied eyeliner and lipstick, and got an Uber to the party.
The flat was immaculate and she’d left a trio of gifts: essential oil, chocolate and incense.
Small things, collections of items, vanilla, cocoa butter, brushing hair.
Today, this moment: the window blowing through the apple tree in the dark outside, my dog’s warm head against my foot, the distant sound of people in the house still awake, preparing to go to bed.
Lying in bed at the end of a busy day, the open windows letting in the silence of night time.
Today I did three small drawings and on each one I made a fatal error which meant it was ruined; I yelled at the last one and the dog looked at me with alarm.
I want a life that feels softer.
Clean, assess, restart, plan.
The first time in over four years, but it didn’t feel monumental at all.
Feeling different, like I’ve caught a wave of forward motion.
A dream that was about jealousy, and it made me feel so awful and empty.
The week has opened up with possibilities: I can do what I want.
The madness, the moaning, the shame people pour into themselves.
But acquiescing to this feels familiar too: defeat, followed by resentment.
Her sweet love and energy.
I want to dream that particular impossible dream.
Cut grass, long skirts, ironed handkerchiefs, the smell of soil, mending, wrinkled hands.
I am trying to hide them, when really, I believe they need a place of their own.
My mind is always scratching it over, over and over and over, but never digging into the essence of it.
Nature can absorb excess emotions, just like it can absorb pollution, rain, sunshine: all the good and all the bad, all the things that need to be transformed.
I ordered exactly what I wanted: baked fish, a bowl of fries, and a coke with ice.
Stay out for longer, come back dog tired.
I feel strong and calm, like the breeze here has cleared out my lungs, my blood, and this heavy agitated feeling that had built up within me.
When she started chasing pleasure it disappeared.
Everything seems to be vague and unsteady.
I realised I was laughing to try and hide how disgusted I felt by their words, so I fell silent, and just sat in my discomfort.
She couldn’t get a word in as I was full of chatter.
Days in the bedroom, curtains drawn, a shroud of whispers and secrecy around it.
Trying to catch a fish with grasping hands.
Make really small changes and let them settle in.
The waiter told me he felt an affinity for sighthounds, describing them as stringy and nervous.
This activity might help sustain me, as well as help me learn about my own survival.
I got a message from them and suddenly felt a glow inside: I felt lucky that I was going home through the rain to a warm home and a pleasant task ahead of me.
She briskly walks over the facts, but always dwells upon her joys.
As I typed, I started to get a feeling that the words I had written were spells.
Reading back I can see how magnetic I was to unwell people.
I realised that is why these drawings are impressive, not because they are simple, but because they carry the weight of his work, the intrinsically difficult journey he took to arrive at that simplicity.
I changed into my favourite new clothes: white cotton trousers, a structured black top, and a small green woven bag.
I feel so grateful that she has grown into a sweet, funny, loyal dog.
Breathe, let my nervous system rest, listen to the rain, remember that it’s going to help the plants in my garden grow.
That type of work appeals to me: just sitting quietly, just typing things up.
I painted the same thing over and over, patterns of thick paint in different colours: first red, then magenta and green and blue.
Being around him reminded me that being clean and nicely dressed can be a gift to the people you’re with.
Yesterday I was able to grab hold of one creative thread.
I felt buoyed by the revelations in therapy, and the change of scene I’d returned from.
There’s so much I take for granted; my body is healthy, I don’t have cancer, I don’t have any horrible illnesses.
It’s still grey and raining outside, all I can hear is the slick of tires on the wet road.
I could hear her little feet padding around looking for me, confusion increasing into panic, before she heard me shifting and came running, elated.
She described these epiphany moments as ‘turns’: sudden realisations from her intuition that she acted on almost immediately.
The man seemed so empty, so soft and loose and flabby, like he wasn’t quite solid inside or out.
As long as I’m catching these thoughts and not going down a long road with them.
It’s too raw; it has a dirty, greasy feel; you see people who look like they’ve completely given up on life, just melting into themselves.
A day of nothingness—I ate a bagel for every mealtime.
I woke at 5:30am; the light felt perfect, clear and cool.
Later, we walked to the park and sat in the long grass under the shade of a tree, my dog circling around us with her ball, being cheeky and funny and making us laugh.
When he arrived I gathered that he’d prefer to be alone, and this suited me.
I was cheerful and friendly, but I felt desperate inside.
Thoughts can fester if they aren’t turned onto the page.
Meditation to help me absorb the day.
This, the grunt work of recovery.
I’m tired of feeling knocked about by other people’s feelings.
Something that is fuelled by vanity; a need to inflate my self worth.
She isn’t tormented; she doesn’t struggle against the world.
One of those nights where it felt like I was feasting on sleep; brief moments where I would wake and stretch and hug the dog, rearranging myself so I could fall back in.
A slow, cold panic that I’m just horrible and ugly.
It was wet and grey outside, the dew soaked through my trainers.
A sprightly Italian man who always talks about his cats.
Just spill out the soup of dissatisfaction running through my bones and my body.
Writing is the bridge: I have always written down words.
The air is static with silence, sunlight touches the marks of these words on the paper, my dog is asleep beside me, my legs are humming with tiredness.
I’m not completely leaving, but I’m letting go of the threads that bind me to it.
She cried at how much she loved her friend; she must have been drunk, but she was quite lucid.
I didn’t know a home that felt safe and clean like this until now, and I cling to it, like a child with a comfort blanket.
Now there is a huge thunderstorm, with pouring rain and lightning cracks that light up the whole sky.
I felt such a voracious hunger approaching; I kept eating small snacks to try and ward it off.
I must try to speak well of people or not say anything: I poisoned her mind with it, and I feel so regretful.
I don’t like living here in this place where I feel snarky, jealous, and jaded by everything.
I complain—I could also count my blessings.
I tucked myself away into a safe little pocket, and I didn’t know how to re-enter into the slipstream of life.
Scraping my existence for things that give me more hope: a little home, my ceramics, the dog, therapy, the trees in the park.
The flat feels so good now, fresh and clean.
Just a drip of lifeforce in a hard, heavy body.
The whole visit was fun, short, pleasant: everything a visit should be.
It just makes me feel mad and unwell.
The grasping, the desperation; the keys on seats, this scrabbling feeling.
How do these guys keep telling the same old stories year after year, how are they not bored?
I repotted some small herb plants in the garden, ripping out the old tulip bulbs to reuse their pots.
Trying to meditate is still meditating, she had said.
Wake up with the clear-headed promise of a new day: coffee, clean rooms, fresh air through the windows.
I’m failing because I am human.
It’s not a drowning: I’m just diving deeper underwater, into all the murky depths, and seeing all the stuff that needs to be cleared.
Buying expensive things online, I fall into despair.
Building a structure in my life out of clay and paint, to remind myself that I’m alive, that there is a beating heart inside me.
Do I need to make changes, do I need to leave London?
I’m not sure I want him to stay, I’m not sure I can handle his energy.
Waking up when the wind has stopped blowing.
Breathe in salty air and learn to bake bread.
She wants to make herself small just like I do: she’s curled up into a black circle, a tiny little eclipse.
Like a pile of dust being blown around in the dark.
I could run through the grass or I could sit here and write.
I don’t have much to say or write at the moment: I feel mostly okay.
I threw some cups, did some glazing and made a series of slabs; the dog slept happily next to the kiln.
I am trying to get on with life, and grow.
Today we’re going to the sauna, I'll work for a few hours, walk the dog, get the plumber to fix the toilet, and then tonight, a yoga class.
I have ideas, and things are starting to come out better.
I know this is a common, universal feeling, but it feels unbearably lonely.
The studio was quiet today.
It makes me realise how much I was affected by the sounds and energy outside.
I feel so weird and hermit-like.
I am selling everything I no longer want—a rug I bought in Margate, my huge Monstera plant, the old coffee table, the sofa that’s all worn down—and I feel lighter already.
I don’t want to live in fear of not doing it, thinking that my life will fall apart if I leave.
I can create magic in my simple little life.
My tulips are standing tall on their stalks, ready for action, with the colors of the petals faintly visible within.
I fixate on objects because I think they’re more reliable.
Wishing I could live like that, but my head is full of clutter.
I sorted through all of the books on my bookshelves, packing up all the ones that were damaged, and the ones I knew I’d never read.
Full of the same sad people, that stale old energy.
So many questions, so much information, so much clutter; I just want to clear it all out.
I don’t need her, I don’t rely on her at all.
Overwhelmed by all that spiritual thinking and wondering how the world works; feeling like I’m floating in a sea of debris, unable to get into a rhythm.
Eating popcorn and peanut M&Ms on the sofa.
The vet called to say that they had detected a phantom pregnancy, and asked me to bring her home.
I want to eat and eat and eat, and I’m scared the hunger will never go away.
I decided to wear a long black dress and white trainers, and took a bunch of lilac flowers; it felt perfect.
I might hold onto these shelves, and one day I might be an old lady living in some old house, and I’d remember the time and the place that I bought them—in this tiny little flat in London.
When I was making coffee in the kitchen in my underwear, I realised I’m not fat, and in fact I’m quite slim.
I bought a new pair of trainers, a long-sleeve top, a wool jumper, and three pairs of trousers; afterwards, I ate a huge slice of cheesecake.
Nothing makes me feel satisfied.
I had obviously felt that each of these people had been missing something crucial, but looking back, I can’t remember what, or why.
He spoke and it was like a knife, popping their weird bubble of giggles.
I am determined to break through the constant radio noise in my head: the self hate FM.
Maybe eating what I did and doing what I did today was the best outcome; maybe there’s no need to feel guilt.
Despite her fame, I could see that she was just like everyone else in here—her eyes danced nervously around the big hall as she spoke.
I wish I could just melt everything that needs to be said into these pages, and not have to think my way through everything.
The normal weekend routine of meetings and coffees and dog walks and the studio.
He didn’t read it; he ignored my question and instead tried to take control.
She said that this is why I find friendships so hard; I can’t stand up to people, I can’t stand my ground.
I don’t need to find any new things to worry about today.
I kept replaying things I’d talked about at the dinner, fearing that I’d said the wrong thing.
What is the most loving thing to do: let it go?
I find it hard to calm down after a night out; I stare at my phone for ages before I can sleep.
Everything that had flattened that little girl, who wrote little books, acted out stories, pretended to do radio interviews and painted pictures of cats.
Yesterday I stopped on my way home to buy a bunch of pink tulips, and they’ve made me feel happy all week.
I’m scared I’m going to go to the studio and hate everything I make.
We watched her press her sleek body into the grass before springing into action: scurrying across the ground and biting into the neck of a fat squirrel, which she shook violently until it hung limp in her mouth.
So many half-read books.
I’ve put essential oils everywhere and opened the door.
I picked up a takeaway coffee for emotional support and carried on walking.
Another new diary: a clean page, a fresh start.
Gloss and horror.
The organising parts—kneading and weighing clay, sharpening colour pencils, measuring lines, and sorting papers—feel more enjoyable and less scary than actual creative expression.
Underneath all the meaningless noise were the real thoughts—the ones not connected to the past or the future.
Take a breath and ask myself, am I present, am I listening?
I need to scaffold my life around this where possible: make it easier, take breaks from work, stop finding fault with what I make, and let it emerge from the clay.
Looking at things and realising that the values or labels you give them are largely meaningless.
We all need to do that sometimes—we're sad, the doorbell rings, we pull ourselves together and answer.
A bowl of porridge with banana, chia seeds, and coconut.
Taking in huge amounts of information, overloading my nervous system, feeling all sorts of strange feelings.
I was listening to it while cleaning the flat and ended up sitting on my bed in stillness, so struck I was by what I was hearing.
Cut up paper, draw, just let something flow out.
A grapefruit and a kiwi, a big bowl of tagliatelle.
Around 3am she nosed her way under the covers; I was too tired to put her back and grateful for her warm little body.
I just want the dog to be taken away, I am desperate for rest and sleep.
I bought a walnut cookie and spoke to a woman with a black and white whippet like mine, who was ten years old and greying all around his eyes.
My oven door exploded; a sudden crack and shatter, glass spilling and popping everywhere, my two pets behind me frozen in shock.
I had hoped that by returning to that same place under the trees, I could retrieve something good, something that was lost.
I didn’t feel free and I didn't know how to stop.
I’m not sure if anything is sticking, if I’m making any progress.
The only way you can waste time is to struggle against how things actually are, how they are meant to be.
We think it’s a balm, but it is actually a poison.
But it is a struggle to stay interested when nothing new is ever offered.
I felt good afterwards, there was no anxious emptiness like there had been before.
This sweet dog who has opened my heart and makes me laugh every day.
Dreaming that there were insects in my throat, waking up choking on air.
I’m in my pyjamas, eating dark chocolate and drinking Earl Grey tea.
It’s sweet that this little group of friends is taking care of my dog.
Being helpful, being positive, taking the right action.
I am slowly organising this flat so that every single thing has a place.
Not worry about my whole life, grow along spiritual lines.
Maybe I just need to sit at its side with a firm grip to the ground and watch it, like someone might sit next to a river.
Afterwards I walked home in the freezing cold, so cold my hands were hurting.
The void has sucked me in again.
It’s so hard to interrupt negative patterns—they are a muscle memory, a reflex of my animal body, a recoiling.
I have no enthusiasm for it: it’s a drag, and I am not sure it is helping me anymore.
It’s bitterly cold, and I like it.
Go inward, find what is at the core of me, that golden light, try to touch it and communicate and create from that energy.
Things are happening, the wheels are turning.
Running around, chasing squirrels and playing with her ball.
I am aware of my shadow, of the ways I try to self-destruct.
My phone is buzzing in the kitchen; the rain is hitting the window.
I took the decorations off the small Christmas tree and packed them all away into a shoebox.
Once I pay my tax bill, I will be completely depleted of money.
She looks at me with her black round eyes and soft floppy ears and offers little licks to my cheeks.
Creating becomes a life saving activity.
Waking up when it’s dark, going out in the cold and rain, walking to the train and squeezing in next to miserable people, waiting for a bus full of bratty, snotty school children, handing my dog over to strangers.
I’m eating a bowl of fruit and drinking coffee; my little puppy asleep under the covers is snoring, and it’s the sweetest sound.
It is through creating things that I can change, through putting small ripples into the world with the things I make.
Sinking into them like quicksand.
I sat on the rock on the cliff with the wind whistling and whipping my hair, until my dog cried to go home.
My suitcase is packed full of clothes, each item somehow helping me feel more protected.
I’ve been here a million times before; I just need to love myself through it.
I have softened, and I'm trying to make it my job to be nice, kind, and helpful—to stop fighting, point-scoring, and being defensive.
My aim for next year: to heal my nervous system.
I like thinking about them being underground in the soil over winter, quietly preparing to spring into colour.
Hope that I can find my way, and not get lost.
Make the week feel balanced, uphold my responsibilities, feel some joy, connect with people, make art, rest, be in nature, and eat well.
There aren't many three-letter words that are that important, maybe just day and dog.
I just need to open the door a little, let a crack of light in.
Our relationship has irrevocably changed; I could not continue in that old dynamic, and so there’s a distance.
Through paint, through clay, through tears and walks in the parks and trust.
The days fall like leaves and settle around me, I stay rooted to my feet.
Today was a blurry, unstructured thing, pierced with the threat of Christmas: shop windows decorated with tinsel, a truck with fir trees stacked high, that specific cold smell of the air.
I do not have to feel bad when something doesn’t feel right, I can keep my heart open.
Writing, instead of passively consuming.
Feeling bogged down by her attachment to me: guilt that I’ve let her weld herself to my nervous system, share my warmth and my heartbeat and breath for too long, like a baby still latched onto her mother.
I know if I paint something it’s not a wasted day.
An hour drawing out lines, three hours trimming bowls.
Knowing that anything can change, in any moment, on any day.
My dog’s soft nose touching my arm, her sweet breath, the sounds of the world waking up outside.
I am so anxious about the exhibition, about which paintings I should choose.
A strong dislike for maybes and last-minute changes.
The day in the studio was good, my little dog padding around, charming people and sitting in my lap.
She was unsettled for the rest of the day, racing around the flat and barking.
To be more on an even keel with my energy and my emotions.
Put together all the threads of my life to weave something into a future.
Writing, praying—turning myself inwards and outwards.
These animals could heal me with their love, their animal-ness.
I must accept this is where I am, I must accept it.
I should have taken a breath that morning.
A lime green sweater, new white socks, face masks, scented candles, small gold earrings.
I wish I could be more like my dog: so loving and happy and curious.
Sleeping, eating breakfast, watching a film when it’s raining.
Walk through dead leaves, feel the dew on the bushes, remind yourself that you are the earth.
Knowing the earth is full of seeds.
That particular medicine tastes bitter, but we all need to ingest it sometimes.
The girl who drained the darkness out of her body and used it to fertilise her future.
Running in the dark, things collapsing.
She has only held onto snapshots, glued together with other people’s stories, old photographs, and memories in big bound photo albums: cats padding through gardens, cotton pyjamas, playing on plastic swings, watching a pink helium balloon disappear into the sky, the slow walk home on the warm tarmac, weeds peeking out of brick walls.
Expecting some sort of magical divine source to see it and help me.
Squirrel away as much goodness and health and contact with others, before the next cycle starts.
Stop trying to suck external stuff into this empty ache inside.
Looking out of this fake window into an unhinged fantasy world, where dead babies sit next to adverts for winter coats, endless posts that say nothing.
Writing is my survival.
Something inside me is so determined to rip everything down.
I ended up getting more heated and angry, until I was almost shouting.
Raspberries and yogurt and toast and porridge and baked potatoes and spaghetti bolognese and banana pancakes and grilled broccoli.
Always being mean to people, never making things fun.
I realized she must be in a state of dissociation; her delivery was so flat and lacking in emotion, it was so boring I felt like I was going to fall asleep.
Why can’t I find my way into a miracle?
She shamed me for struggling; she talked over me; she dismissed me when she was meant to be helping.
It’s like I’m wrestling with a bear; I just want to give up and let it eat me.
My poor neglected dream.
If I feed and turn the soil, the plants will grow.
My little phone, held in the palm of my hand, carried from room to room, filling me with fear and anxiety.
The lights still go off; the ghosts still haunt me.
I write in here less now, but I don’t want to forget; pen and paper have been my constant.
Praying, meditating, stroking the dog, writing, breathing—just being present.
Like a little worm that was begging to be trampled on.
A quiet, peaceful rebirthing.
Shining lights into the dark spaces in my heart and mind.
The dogsitter described her as the perfect dog, that I had trained her well, and I felt so proud and happy.
Three firefighters entered my hallway and turned off the electricity; they said the leaking water was a hazard.
Stop using a millions forms of fear and judgement.
I’m not ready financially to move out of this flat, looking is just a form of escape.
Today she lost her very first baby tooth; I held it in my hand and took a photo.
I’ve been hearing these same stories for almost a year.
I returned home and just wanted to cocoon.
They are always glad to hear from me.
I’m experiencing waves of apathy towards her: almost regret that I didn’t get a different dog.
It reminded me of the feeling before exams when I was younger: bracing myself, committing all my energy to preparation, wanting to arrive knowing I’d done my best.
I had expected her to be angry, but she sent a voice note full of support and understanding.
I couldn’t find my airpods and turned the flat upside down looking for them; I had a big meltdown, crying in frustration like a baby.
Annoying things piled up: I bickered with my therapist; there’s an issue with my drains; the puppy won’t stop crying; I have too many bills to pay.
I’m worried I’ll forget everything I've been told, that I won’t be able to continue this momentum.
Decisions and intentions only exist in our heads; our lives are created out of actions.
Nodding along with people who said it didn’t matter, that it was just a random thing, that there was no point in thinking about why it happens.
My anxiety about how to act with these wealthy, older, educated people.
They live in a large house with bright pink and red flowers climbing up the sides, a manicured lawn, a pool, and a steep hill planted with succulents where you can climb to a viewing point which overlooks the surrounding valley.
Just a bandaid, another way for me to outsource my healing and not take responsibility for it.
I must remain curious about her, be helpful whenever I can.
I rarely express this anger, I just avoid people and shut down.
I reach for the phone each morning because my ego needs feeding.
My belly aches with it: wanting someone to hold me and take all the difficult thoughts away.
Feeling a great itch to spend money.
Today I am going to try and be impeccable with my words.
Fear of financial insecurity—but also relief.
A strange course, to present yourself to the world as a holistic person, when your home and emotions are in total disarray.
I love Wednesdays; they feel like a luxury after two early mornings of therapy.
She starts crying and whimpering at 5:30am; it's too early.
A constant thirst and hunger.
Feeling ugly and messy, fixated on the feeling that I need a haircut, my nails done, lots of new clothes.
I’m dazzled by my impulsiveness and scared that I’m rushing into this.
She is very needy, and becomes distressed if I leave her or put her in the crate.
Grace—a good word.
A new phase where these lingering difficulties could start becoming untangled.
Talking about it this morning, I realised I needed to let go completely.
I said that I already had plans—the whole thing made me feel gross.
Start claiming back my time, I don’t want to get stuck.
I love her and I know it’s not her fault.
The first few overwhelming weeks: the shock, the disruption.
This is the only time I’ve found to write in here, because I’m not sleeping at all.
She is such a sweet, confident dog, and I’m certain I’ve made the right choice.
Three little jolts of negativity, delivered with a smile.
Things are going well, but there is such an undercurrent of fear.
I have thought about this so many times, but nothing has become clear.
By the end of next week I’ll be done.
I didn’t love her vibe, but she seemed to know a lot.
There were so many synchronicities around this decision, and it was born out of doing the right work.
Maybe it was her boyfriend; he appeared so uncomfortable to have a guest.
Everyone seems to be tired.
They surrounded me, biting my shoelaces and trousers, making excited noises.
My money is enough.
It took me a few days to realise that wasn’t who she wanted to give it to.
This felt like the realest thing he’s ever told me, and completely changes how I view his life.
Another part of me feels relaxed: that if I keep following what my heart wants, all will be well.
The surge of energy I feel inside can spill out and leave me feeling exhausted.
I'm thinking about getting a puppy: a black and white whippet.
They were amazingly open—interested and positive.
Dreams of being in madness, dreams of wandering around cities alone, dreams of old friends, of being ignored, of getting involved in crazy situations.
I feel like I am on the cusp of a big change, like I’ve outgrown my shell.
Light a candle and make rose tea and speak to people on the phone.
A body that is in fight and flight all the time.
It is very cold at the moment, but you can sense that exciting tension, that spring is on the way.
I slowly realised that the cat must have fallen into a pond; he was soaking wet and dirty.
Like a slot machine: some exchange of the bare minimum to get what I want.
I’m not doing anything wrong; I’m just resting; I’m just recovering.
Wanting to please people so much that I abandon myself and don’t even realise until it’s too late.
It wasn’t the homecoming that I had imagined.
A fear of commitment and responsibility.
Painting this shed is doing the work.
Making decisions that would ultimately rip her apart.
You can outrun it when you’re a young adult, but if you don’t deal with it, it will catch you up and somehow deal with you.
I saw her cry towards the end; I silently understood why, and held onto her arm.
I listened to them speak and thought about how much we’d been through, how much we’d survived, and how hard we’d worked to get well.
That’s the balance, that difficult balance.
I am doing lots of interesting stuff at the moment.
The flat renovations will be finished by spring.
Blocked from nature, blocked from myself, blocked from the real flow of the universe.
There’s so much to do.
Deal with the real stuff first.
Trees and bodies of water recalibrate my body; my cells become charged by them.
The studio was warm and busy, and I just played around, experimenting, drawing into the clay.
This is a great new idea and I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.
We all went bowling together, and my voice felt strangled all evening.
Therapy has been good recently, like I’m digging into something old, but it feels new.
How can I stay present during these times of extreme uncertainty?
Have I energetically ended up in this rather chaotic place, because I’m still chaotic?
I felt cheered by my new bright blue puffer jacket.
Fatigue that could turn into depression.
How can that be your big dream, to work your way up that slippery path, knowing all the time they don’t care, that they’d cut you down in a heartbeat.
They have started going to this grim cafe that’s always a bit unclean; it serves bad coffee and has a general feeling of dampness.
I thought about it for three breaths, then I just bought it.
I didn’t eat all day, just a banana smoothie and four coffees.
Just another big machine that treats employees like they’re disposable.
I probably have a tiny fraction of her intelligence.
This demanding, entitled behaviour.
A small, white room with a bright pink carpet, packed wall to wall with loud people, shouting underneath bright strip lights.
I was a bit frosty with her; she was late and overfamiliar.
I’m too tired to write anymore but I’m grateful for the rest and support I’ve had today.
They use intimacy and tenderness as an opening to shoot criticism and backhanded compliments.
I can hear it raining outside—my umbrella broke on Saturday night.
Moving away from their influence within my mind.
I saw that she was trying to punish me again; I said goodbye and I wished her luck.
Is it my intuition or my avoidance that is guiding me?
I felt inspired by the work I was making, energised and productive.
They make minimum effort until you say "no thank you," and then suddenly they can't forget about you.
Completely over the top: taking advantage of my kindness, weaponising my apology.
Step into my power and move away from that baby energy.
I wonder if it was some cosmic alignment of energy that brought us all there, if we all had stuff that needed to be healed.
At the New Year’s Day dinner we realised we were all Virgos.
Life force food: a huge plate of squash, aubergine, tomatoes, tenderstem broccoli, lemon, olive oil, and parsley.
I am writing a lot, and it feels like weeding the garden—earthy, honest work.
She was wearing dark red lipstick and looked impatient.
I felt swallowed up with fatigue.
Dreams of losing things: suitcases, bags, purses, scattered across cars and trains I’d travelled on.
Bougie wall sockets are not going to make me happy.
Today I ate well: a green smoothie, apples, chicken and rice for dinner.
My dreams are all in my head.
Let her be right, I thought.
I felt renewed, relieved to share my guilt and have it held.
I rarely record what I actually do, which is based on facts and reality; instead, I record my thoughts, often just unhelpful patterns.
My energy is growing.
All that was covered up with tinsel and wine and chocolate coins.
It’s so familiar, it’s been wound around my lungs and my throat since I was very young.
She left me a voice note saying that she wasn’t surprised I was unwell, that my body was recalibrating.
Feeling easily bruised when people don’t reply quickly.
I remember as a child staring at my fingers and my toes, worrying that there was something wrong with them.
In my dream we were in her garden, and a large bear appeared on the roof above us.
The fact that I can do this and not feel awful and panicked must be progress.
Sometimes I think, is this all really needed, all this writing?
That big tree that I love, just past the skatepark.
The pages curled and turned into ash, grey thin bones of paper.
I can feel flattened by him; he never asks me about myself or what I’ve been up to.
That good, replenishing energy when you’re deep in conversation, when you’re connecting and laughing.
Being silly and funny.
Tears can look like weakness, or they can be cleansing and purifying.
The pain I used to be in has lessened so much; now I can think more clearly.
To choose love and acceptance.
It was a deeply reassuring conversation and made me realise I am capable of being open and vulnerable with the people I trust.
I was swimming around in that world for years.
Don’t get angry when you realise the world can’t read your mind, or know what you need.
I didn’t know she felt this way, and I absorbed the unspoken horror of what that signified.
I’ll be sleeping in a hotel bed tonight; I’ll be warm; I'll be reading a book by the pool.
I realised that her anger had been misplaced; she often got angry with women, when underneath it all, really she was angry with men.
The idea has gone from a flicker in my mind to a fully formed fact: I don’t want to go.
The large snowman that I’d seen the day before was gone; a flock of black ravens surrounded me.
I opened the back door and felt how quiet and still everything was—the snow having frozen all movement, the sky seemingly disappeared, just this heavy, thick wonderland.
Someone like the priest who was on that podcast.
Chocolate buttons, tea bags, lip gloss, old receipts, a letter from HMRC.
All actions are equal; you just need to keep doing them and not stop, and understand that each action will have a dark outcome as well as a good one.
He talked about how you need to accept three rules in life: there will always be pain, there will always be uncertainty, and there will always be the need to do constant work.
Sometimes I just see a lot of ego, unwellness, cliqueiness.
She said that she now reads novels in French, and that they feel a lot slower.
Can that kind of intelligence only come from a private education and the right family, or can you develop it?
That’s the good thing about having so much work—I’m not confused about what I should be doing.
The kitchen renovation has started; I’m making coffee on a portable stove that’s perched on top of a tool box.
Because it’s been hidden in the shadows for so long, I want something that helps me feel like I’m here, I’m me, and I can be seen.
I kind of feel like I’ll hate it, I’m such a snob sometimes, but it can be an exercise in trying to go with the flow.
Cool in a way that he sometimes wears clothes I don’t fully understand.
I metabolised this stress, I didn’t pass it onto anyone.
They festered and rotted, and took over everything like a black mould.
I know exactly how that feels, the texture of it.
It's Sunday; it's cold and grey and raining outside; I'm making coffee.
Write, write, write—I want to get it all out.
Swimming in the sea, or a big lake.
He spoke about one of my pieces with such enthusiasm, talking about the colour, the shape, how the light reflects on it, and it felt so nice.
Fortify myself with nature every day.
I can slowly build with the bricks of a new life.
Something inside me slammed on the brakes and said too much, I can’t take on anymore.
It doesn’t really matter what was said, how it was said, it’s the energy.
Please let me absorb what she has to say with grace and love and patience and kindness.
I need to survive by any means possible.
A horrible undercurrent of fear moving through me.
There’s too much energy bouncing around, and I’m too sensitive.
My creativity can not be stolen.
Zoom out and realise that this is one small day in thousands; it's one small mistake that I’ll soon forget.
I put my hands on a tree and tried to release all the negative energy.
But unlearning that when it’s so intuitive, when it has lived in my body my whole life, is not easy.
The key is not to take that dark energy, not to absorb it, not to send it back in anger—just quietly put it down and walk away, say this isn’t mine.
Wanting to make a cutting remark, my ego planning how I could redress the balance.
A great sense of relief entered my body.
My life is here right in front of me, in a safe warm flat, with rain tumbling down outside.
Seeing my artwork framed made me panic that it’s stupid, that everyone's going to laugh at it.
The only thing I wanted to be good at then was being skinny.
I accepted the way I was treated; I even became nicer and more agreeable in the face of it.
I bought coffee and porridge, with a sprinkling of nuts and seeds.
I do not need to feel guilty for prioritising my health and my wellness.
It’s so easy to fold in on myself.
I feel a calmness and acceptance, underneath this shallow fizz of fear.
Just let my hand rotate the pen over the paper—intuitively connected to my mind, synapses firing with energy.
I’m in bed with a hot water bottle, covered in my duvet and blankets.
I rearranged the living room a little and it felt really nice—cosy, clean and colourful.
They are scared of your determination.
We are being fed just as much propaganda as they are.
Healing is a long journey, but we don’t have much time.
This is the version of myself where I am able to be more useful and present.
He is nice but ever so slightly reminds me of an old colleague who was a bit creepy and weird with me when I was young.
Doing things like this reminds me I am fun and nice and capable.
I imagine her alone, in a house, quietly pottering about, thinking solemnly.
It’s still dark outside; the cat woke me up early, standing near my face and clawing at me.
Not believing I’m going to be sacked all the time, not giving up on ceramics.
I repressed how I had felt; I pretended it was okay when it wasn't.
Maybe not a breakthrough, but just a clearing, of something we’d been circling for years.
The exhibition is, unfortunately, in the centre of London; I may have to encounter lots of people, queuing to see our dead queen.
Getting to the end of each day feeling like I haven’t done enough.
Reading a book that talks about self regulation and the vagus nerve.
I keep thinking I should cancel next weekend; but I shouldn't do that; I should reaffirm it, speak to them.
I wake up in the mornings with a knot in my stomach.
I am being a victim, I am feeling victimised by everything.
A risk of blowing things out of proportion.
The garden with the broken fence, the old tree, the cracked paving stones.
I’ve been drinking too much coffee; I’m drinking some now; I had three yesterday.
Curled up on the sofa with my hand on the cat’s soft white belly.
I walked into a dark, expensive perfume shop and sprayed a scent on each wrist.
Feeling a tingle on your skin, an excitement inside, a readiness.
If I’m stressed I just shut everyone out so I have more time to worry.
I write and write and write and I can’t let go or make sense of anything.
I’m scared that I’ve invested all this time and money into this and it’s not doing anything.
Can I bear to have some attention on me, can I bear to risk people saying no?
My garden is growing and getting nicer every day.
Don't bitch about people, don't complain; try to send love and joy to everyone.
Two older men wearing puffer coats, furiously working their bodies on the cross-trainers in the park, blinking through the rain.
Another August trying to blame someone else for my feelings.
I sniffed at that when she said it, like, of course I’ll get through it, but in fact it’s not easy at all.
There’s rumbles of thunder and lightning outside; it's 6am and I’ve been awake for almost an hour, waking from another night of weird dreams.
It’s sunny, and I wish it was raining, I wish summer was over.
I wish I didn’t have to analyse everything.
Tofu, coconut yogurt, oat milk, pumpkin, broccoli, kale, avocado, lemons, limes, carrot, tomatoes, herbs, cucumber, pecan nuts, cooking apples, blueberries.
Fantasising about moving away, of getting a whippet puppy.
I need the supportive, renewing, healing energy of walking in the trees.
I’m scared that being scared and sad is bad and that I’m meant to be feeling joyful and confident.
I swam, I read Norwegian literature; I saw lots of art, and explored the city.
We waited for the cafe in the sculpture park to open, then ordered coffees and orange cake to a small brown table in the back room.
My birthday, the back to school feeling, cold mornings trudging to therapy.
Just sitting in bed, listening to the sounds of this unfamiliar city.
I wonder if he’s an artist, if he painted all these canvases.
Getting angry when there’s a minor inconvenience, trying to apportion blame rather than being patient and asking for help.
Make it more real, speak it out loud, write it down.
Find people I connect with, stop pretending to be mates with people I don’t like.
Silence, the air thick with awful feelings, and the soft-bodied children soaking it all up like sponges.
I look at my phone in the morning and see things I wasn’t invited to, headlines about wildfires and wars.
Things will change and grow and evolve, as they always do.
Oven chips, and four biscuits!
When I paint it keeps me connected.
I can’t think of anyone to call; I’m not hungry.
It felt like such a vivid, strong dream, and the feelings associated felt very familiar.
Everything is already here, waiting inside me.
I can never sleep around a full moon, it pulls at my body.
The cat fell asleep on my lap as I sat on the step, looking at the clouds and the trees and the moon.
Time is going slow and fast.
The afternoon was much the same: low on focus, low on patience.
Last night I ended up sorting out a lot of stuff that had been hanging over my head—DIY bits, invoices, emails—and I remembered that I am resourceful and organised.
I wish I had not complained in the first place.
A turbulent week, with lots of ups and downs, and a struggle to get anything done.
Things never happen through brute force.
Feeling creatively blocked, avoiding my studio.
We sat in my garden drinking grapefruit juice, eating melon, and listening to the radio.
I’d been feeling good, but my period pain, the heatwave, and the incident with the dentist had pulled that all away.
I felt defiant afterwards, like I’m never going to engage with a man like that again; I’m done with it.
Playing weird mind games to make me feel small.
Broccoli salad, tofu, berries and melon.
It’s really windy now: a hot, dry, whistling wind.
Yesterday I stayed inside, closed the blinds, put the fan on and struggled to focus on my work.
I am excited to go to the studio today and see all of my mugs.
I woke up this morning to find a dead parakeet in my garden; I scooped it up with a cardboard box and the soft weight of its body made me feel sad.
A community, a dog, peace and happiness within myself.
I can repair anything I’ve done wrong.
I walked through the trees in the darkness and realised I had accepted it; the path had cleared.
The intensity of those feelings are gone, now all I feel is warmth and friendship.
There are two people screaming at each other on the street outside, a plane flying over, cool air streaming in the window beside me.
The cat caught a small mouse in the night and left its tiny, headless body outside my bedroom door.
I know that big changes, big miracles, have happened in other areas of my life.
I’ve always used these pages to cling onto hope.
He asked me if I knew what signs were; I replied that I thought they were unusual coincidences.
All I want to do is write and be calm and steady my thoughts.
The heat is oppressive and there’s nowhere I can go to escape it.
I fall off sometimes, that’s ok.
It was far too much for a baby or child to repress: that life-threatening need for contact.
Summer is passing by and I’m anxious I’m not doing it right.
I’ve decided to book a session with an Irish psychic.
I planted them into terracotta pots in the garden: star jasmine, hebe, rosemary, and lavender.
I tripped over my feet as I ran, smashing into the ground and grazing my arm, hand, and leg.
I need to book something, get away, find a new perspective.
Just turn off my phone and go to sleep.
I told him I’d lived here for three years-he looked sad and said, no one knows each other in this place.
I came back to an empty flat, an empty garden, and silence.
My phone fills my head with stuff I don't need, leaving me feeling overwhelmed and frantic.
Maybe he was looking for a mother figure.
I’ve entered into this hamster wheel of activity: work, to-do lists, home improvements, endless coffees.
Some marker of a woman who was fulfilling her duty.
I’m tired of being engaged in this weird struggle with her.
Lashing out in subtle ways.
I missed our awkward little chats and the energy of his body.
I want another lockdown, another long pause.
It’s a difficult place to be, because doubt is really frowned upon.
I’m worried about money and taxes and my renovations.
The absence of it sits inside me like a hard knot that pulls against any joy or feeling of wellbeing.
Guilt for spending money, guilt for not having enough, guilt for having too much.
Ordered a new sofa, a rug for my bedroom, invoiced work, renewed my passport and got a quote for the garden.
I left therapy on my bike and nearly rode out on a red light; my chain had come off, and I got grease all over my hands trying to fix it.
I had a bad night’s sleep, waking up at 2am, having to soothe myself with a big mug of tea.
I like feeling lean and skinny but I don’t know if that’s an anorexic thing, a fear thing.
Longing for people I can’t have, feeling angry at myself.
I ordered new supplements, because it feels like an anaemic tiredness.
It was just a nice friendly chat, and I laughed a lot.
Yesterday I felt proud of myself, I felt comfortable in my own skin.
Act as if the world loves you.
It was nice seeing how she lives—she is following her dreams and making it work, and it was inspiring.
I miss being drunk, pushing to the front of gigs and having a big crowd of friends around me.
I’m healthy, I’m generally doing ok, and I’m engaging in a healthy routine.
Those lush, warm, wet spring evenings that make you think of sex.
I miss it, I miss that weird time.
I’ve walked away from sessions recently feeling exhilarated, like I’ve excavated some new depth.
It’s not about people liking you or choosing you; it’s about you tending to yourself and letting friendship and love spring up from your own soil.
Part of her design philosophy was to have lots of good storage so that you have space to think.
Harbouring a secret, feeling intense.
Don’t be rude, but don’t add lots of self-deprecating please feel free to disagree with me language.
Sharing it felt like a revelation, a new connection.
I feel so sad for that young girl, made to feel so uncomfortable and scared of her body.
Everytime I’ve lost something, I've gained something.
There always seems to be barriers and I know these are physical manifestations of blockages within me.
It knocked the wind out of me—I just stopped speaking, all thoughts sucked out of my conversation and onto their embrace.
I never knew the shape of his lies, they were cleaned away in cupboards, or hidden in text messages.
Remembering how the breeze came through the big tree into the windows, the fresh smell of sheets, the coffee in ceramic cups, the two lemons in the glass bowl.
Getting the train through that station and feeling every fibre of my body stand to attention.
You do not need to wrap it up in thick blankets and hope it disappears.
A good kind of tiredness—a body that’s been moving and lifting and cycling and running.
I’m feeling sad and bruised today.
I deep cleaned the whole flat: wiping down the kitchen cupboards, polishing windows, sorting the recycling, dusting the shelves, hanging out washing.
I felt shy and embarrassed, and we kept being interrupted by others.
It reminds me of when I used to revise, writing careful notes and being really organised.
It’s floating around the periphery of my consciousness.
I just get a wall with her, no interest—she blasts me with a weird fakeness and cuts me out of conversation at any given opportunity.
I ate well—an omelette and salad, apples and berries—but I also smoked lots of cigarettes.
Passive aggressive in really subtle, insidious ways.
I think I’ve put on weight, but I’m not ready to fully assess it.
We were smoking outside when she accused me of being mysterious—they all said that I keep my cards close and don't share enough.
I felt messy and scattered as I arrived, my necklaces all tangled up, my phone ringing in my bag.
I broke my favourite mug and cut my finger cleaning it up.
That kind of domestic life probably feels rich and meaningful to those who want it.
Just a ball of awkwardness.
I need to access the reality of my life and stay grounded in it, even if it feels horrible and scary.
I curled up and fell asleep, my face resting on his back, his face resting on my hand.
Tending to and befriending this feeling, like a frightened animal.
I keep dropping things, the fridge door broke, I woke up late—everything feels messy and disorganised.
I felt happy afterwards when the meeting restarted and I could sit in silence, absorbing our sweet little interaction.
I had too much coffee yesterday, I feel all manic and acidic.
My little home, I want to fall in love with it again.
They talk about aiming for a full transformation, the limitless expansion.
Always move towards whatever I can do to be present.
It’s just sad and weird and makes me feel gross—the push and pull thing constantly.
The plants in my living room are sprouting new green shoots of desire into the sunshine streaming through the back door.
To be able to reflect and absorb it all before the cycle starts again.
It was so nice that she could see that this was important; she arranged dinner and bought me flowers.
I’ve shrunk various clothes in the wash, the fence has fallen down, my phone is broken, the boiler is playing up.
Stay busy, keep my mind occupied.
The sun was shining but it was crisp and cold, with pink clouds in the sky, and the comforting smell of wood smoke drifting down from the canal boats.
We chatted about their news over the chaotic noise of the market as we picked out big bright bunches of tulips.
My jaw is sore and my mouth tastes metallic.
Ordering the chaos of my mind into this simplicity.
I love the fresh pages of a diary, the clean, empty ruled lines.
Writing could be like a prayer, a careful form of meditation.
There is something very calm and considered and neat about his speech.
We had to stick around for a group discussion afterwards, but I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.
It’s such a violent feeling—pure rage.
Walking around the flat having imaginary arguments with people.
It’s exhausting trying to sit in your own skin or change your habits when your ego constantly resists it.
A machine that makes you have psychedelic experiences.
But it’s done now—I am grateful it’s over and that all I need to do is wait.
Uncovering a goodness and creativity that was always there.
There's a part of me that can sense some warm energy, and I’m doing my best to move towards it, rather than run away.
A quiet sickness in my stomach which just wraps itself around every single thought and every single thing I perceive.
Lots of people there asked me about the interview; they wished me luck, and it felt good.
Things I dismissed as silly and dusty and naive.
The only real anguish that I have in my life is created by my own thoughts.
Freelancing has helped me get through these past few years and survive financially.
I can follow that thread.
Or is it just nothing, am I imagining the whole thing?
I was looking at my ceramic pieces yesterday, flat shapes I’d made and glazed in different colours, and I felt that maybe there was something there, some small potential.
I feel despondent; I want excitement.
An illusion—she has no real bearing on my life.
Thrashing about inside me because it can feel that it is losing power, that its time is almost up.
It wants to be heard, it needs to be heard.
Seeing a thousand obstacles to connection and love.
I’ve been furiously texting people all morning: wanting plans, validation, connection.
All we see is male world leaders profiting off war, doing shady deals, grasping for power, and accusing others of the atrocities they’ve seen and done themselves, over and over and over.
I don’t find it inspirational to see videos of Ukrainian men making molotov cocktails, I find it sickening, and sad.
Turning my attention away from the news and trying to look at the blossoms on the trees, the sunlight in the morning, the heron on the river.
Lockdown was bliss compared to all this talk of war.
The opportunity seems perfect and I am frustrated I haven’t heard back from them.
The new normal now is reading about the threat of nuclear war before logging into a Zoom meeting.
I am ignoring my creativity, suppressing it, fearing it.
I feel like something serendipitous has happened.
Being sober in a room full of people who were drunk, eyes like saucers, slut dropping and swilling around large glasses of wine.
Since the news broke, work hasn’t made sense; partying with my friends did not make sense; everything I’ve done has been carved with a feeling of sick, cold fear.
She doesn’t seem to mind it too much, the trudgery of motherhood.
Now isn’t the time to stand still.
You do not have to compete with others for love and resources.
Let things be cleared away, do not panic.
I feel like catapulting into action.
I don’t have lots of hope, or faith, or gratitude, but I have enough to get me through the day.
There is a big storm raging in London and people have been advised to stay indoors—I used this as an excuse to do nothing.
Crawling into bed during the day, crying because I was so exhausted and confused, feeling like I was weighed down with a thousand rocks.
I said I wouldn’t be there this week and he seemed disappointed.
The changes slip through my fingers when I try to hold onto them as facts.
Drinking chicken broth and ginger tea and vegetables and greens and seeds and nuts.
Making the tea, trying to act cool.
Feeling defensive, scared and annoyed.
Am I just like him, a sneering perfectionist?
Maybe it was just a friendship of convenience.
He was there at the dinner and he looked so cool and attractive.
I felt like I had lots of nice chats with different groups of people.
I doubted myself on the way there, worrying I had imagined our arrangement, especially when I entered the building and all the lights were off.
He told me he lived with a whippet and a cat.
Doing my normal thing of completely ignoring him and acting aloof.
I want to swim in the ponds; I want to buy myself a gold ring.
I’ve never, ever got used to it, and it’s never felt ok.
I feel more content just sitting down with a ruler and a knife, a process I call in my head drawing with clay.
Scurried away without saying goodbye to anyone.
February: that last cold, dark snap of winter before everything explodes with warmth and growth and verdant energy.
An excruciating film about madness and isolation and addiction.
Even though it was me that said, no more, I can’t see you anymore.
If the sun wasn’t still there the flowers wouldn’t grow, the wind wouldn’t blow.
Unravelling, slowly, from a lifetime of being frozen.
I have forty-five minutes—my coffee is brewing on the stove, and I’m in bed, writing this.
Trying to build a life that is useful and purposeful, and real.
I was drinking my coffee at the table this morning and suddenly felt a sense of wellbeing and hope for the future.
Noticing dust, stains, and imperfections.
Two years since I last had a drink, two years since the world got turned upside down.
A sense of confidence that I never had before.
I felt manipulated by her—why could she not have just explained?
It’s just immaturity and lack of faith.
In my head I’ve decided I’m not going to like him; I’m not going to enjoy the evening; it’s an inconvenience.
It’s a trap—it makes my world small and grey and unpleasant.
Everything I want is out of my reach and anything that is available to me feels like it’s just not good enough.
Feeling sick about it all: how unhealthy it was, how awful I acted towards him.
I sense his sadness and desperation, and my heart breaks for him—I want to help him feel secure.
That doesn’t say an awful lot about my attitude—I can’t seem to see much good in people.
Someone said to me on Thursday, don’t meditate where you sleep.
Fencing off my heart with a million different tactics, surrounding myself with anxious energy.
I’m eating sugar, I’m drinking too much coffee, I’m feeling irritated at work, I’m spending too much money.
Trying to tune in how I felt about him, leaning against his arm, holding onto his bicep.
I decided to just go, pulled on a black jumper and jeans and ran out of the door.
I think it sounded like I was lying about the situation, and then I was engulfed with shame.
I felt weird about him from the first day we met—my body registered him as a threat.
I feel calm and grounded; sitting quietly, listening to music, cutting out shapes in the clay, cleaning as I work.
She just oozed with misery and was quite unpleasant to me when I sat next to her.
I want to drop it all, let it all slip through my fingers like warm sand.
It’s greedy of me to want that money, entitled.
Comforting and sweet and numbing.
Asking the universe to provide me answers through my pen.
Jealousy of other women, feeling separated, succumbing to tiredness.
I am scared and I need to be very soft and careful with myself.
Listened to the same song over and over, squinted into the sunshine, ironed my clothes.
I made myself muesli with blackberries, apple, banana, and almond butter.
Today I think I just need to do simple stuff: go for a walk, eat some nourishing food, call a few people.
Return again and again to the present moment, to my body.
My life counts upon me being more loving and less judgemental of others.
People are the practice.
This drama is already going on inside of me, I cannot fix it with external stuff.
These are all just parts of myself that are looking for attention.
It just felt like a year of nothing.
She presents herself as a moral woman, but we all witnessed her completely rip apart friends at dinner, bitch about the food all night.
The door is wide open, stay awake.
I watched TV and ate loads of snacks.
It’s normal to feel wobbly sometimes, it’s normal to find the pandemic difficult.
I feel like I want to be reckless, if I get Covid again it might feel like a relief.
Like a child playing with dolls, but there’s only one storyline—and the story is small and painful.
The future doesn’t exist, all I have is this now, unfolding in front of me.
Covid has meant all my social plans are cancelled, people are staying at home and restaurants are closing again.
He took the lead, ordered us drinks, suggested we move onto new places each time.
It’s not an attempt to win someone over.
Absorb this energy from the trees and the air.
She told us that she’d developed a masculine, self-sufficient energy.
The entry to and from sleep is a way that you can support yourself, help yourself feel safe in the world.
I can make space for it, in my home and in my heart.
It felt important, like a big part of my life had been integrated.
She said that they were both really proud of me.
Push these thoughts away every day, and meet the world anew.
Sit in the emptiness, even when it feels unbearable.
I feel like I want to peel off my old life and step into something new.
Feeling stuck is just an illusion.
Underneath it all is a deep need to connect with the self.
The kind of home that has a big dinner table, a filled kitchen, a lush garden and a wood burning stove.
All that exists when I’m alone is my little part of the universe.
Stop trying to find connection through my phone.
Colour is important.
Approach each part of your life with openness, excitement, a willingness to discover.
I realized throughout the evening how insecure she felt; she struggled to make conversation with anyone but me, she really needed me there, and I felt a deep compassion.
She told me that if I’m obsessing too much, I should just change the channel.
Second guessing my thoughts and intentions.
Writing this tentatively, because I’m still not sure.
Feeling so angry and persecuted.
I’m thinking about drawing more grids.
When you rush around and stop breathing properly you become cruel to yourself and others.
There was always a reassuring murmur, of food being cooked, a TV left on, music playing.
One of those days where I have unplanned time and feel incapable of deciding what to do—a million things go through my head, but I end up just fussing around, staring at my phone, and eating away at the day with nothingness.
I need to have faith that my intention to get well and do the work will bear some fruit.
Yesterday I drank two cups of coffee and smoked three cigarettes.
We walked into the bookshop and I opened up a book randomly—the passage I read was about sobriety, and how early recovery is a form of mourning.
Woke up this morning and felt unable to move, like my battery was completely run down.
I have promised myself two runs a week: no more, no less.
We can use all this energy for good instead of knocking it all down, trampling all over it.
I asked for space, for a little rest.
They didn’t invite me along to the guestlist thing and I was relieved not to have to make excuses.
Listening to white noise on YouTube to help myself sleep.
I wanted to fall to the floor in front of her; I did not want to leave that room.
She said that she had spent five years in India meditating and all it did was give her an inflated ego.
Buying food for comfort and normality: bacon, tomato ketchup, sourdough bread.
I’m grieving something that could have never worked.
I’m not even going to write it down, because it’s mean and makes me feel awful.
I woke at 2am to the sound of glass smashing in the carpark, like someone had put a brick through a window.
I couldn't believe what he was saying; it was like he was swinging his dick around; it was excruciating and very sad.
I was early and ordered a coffee and energy ball in the little cafe I like on Holloway Road.
In my dream the man was rude to me, because he thought I wasn’t going to buy anything in his shop.
I tried to draw myself out of it by staring at the trees above me.
Maybe I’m trying to connect with some sort of innate wisdom within myself.
I don’t want to watch TV, I don’t want to go out, I don’t want to paint, I don’t want to cook, I just want to sleep.
I tidied up, lit candles, put some music on, and had a long soak in the bath.
I can feel jealous of anyone.
Everything feels like freshly dug earth—soft, warm, new, sensitive.
I knew to let him go, even though I had wanted to be close to him.
Hanging in the air, on my breath, crawling on my skin, hiding in corners, reminding me to stay small and not ask for anything.
Because all of that just sends me in circles and gets me nowhere.
In her voice note she sounded tipsy, but alive and warm and well, and it made me slightly jealous.
Tossing and turning, like my body couldn’t fully relinquish itself to sleep.
I am a slow learner; I'm slow at change and growth, but I have shown myself that I can be determined and consistent.
I have work and it’s going well, I have money due to me, all my bills are paid.
I had an awful dream, that I was trapped in a house full of mad people and we were all chained and handcuffed to the floor.
It’s not so powerful, it’s just a habit really.
I have this instinct to hunker down over winter, an animalistic instinct that I know is normal.
A season change that happens so quickly.
I keep dropping stuff, having little mishaps, losing my belongings.
Feeling scared of winter.
Keeping doors open with people.
It was so nice to get a surprise phone call from her.
Sat in a cafe near my therapist’s office, doing work on my laptop.
A horrible, frenetic, tormenting energy, that wants to banish all the bad feelings away.
I want to get dressed up, go out; I want to feel intoxicated by someone or something.
Toeing the line between the spiritual and the material.
If I can change my inner world, the whole world is changed.
I was able to talk about it clearly without emotion, explain what had happened, express my disappointment; but there was a deeper pain that I was not able to share, and I thought about it all the way home.
I felt raw and smoked cigarettes on the balcony, but was soothed by them, the warmth of their home, the food they had cooked, and the chocolates we shared after dinner.
Building a home that I love, healing my body, making new friendships.
People like him, who do strange things with no awareness, hurt other people.
Drink more water, stop smoking cigarettes, exercise more.
I need to let myself become the shiny one.
They said they were each other’s favourite people, and promised to love and support each other for the rest of their lives.
There are small green shoots of good things happening; new connections being made.
Sitting with the cat, wearing pink sweatpants and drinking tea.
Women pulling women out of the fire of insanity.
I feel the need to be cosy and warm and protected.
I may have done it imperfectly; I may feel regret; but it was a healthy part of me that was trying to protect myself.
I sat there in the front row for twenty minutes, before my body propelled me out, into the dark, warm street.Part of me feels smug about this; I will relish telling him he’s too late—like that will make a difference.
All of the dresses were awful: either shapeless linen sacks or cheap polyester in sugary pink colours.
It’s raining hard now, and feels like autumn, even though it’s mid-August.
Everything is an inside job, I need to remember that.
Hoping that yoga will help me today, because I feel crazy.
Healing is not an upward trajectory; it’s a spiral, hopefully going slightly in the right direction.
I need to focus all my energy on soothing this pain with love, from all the sources of love I now have available.
Two pieces of a puzzle that seem like they should fit together but simply can’t; it seems nothing can change that.
I don’t know what’s happening really, in any part of my life.
The bubble has burst.
I’m scared of not doing well enough, of asking for clarification.
I came home and made roasted vegetables, lentils and salad.
I'm not in debt; everything is fine, as long as I take action every day I'll be ok.
He kept frantically texting someone and checking his phone.
I just want it to be over, so I can deal with my feelings in private.
Put myself out there and see what the universe sends back, book things in, go for a swim, go to an exhibition, do long runs, undertake a new project, create more paintings.
Faith and action.
I woke up at 4am again with aches in my left side—I’m worried it’s something serious; I’m worried I have cancer.
Time doesn’t work in the way I thought it did; it’s more mysterious than that; it’s not linear.
Maybe I will never see him again after this week, maybe he will just become a memory.
To be ruled by a fear so strong that it makes you feel physically sick.
What will these pages contain, what will happen next, will I write a lot or a little?
Part of me doesn’t want to go on Sunday, I can’t bear the indignity of it all.
Technically I wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.
I’m bad at explaining things; I play things down, make it seem like it’s all ok and I’m in control, because I can’t stop being self-sufficient.
I felt, and still feel, fucking awful, and sick and raw.
It sounded like when you hold a big shell to your ear—when we were younger they’d tell us to do it, saying that you could hear the sea.
There’s something so comforting and familiar about him.
I’m scared I have long Covid.
Walking home in the rain feeling like I was looking after myself, with a bag full of healthy colourful food and a bunch of fresh flowers.
I cried this morning reading an article about the first lockdown, about how it had changed the world: choking on the memories of how intense and weird those first months were.
Stuff like this thrives in isolation.
He sent me a video of his view at a restaurant table facing the sea, napkins softly blowing in the wind, next to a bowl of fat lemons.
I decided to wade into the water to swim in my running shorts and sports bra.
When he asked for a second time if I was drinking wine with dinner, I said I haven’t had a drink in eighteen months.
I remember her being supportive, saying he was making space for the things I need in my life.
Doing it just to reassure him is not the right reason.
I can’t wait to take the train—I love taking trains, listening to music and watching the fields go by.
I’m anxious about my flat being ok for her, I’m circling around it in exhausted perfectionism.
I want to be well; I wouldn’t be seeing a nutritionist if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be paying my therapist thousands of pounds, and I wouldn’t be this many months sober.
It’s like walking through treacle, getting through the days and weeks at the moment.
Now I’m sitting on the sofa, all moisturised, writing this.
I want to bring lots of stuff with me: a notepad, a sketchbook, pencils, my running stuff, all the books I’m reading.
I’ve taken a lateral flow test; my ears feel really weird.
I often come away from meeting her feeling small, not enough, left out.
If my first test is negative, maybe I can go for a walk; I can look at what is possible to do, what is ethical to do.
I turned off my phone because I’m becoming addicted to it; constantly checking, replying too quickly to his messages, losing myself.
Then I got a notification from the NHS app saying I needed to isolate for six days.
At the moment I feel there is no reason for me to say no.
I know it’s just lots of little steps of letting go, slowly relaxing my grasp on my old ways of doing things.
I had a smoothie for breakfast and tabbouli for lunch.
Stewed apples and berries, coconut yogurt, nuts, gluten free bread, avocado, green smoothies, eggs, fish, chicken, bone broth.
My nutritionist ordered me supplements: iron, b12, vitamin d, one that is meant to heal my gut.
She doesn’t seem to be able to take it seriously.
I don’t want to be like them, so much repressed anger.
Preserving my energy.
I remember as a child making chalk drawings on her footpath; it had felt like magic.
Sleep well, and turn off my phone.
I think I wanted to believe it was possible, that I could have something I always believed I was incapable of.
I put the frog outside the front door and immediately felt guilty, realising I should take it to the community garden so it could get back to the pond and survive.
He’s just viewing this situation as a fun distraction.
I must not believe that my life’s happiness is in someone else’s hands.
I am not in control; I need to let this unfold, not spiral.
We ate salami, asparagus, fried skate, goat curd on sourdough, and I drank a morello cherry kombucha.
The electrician greeted the cat in a strange way, circling his eyes with his fingers and then tapping him firmly on the head.
I don’t ever ask her for advice or tell her my worries and secrets.
We took each other in and hugged.
Show myself lots of love, minimise distractions, eat lots of fruit and vegetables, take walks in nature.
When I spoke to her about it yesterday she called me out immediately: you’re being a perfectionist.
It’s weird just suddenly arriving in summer, when we haven’t really had a spring this year.
I shower before bed when it’s this hot; it helps me to sleep if I feel fresh and clean.
It just made me wonder who was taking the photo—who was the person he was smiling at?
I was told there’s something astrological going on: Mercury retrograde, or an eclipse, or both.
I feel fuzzy and sleepy and soft.
Buying fresh flowers or candles, filling my fruit bowl with colourful fruit.
Check in on friends, be generous, do creative things.
I need to accept that I am part of this; I kept myself separate because I didn’t feel safe with them anymore.
They had encouraged me to keep myself small and neat, to never make too much noise.
I’m always chasing this ideal but I never seem to get there.
It was a nice day; I felt really good walking in the sunshine and listening to music.
Flooding me with interest and compliments after he’d been quiet for a few days.
I feel like other cats are so clean; it’s like living with a big hairy dog.
I called her an Uber to the station as her phone had run out of battery; she messaged me when she got home to thank me.
When I’m tired my defenses come up, I feel irritated and judgemental—this eye-rolling feeling when people are talking and expressing themselves.
Lurking on Instagram, comparing myself to everyone and feeling shit.
She said that life needs to be messy sometimes, and that I need to be kind to myself.
My head spins all these intricate webs of nothing.
We were both amazed by this, that we’d both had two sides of the same dream.
A very bodily feeling, full of fizzy energy, of not being able to sit still.
I thought I saw him on the street yesterday, but then I don’t think he would have worn a jacket like that.
I had a dream that the cat's tail got so matted it fell off in a fleshy, furry lump.
I’ve been given a second chance and I should be grateful; not everyone gets that.
We got lemonade with our free drink tokens and sat outside the gallery to smoke a cigarette.
Today I was nice and communicative, I felt relieved to be busy and working in a well organised team.
In the dream I was a DJ, and I was playing at the end of a long dark corridor, but no one was really listening because something bad had happened.
We walked home in the sunshine, the air smelling of sweet wet grass, everything lush and green.
She said it was my psyche presenting me with clues that I shouldn’t ignore.
I got locked out and had to spend £250 on a locksmith.
She’s so nice and clever, I always enjoy chatting to her.
Tomorrow I’ll do the grouting and get a quote for the floors.
My teenage bedroom was painted bright yellow, the same colour as the yellow submarine.
They diagnosed me with an iron deficiency.
Should I risk taking on something I’ve been warned about just for the money, would that be insane?
She said it was awful there: it was chaotic, they all did unpaid overtime, she hated it.
An annoying project, where the client keeps on rewriting and ruining the copy.
There was a sense of danger approaching, there always is in my dreams.
Somewhere that I feel safe and don’t have to hide myself.
I don’t want to be half-hearted about my healing.
I woke up around 3am from the dream, hot and full of fear.
Struggling with these renovations and scared about money.
No one is looking over my shoulder, I can play with words and ideas.
I am hopeful; much more hopeful and happy today.
She replied that no one was doing much thinking in that group dynamic.
Last night I ordered a takeaway, and then went to the shop to buy chocolate buttons.
With them I was busier and produced more work.
I read in a book about spirituality that exercising and eating healthy food helps free us from the burden of our own bodies, stops us from feeling sick and heavy.
I’m selling my dining table—it’s too big and too dark.
I’ve started trying to meditate twice a day for twenty minutes.
I’m scared that I can’t think of any new ideas.
My flat is a big source of anxiety at the moment.
I sat at a table slowly drinking coffee, and smiled at a little boy who was staring at me.
I have a connection with nature that is soothing and healing, if I can properly let it in.
Helping people who are as lost and frightened as I was last year.
Life feels like it’s speeding up, filling up with new things, new busyness, new problems.
He became a kinder person, more creative.
I remember it was late afternoon, and the sun filled the room with yellow light as I picked up the call, knowing already what he would say.
Circling the internet, finding things I want to buy, and people to be jealous of.
I was sanding the skirting boards all morning.
Banana pancakes and coffee.
The trees are glittering; the sun reflecting morning rainfall on the leaves.
My hands feel tense, I can’t concentrate, I can’t get my words out.
I’m scared of not getting what I want, and I’m equally scared of getting what I want.
Coldly waiting for them to pursue me.
Living in peace, being safe.
Being better at communication, stop trying to push someone away at the same time as being intimate with them.
It will be how it’s meant to be.
I must try to get back to gratitude: I have a flat, I’m paying my mortgage.
I’m late, I’m rude to her, I miss sessions.
I ate a big avocado sandwich and then went to bed.
How amazing, that after all these years we could still forgive and let go, and heal some of that old pain.
Time goes so slowly at the moment.
I could only remember her rejection.
This childish, babyish, desperate hunger.
I might go back to ceramics, I might do a course in psychotherapy, one day I might get a dog.
My kitchen is full of healthy vegetarian food, and I feel better for it.
It’s softly snowing outside, but just settling into damp puddles on the ground.
Not be so focused on treasures that I want for myself.
I just want to hide away and sleep until spring.
Getting hungrier, and greedier.
I want to feel fresh and new and organised.
It’s a really vague description of what she needs, and I’m wondering if there’s any point in asking her to be more specific.
A blueprint for new relationships.
She said it sounded brutal and retraumatising.
I've had too much time without a full time job—my unexpected year of rest and relaxation?
But this isn’t superstition, this is me trying my best.
I could feel myself relax and laugh with them, whilst she remained guarded and tense.
I thought I’d feel triumphant, but I just felt awkward and tired.
All these old feelings coursing through my system, like emotional chemotherapy.
I woke up to the cat just watching me, looking for signs of life.
Pulled the covers over my head, closed my eyes.
The memory of it is flickering in my mind, but I can’t hold into it.
How often had I felt in danger as a child?
I dreamt of walking to the top of a big hill to find a dark square with a fire, people drunk, dancing, old friends from school.
Maybe some art supplies, maybe a candle or some bath salts.
Open up all my books, looking for inspiration.
Being too miserable to eat brings a delicious joy of its own—weight loss, and feeling skinny.
Make a list of things I could make: roast chicken, nice pastas, chocolate cake, lemon pie.
I should have never texted back when he apologised, I should have told him to fuck off.
Trying to stay sane, one day at a time.
Everything in this moment is ok—I have money in the bank, I have a safe, warm flat, I have a healthy body, I live next to a big park.
I woke up, did some cleaning, made a green smoothie, wrote my morning pages, went for a run and then completed two job applications.
Gallows humour about how shit it all is.
An awful, shallow thing to obsess about.
Get up, move more.
A performance of parenting.
Cook good food, paint or dance.
We create an atmosphere of criticism and lack of forgiveness, that exists between us and grows, pulling a shadow across everything.
I felt like I wanted to do something spiteful—report her, or make a nasty comment.
The news rolls in: more deaths, more arguments, more failing economy.
They made me feel like I was a good, nice person, full of love.
I get into doing this because I feel like I have nothing to talk about, because I can’t talk about what’s really going on.
Like my hands are clean, like I’m not doing anything bad.
Tonight is just another night.
There are rumours we will enter into a Tier 5, and I’m scared.
Ham sandwiches, fruit salad and mince pies.
Cycled over to their house with presents and groceries.
We drank tea and smoked cigarettes.
I felt embarrassed about my gift of two wrapped jars of jam, but I was glad afterwards.
Being called for jury service in a murder trial at the Old Bailey during a heatwave, sitting in the courts wearing a mask.
Back then, people said it was just the flu.
There’s little point in emailing anyone this week.
He has kind of invited me over for Christmas.
Arrested if you leave London, no mixing with other households, and any non-essential shops will be closed.
I decided to go out and buy some fairy lights and food that I like to eat at Christmas.
You must allow yourself to feel your life whilst you’re inside it.
When someone or something causes me pain, they are simply drawing attention to something that needs attention: some pain that is already inside me.
A catholic nun who had been sober for forty years.
She started saying that I unconsciously find people who are like her, who judge me, who are not able to love me.
I dreamt that we were on a coastal path, and there were large hippos in the water that were going to kill us—when I woke I googled to check if hippos can eat people.
Anxious about going for dinner in Peckham.
Who would let a child go out like that?
I want some sort of shiny prize to come along, so I can prove to myself that I’m not awful.
I heard someone say that feelings don’t want to be fixed, they want to be felt.
Becoming obsessed with acquiring some new item of clothing, jewellery or makeup, but when it arrives it loses any power that I had hoped it would give me.
I have survived so much, I am resourceful.
Restless, irritable and discontent; the thing that they always say.
Starving myself, going on insane diets.
Everything changed within me after that happened, like someone had rearranged the contents of my brain, my body had turned up all of its nerve endings too high.
Holding onto hope when things feel dark.
Wanting something to pull myself out of this mood—sugar, or a text from him.
I finished work, did a meeting and then watched a documentary about Princess Diana.
The bathroom is leaking from the upstairs flat again, it’s dripping through the light fittings.
I walked through the perimeter of the park with her three or four times, eating a chocolate bar and listening to her talk about getting a kitten.
My mind feels like a washing machine.
She suggested things for me to read, and said that I should cut out gluten, dairy and caffeine.
It shouldn’t be this complicated, it shouldn’t make my heart sink.
I hate meditation, I hate just sitting with myself.
He said he didn’t mean anything weird from it, that he had just wanted to check in.
The morning filled me with a feeling of love.
The cat seemed equally spaced out.
I cannot give in to self pity—this lockdown is happening to everyone.
Full of fear, like someone has a gun to my head.
Churn, churn, churn—the same old thoughts going over and over.
They are meant to be announcing another lockdown.
The patronising type of help, when people won't accept a no.
I’m thinking too much, talking too much.
I thought if I wrote everything down and then burned it, it might help me let go.
But really, what we created was a superficial relationship, ruled by fear and panic.
Maybe I just need a spiritual awakening.
The work I do there is valued and appreciated.
I walked to the marshes and a huge rainbow appeared ahead of me, behind it, dark clouds with sunlight pouring down.
Writing helps me get out the chatter of my mind, meditation helps me know how much fear and sadness I’m holding inside my belly.
Say nice things to myself, make friends, do good things, play music, ride my bike, go to exhibitions.
It rang twice and then stopped—my heart is racing.
Eat healthy food: chicken broth, soups, roasted vegetables, porridge, berries.
I have a safe, warm, clean home, and I’m grateful.
Something else had been happening in my dream, something worrying.
Then I looked at his ex to see if he was following her.
Swimming in the sea, dogs, a nice house, nature, art, colour.
Please let me be soft enough and willing enough to change and become who I really am.
No cigarettes, lots of water and vegetables.
I felt pangs of regret last night over dinner.
Something was happening that we couldn’t control, some dynamic, like magnets repelling each other.
I sat at the table writing before the sun came up, feeling safe and cosy.
In the dream I knew a tidal wave was coming and we were all going to die.
Nothing has become clear; it’s just more games, more smoke and mirrors.
I need hot soup, ginger tea, warm baths, walks in the marshes, meditation, films, phone calls.
I sat at the table, played music, drank tea and chipped away at it.
This is the only notepad I like to use, and I have so many of them now, in different colours, tucked away on bookshelves.
Wishing I’d done things differently, been more nice and loving.
It felt heavy and emotional, and I was relieved to see one of the jurors crying.
So cruel of him, knowing what he was about to do.
I told them a little about it all, about jury service, and it felt nice to be with them, walking home slowly.
The doctor said I would need to do blood tests.
This silence is starting to feel controlling.
I have no more than a normal person has to deal with.
I didn’t text so much this week.
My gut is telling me he is playing a stupid game, to make me chase behind.
Ironing clothes, sweeping the garden, feeling increasingly manic and upset.
But perhaps I have no idea how I came across in that situation.
Everything seemed so nice on the weekend.
My flaws feel magnified when I’m around him.
I did therapy, I went to a meeting, I texted a few people.
I left them and cycled home in the rain.
The fog and sleepiness is weighing down on me, but somehow I know it’s normal.
I am used to high energy people, who drink a lot, who can’t be serious.
Trying to distract myself from my anxiety: cleaning, scrolling, eating.
It’s not the end of the world, it won’t be a disaster.
He replied hours later, apologising for making me feel that I had to tell him.
Old stuff is being burned away, new stuff is growing.
I’ve sneered at codependent people in the past, turns out I'm not so different.
In the dream I remembered in panic that I was meant to be looking after a small animal, like a guinea pig or a kitten.
Minimising, dismissing, ignoring things that are meaningful to me.
Avoid showing that I like someone, sidestepping intimacy with jokes.
Tired, weak, hayfeverish, struggling to make small talk through my mask.
Being a bit forward, rather than being led.
Now the dust has settled, my foot is almost healed, the lockdown is beginning to lift.
I need coffee, I need sugar, I need someone to call or text.
That loss of power, when someone touches you without your consent.
I can’t wait until this is over and I know what the result is.
The evening was ok but I felt boring—anxious, too sensitive.
Even getting money from the government won’t make me feel happy.
They lie and lie and get away with it.
I couldn’t sleep, so I lay on the sofa and watched a Netflix show about basketball.
Afterwards he texted a bit too much.
Her cat has broken its metatarsal; the same bone as me, and on the same foot.
Shame—the worst emotion.
I put on lots of makeup, styled my hair, wore gold earrings and a black top.
I felt like a child, small and upset, and I barely said a word.
People on the news doing the conga and eating cream teas.
Feeling fat and trying not to think about it.
I felt so angry and clumsy in the shop, with my crutches and a wheelie basket.
The buzzing bees, hot coffee, dappled light under the tree, sound of a bird’s wings flapping, my neighbour’s TV, a car slowly driving past.
There’s power in saying things like that, asserting that there are options.
This is difficult: I’ve lost my job, broken my foot, lockdown is happening.
Eating bread and pickles and chocolate teacakes.
I remember feeling so shamed, and so afraid of her.
It rained heavily this morning but there’s a break in the sky, maybe for long enough to walk around the block with my crutches.
I made one painting today that pleased me: a geometric shape with pink, navy, peach and dark green lines.
Reading in the sunlight of the garden is helping to balance me out; this book seems to be imbuing me with a sense of wellbeing.
They say the deaths are higher than what’s being reported.
It's raining again; I hope the radishes survive.
For some reason the dream gave me a feeling of hope.
Watching the Sopranos, pacing around, washing my bedsheets, scrolling Instagram, feeling anxious, weighing myself, making cups of tea.
I gave into the warmth and comfort of sleep, the wrapped-up-ness.
Got dressed and put makeup on before my call, loathe to feel ugly in front of her.
I woke up from a dream in which I was madly complaining about something I’d bought that hadn’t been delivered.
When I need something new, I obsessively search until I find the best quality for the best price.
I’ve now planted radishes, strawberries, lettuce and spring onions.
Woke up, fed the cat and made coffee with toast and jam.
Learn to accept that part is drifting away.
Going to the wrong places to look for approval.
It rings, three or four times, then she picks up, hello, hi, hello.
The x-ray showed I’d broken my metatarsal; I heard the nurse discussing it with her colleagues behind the curtain before she yanked it aside to tell me.
Tearing out weeds, pulling out the old rosemary bush, breaking the tough roots away from the ground.
Are we adjusting to a new world, will things never be the same again?
Yesterday I ran seven miles, today I did five.
For dinner we ate miso aubergine, steamed greens and smashed cucumber salad.
Buy more citrus fruits, avocados, tofu—things that agree with me.
I sat by the river and watched people throw sticks for their dogs, who splashed clumsily into the water to retrieve them.
Before lockdown I was wearing heavy wool coats, shivering at bus stops.
Watering plants, making food, cleaning, sometimes painting, but largely seeing out my days in a blur.
Made a bed in the garden and fell asleep in the sunshine.
Trying to stay awake, to quieten my negative thoughts, to gently push myself towards purposeful activity.
I’m scared about what will happen when this is all over.
The painting was horrible, I couldn’t bear it.
I’m writing out a structure of my day, things I find helpful, so if I get lost I can look at it.
Maybe this time will make us all madder and sadder and more alone.
I have a strong instinct for survival.
I woke early and went to the shop, bought coffee, eggs, tinned tomatoes, mustard, tahini, chocolate spread, bread, and latex gloves.
We can only go outside once a day to exercise or buy food.
They let me go, and I accepted it gracefully—what else could I do?
I worked from home, fearful of the reports, realising that if I got the virus, I would have no sick pay.
Paint my nails, care for my hair and skin, drink water, eat vegetables, whiten my teeth, wash and iron my clothes.
It’s all a blur and I can’t remember the timeline.
Just softness and uncertainty.
It will be expensive, terrifying—and it’s a big risk
We walked to a horrible little cake shop and drank mint tea in paper cups on plastic tables, with the smell of synthetic sugar hanging in the air.
Tomorrow I can do a yoga class, try to look after myself the best I can.
Calcifying into something I don’t want to be.
It feels like the year has just started, but I am six days into March.
Washing my bedding at the laundrette.
If I could be brave and do something different, it might open up my life and be good and transformative.
Feeling sorry for the mistakes I've made, the times I’ve been mean and unkind and hurt people.
I asked for signs and I received them.
I stare at the ceiling and the orange cushions and I pull at my sleeves and I cross my arms and say to her, this is pointless.
Spending less time being angry and more time listening.
I felt I could lie down on the floor in the middle of the circle where the sun lay in strips, and fall into a deep sleep.
We sat there stunned and I whispered to the girl beside me this is so bleak.
Her skin was glowing and she was full of energy.
I feel convinced again.
Sleeping, running, going to hot yoga.
I’m sick of baths, and I can’t eat.
It’s worth paying a bit of cash for some self confidence.
I wish that it would rain.
Coffee, bagel, fruit, Instagram.
Always blindly trying to fix something I can't grasp.
I don’t want to go back to a place like that ever again, I don’t want to lose my power like that ever again.
I joined them in the kitchen to eat lunch and felt good, happy and connected to everyone.
When I got on the Tube I felt suddenly free—I had hated it there, this had to happen.
I’d painted half of the circle a deep blue, and the other half in green and lilac.
Ninety minutes in the gym, a bath, meditation, putting my phone on silent.
I realised that they were there as a couple; I felt jealous and deflated.
To be more feminine, sparkly, pretty.
Scared that if I put down my phone, I’ll lose touch with the outside world.
Maybe I should succumb to the seductiveness of New Year’s resolutions.
Three cokes and two sparkling waters; multiple cigarettes.
My phone died at the party, and when I got home I read that the Conservatives had won the election.
It was an uplifting phone call, and we were able to support and reassure each other, untangle some of the anxieties we’d had during our evenings.
I manage my life and finances, I eat well and exercise.
She said, when things go wrong early on, it can take time to get better.
A whisper in my ear: go home, don’t bother, go to sleep.
Warm, colourful, practical clothes.
I cancelled our vague plans after a long, cold, wet journey home.
Turning towards the people who treasure me.
The tutor said that therapists are there to help the patient learn slowly that love can overcome their hate.
Any confidence in the work I do seems to have drained out of me.
I just jump and hold my breath, hoping the next place I land will be better, or at least feel different.
The course feels like a distraction, I’m not sure it’s what I want to be doing.
No, she said, you’re seeing it with rose-tinted glass, you were not happy then.
Reeling from the weekend experience.
Not making any plans, mistaking isolating myself for self care.
At 7:30am I made coffee and got back into bed.
Every thought dancing away from me as I tried to hold onto it.
The things I see in him are the things I run away from.
Keen to give things up, and to dream.
I am looking forward to going back home, to having a Sunday evening of organising.
Maybe I should join the gym near work.
Tonight it felt better, easy conversation whilst he cooked in the kitchen, a film watched under a blanket.
Crying silently in the bathroom, brushing my teeth.
Those few weeks in the summer when I had felt really alive.
The basket that I’m putting all of my eggs in.
I could have gone to the wedding reception but I didn’t want to.
The man, who I once exchanged eye contact with when we passed each other by my office, often annoys me; he’s always blowing his nose, always loudly running up and down the stairs to get tissues.
Hunched over my phone and laptop, but not getting much done.
The small white lamp I bought for my bedroom makes everything feel softer.
Feeling both inferior and superior every time I go there.
The mask of enthusiasm in social situations.
I sat in the cafe drinking espresso, writing down my dream in the Notes app.
Desperately needing to come out of my overdraft.
I stood at the doorway, feeling how odd it was to be at a busy house party at 5am, sober, opening old post that had been collected for me.
She was drunk and asked me for advice on her therapist, tears welling in her eyes.
Big coats, new shoes, running in the cold.
My grip is so weak.
Scrolling, for hours, immersed in the lives of people you don’t know.
We drank fizzy water in my garden, and then she booked an Uber home.
The ear doctor said that my eardrum is inflamed.
Maybe taking mushrooms would help.
Hands on foreheads, concerned looks, being brought a tray with soup and bread.
Slowly repotted all my plants, ready for the change in season.
I’m thankful for at least a few of the things I’ve achieved this year.
Half a jar of vegan chocolate spread, eaten with a spoon.
She texted me, and I felt like I wanted to fling my phone out of the window.
Clothes, shoes, tanned skin, underwear, eyelashes.
I wore a short skirt and a black top, and felt like I looked good.
We saw a curve in the middle of the sky, like a rainbow but high up and small.
Dreaming of being on a strange tour bus, drinking whisky cocktails.
Eating a croissant for lunch at work.
A cat came and sat between us, and she told me it’s name was Love.
I am healing—I am eating lots of vegetables, meditating, resting.
She described it as floating like a ghost, in the remains of her old life.
Every time something happens and repeats itself, it’s a chance to improve and respond to it differently.
I had a bath and my legs felt different: muscular, slim and lean.
We never laugh together.
Be grateful to have this big beautiful oasis of nature on my doorstep.
They’re talkative and they bring out my talkative side.
I wonder if he does this every day when I’m at work, meowing to an empty flat.
White walls, colourful books, a mid-century table, hand-made ceramics, potted cacti, art on the walls, the smell of fresh laundry.
Waking up on these weekends is probably the best part of being sober.
Tomorrow I will go to the studio and put all of my pieces in the kiln.
I went for a walk, knowing I had to do something, shift the energy.
A refuge after a long day, a place to rest.
Stop looking for new things, new ideas—you have good ones, work on making them work.
She asked me to shuffle a set of cards and think of a question.
I felt rebuffed and invisible.
It’s in my blood, my bones, my heart, the dark circles around my eyes.
He had killed a small bird and left it stripped of feathers, with a tiny red cut on its neck.
The work is invisible, internal.
I have to accept that this is where I am, try to resist nostalgia and regret.
I can’t live without being able to write.
The pencil joins the paper and my mind has no idea where to go, but I just start drawing.
Wishing I was at the pub, doing normal stuff.
Woke up with a thought in my head: interest is the opposite of depression.
Another crazy dream of living in a large warehouse full of beds, like a hospital.
Pray for a miracle, a financial windfall.
Dreams of being near a big, strange lake.
Perhaps she spends too much time there, maybe she drinks alone.
It felt like old tears, from a long time ago.
She suppresses it, blames it all on him.
I waited for her in the bar, drinking a non alcoholic beer and smoking a cigarette, suddenly flooded with anxiety.
Staying sober steadies me in times of turbulence.
Considered forward energy, nudging yourself along.
I don’t remember pining after him, I just cut him out and moved on.
I felt good when I read her message, I realised I was quietly smiling.
I know why, but doubts persist.
Did a lot of cleaning, washed blankets, roasted some aubergines.
Feeling like I’m taking a big leap by letting them go, feeling terrified.
Being soft, gentle and positive.
How to separate my own sense of self from the outside world?
I felt refreshed seeing her; she had bought me a bunch of sunflowers.
I need to put my energy into change, rather than chasing old hurts through the same lines.
He just stared at his phone and didn’t even register what I was saying.
I found the cat on top of the garden shed, sleeping under a big white moon.
Giving off signals that say stay away.
I put on makeup, straightened my hair, drank ginger and lemon tea, hoovered and mopped the house, cleared out the garden and burned sage.
I bought food on the way home and looked up at a sky full of pink clouds.
The room was overlooked by a painting of an old man holding a brown cocker spaniel.
Someone described it as rat poison for self esteem.
I feel like my arms are aching just writing this.
I signed up for a talk on Transcendental Meditation.
All this noise that goes around my head constantly.
Overwhelmed and hypervigilant.
He read in a monotone voice.
Feeling scared of my hunger: an unending craving for sweet food.
I said that I was sorry that I'm such a terrible friend, tried to explain a little.
Scanning me for something to reject.
But how can I weather these times?
I don't have anything to write about, I'm wallowing in nothingness.
A perfect tiny new growth that was wrapped into a curl, ready to become a leaf.
Sick and spaced out.
I weeded the garden, cleared and cut away two bin bags of dead growth.
I got home to find they'd dug a big hole by my front door.
She cooked dinner and I felt annoyed and ungrateful.
Periods, sex, hair, weight.
Then I saw, to my horror, a large trickle of bright red blood running down the gutter, a motorbike lying on the road, and an ambulance surrounded by a group of people at the traffic lights.
Did she somehow transmit it all to me?
She suggested that it was good if you're feeling bad: it can mean that you're processing stuff.
I ate a bowl of cereal because I had no appetite for anything more complicated.
Present a balanced view of what happened whilst she was away.
Meditation retreats, two types of therapy, acupuncture, eating lots of vegetables, running, limiting my drinking, trying to make art.
Took a photo of a small painting I felt happy with and posted it on Instagram.
This diary has seen me from January to June.
Feeling physically unwell with depressed feelings today, like I've swallowed a heavy rock.
My energy is blocked because it has nothing to flow through.
I woke up to rain and it continued all day; the kind of rain where there's no question of leaving the house.
This thing within me wants to take over and block everything: life, colour, creativity, air, nature, friendship, movement.
But when you're desperate you do call for help outside of you; even atheists call for God when they're scared.
I ordered a coffee and a chocolate croissant and waited for the art shop to open.
Unable to speak, my eyes shut, thoughts drifting through my mind but none sticking, my voice small and weak and squashed when I tried to answer her questions.
Because I don't feel like drawing straight lines and painting with colour.
I drank margaritas, beer, and wine and smoked—a lot.
This evening I knew, on a deeper level than I ever had before.
She said to me, when I explained how tired I was, I think you're scared to wake up.
Prepare myself for going there, understand that this is what my mind does, and gently nudge it back into the process of making.
I have clean rooms, plants, books, ceramics.
It felt easier to just eat salad.
I need a strong idea.
Where I'm meant to go unfolds slowly over time.
Rain makes me feel that it's ok to be sitting on the sofa with messy hair, radio on in the background, writing in my diary because I'm not ready to make a decision about what to do today.
Drinking in the green trees, the calm water, the ducks, the boats, the funny arrangements of houses that line the canal.
I hate that I need to drink or smoke cigarettes when I'm around people.
Feeling overstimulated by any outsideness.
I potted my plants, tidied a little, ate some snacks.
Two stones; one was pink and one was green.
I have thirty days until a seventeen-day break.
I took some CBD and cleaned my teeth.
In the dream everyone had to dress up as fruit—I had wanted to dress up as a banana, but they gave me maroon clothes, and forced me to dress as a berry.
A feeling that this flat is somehow healing me, that it's a sanctuary for me to tend to myself, and rest without worrying.
I ran to the shop at lunchtime and spent a hundred pounds on clothes, with a sick, guilty heat in my face as I paid.
It's like a circle wanting to be a square.
May I think soft thoughts.
Waiting, hoping for a transformation.
We queued for ice cream and the queue was long, it was all they could talk about the whole time.
I don't want another summer of being stuck in an airless, cold office.
I need to buy new pillowcases, a bathmat, a small lamp, and a bottle opener.
Wiped the leaves on all my plants, willing them to heal and thrive, thinking that if they can, then so can I.
Oranges, hissing, throat, neck, pink flesh, teeth falling out.
In the book I'm reading she receives signs that answer her questions, in life, in dreams and through words that pop into her head.
I wonder if I've drifted towards people and situations that keep this sadness alive.
I had a dream that he was knocking on the door; my therapist saw how scared I was and firmly told him to go away.
The book is by a woman who became a psychoanalyst and used self-observation and journalling to discover what made her happy.
Most of my ceramics were horrible and I threw them away, seething with hate.
I felt sad and quiet, but at times managed to be more fun and laugh.
I'd like to have a herb garden and lots of lush green plants in clay pots.
Thoughts about how much I use my phone to numb myself.
In the dream he was sitting cross-legged with bright flowers growing all around him, and I was trying to say something that would make him laugh.
He called me just before six as the sun was setting, and as soon as I saw his number, I knew.
To create some sort of community that I feel I'm missing in my life.
Crazy, desperate night of fitful sleep.
Repotted some plants and cleaned the doors.
I'm going around in circles.
We hid our horror the best we could, but I could sense he was searching for it in my eyes.
After they left I felt very upset and anxious, convinced it was going to cost me thousands of pounds to fix.
I showed her around, and felt so lucky and happy to live here.
This evening I came home carrying a new cordless vacuum that I bought on eBay.
I ate a big plate of greens and an apple.
He thinks he might not have much time left.
I've set most of my stuff up and it feels like home, almost.
Extreme tiredness hit me; falling-asleep-on-the-Tube tiredness, crawling-into-bed-and-sleeping-for-twelve-hours tiredness.
A big fat slug, with a grey cloud inside me, just trying to feel safe.
Turns out she got too drunk and lost her phone.
I hugged her and then linked arms as we walked to the cinema, trying to soothe her.
My eyes feel small and dry.
I willfully missed it, like a petulant child.
I could finally feel like I have a safe home in London, like a little boat in the sea.
A tentative thought that maybe I just need to let things be.
Red and yellow peppers, carrots, broccoli, avocado, sweet potatoes, ginger, tomatoes, oat milk, dates, coffee: anything that felt nourishing and good.
The post-festive feeling is in the air like a popped balloon, people trudging around grey roads.
Maybe I was enraged then, maybe I screamed, maybe they all ignored me.
Or fantasising about a perfect future that seems impossible.
I'm scared that if I stop beating myself up I will settle into it.
I need to stop falling for the idea that my life will start when I've lost enough weight.
I tidied, pulled out old clothes from my wardrobe, and put them in large black bags for the charity shop.
Hungry for reassurance.
In the yoga studio, I felt hot and overwhelmed, clumsy and angry.
Sometimes I wish I could see how I come across to other people.
I cannot connect with my own goodness; it fails me and I fail it back.
She read a poem out loud as we rested.
The house is old and surrounded by apricot and apple trees, a murky lake, an allotment full of cabbages, courgettes, pumpkins and lettuce, and a tiny kitten who darts around chasing leaves.
I'm getting so much joy from my plants; they're all so healthy, alive, and growing new shoots.
Being kind is different to giving up on myself.
Her words took time to sink into me, and once they did, I felt hot with anger and shame.
I get blown around more without her here to navigate me, to be the voice of reason.
They were tired and irritable with each other.
I'm sitting in a cafe near my house, hungover, wearing a coat for the first time since spring.
The reality of how much it will all cost.
Taking yet another cold shower, because the boiler has been removed.
I had a dream about opening drawers and finding unwashed pans, spoons with food on them, mess everywhere.
I know my heart is set on it now, and that's the thing that's keeping me positive.
Clean white walls, wooden flooring, tastefully decorated, a nice little garden.
I walked out onto the rainy street feeling winded, and then I cried.
Chronically early for everything.
Working out if it's rude just to stay for one drink.
I was a bit drunk and we had cigarettes outside, complimented each other and talked about therapy.
Writing in here makes me feel more nourished and grounded.
The garden is overgrown and full of spiders.
We walked to Tesco and I bought a bunch of green bananas.
He looked at my tongue and said, you're not sleeping well, you dream a lot.
Deleted Instagram from my phone.
It's unbearably humid, and I can't find the cat.
Accupuncture, no drink or cigarettes.
I think he naps in a sweet-smelling bush, he smells like honeysuckle.
The memories of the good and bad things that had intoxicated me on my first two days there.
Today I was unfocused and unproductive, like I was inside a dream.
Listening to Aphex Twin and drinking coffee and apple juice.
She said she used her journal primarily as a record of daily activities, keeping out emotions and feelings.
The smell of wet sand and chip fat, weak coffee and ice cream, all mixed up.
At one point I felt the sun's warmth as goodness, radiating into my skin and bones.
Part of me yearned for it, to open the front door and go up into my old bedroom.
Having a clean, clear workspace helps me focus.
Go for runs and swims, and then write and draw.
She said to me, you do realise that you do that all the time?
I'm drawn to pick up this diary when I feel desperate, when I need to release something bad onto the pages.
Listen to podcasts, write in here, eat well.
She called me and said that my application had failed because my credit rating had come back blank.
It seems so alien to me that I could actually own my own home.
Feeling wildly different today.
Glad I took the day off.
I ate porridge with crunchy brown sugar.
People who now live quiet domestic lives in the suburbs with multiple children.
The weather, the full moon, and the storms are making him wild.
It felt like a dream of the previous surgery: same room, same paper knickers, same weird groggy feeling of waking up, same nurse bringing me food and checking my blood pressure.
One day I'll leaf through these diaries and just think, oh, that was just a weird time.
I can't gather the strength to push it open.
My ugly grey face and black ugly clothes.
Like shaking a wasp nest; I wish I'd left it all alone.
It's almost 9pm and all I've eaten is two slices of whole wheat toast with peanut butter, which I had to force myself to do.
Painting and drawing are the hardest things for me.
I slammed the Uber door, angry—and when I lay down on my therapist's couch, I sobbed.
It was so different from what I expected: worse, more gruesome, lonely and scary.
It was such a relief to wake up and realise it was the morning.
This old, flat, familiar feeling of not being able to eat.
The anger has seeped into my bones, my jaw; my whole body feels like it's vibrating and unsteady.
Anxious about the surgery.
But then I get dragged into just looking and passively consuming other people's lives and voices.
I even forgot to text her an excuse; I was never going to go.
It's me that needs help, not him.
I looked in the freezer and found fish fingers, so I decided to make a fish finger sandwich.
It's like my body is programmed to override any instruction to change.
Spent two silent hours at the studio, carefully turning a series of vessels.
A full diary of things to do.
Hearing the wet tires of a car going past, the cuckoo singing, the clank of pans in the kitchen.
I laughed and sipped my gin and tonic and panicked internally about what I would say when it was my turn to speak, but he didn't ask me anything.
She texted me at 7am about a typo.
Churning out crap, for money?
It was sunny and as I was getting ready a thought popped into my mind: maybe I should take the job at the agency.
I said I had nightmares all the time, and these were no different.
We watched a film about a plane crash.
I hope it snows heavily tonight or tomorrow; I don't want the streets to go back to that dark, wet, greyness.
Being friendly and nice but not letting anyone get to know me.
I'm scared I'll lose my voice or trip up over my words.
I had one glass of wine on Tuesday and two pints on Thursday.
Sometimes I get little pockets of hope, moments when I think, this could work out, things could feel different.
It disgusts me, actually.
On my twelfth birthday I fell off a horse and broke my arm, and when I was better I went back and they made me ride a slow, fat, plodding one.
I felt drunk and tired and bored of them all.
Taking vitamins and drinking lemon water; comfort in a big bowl of spaghetti.
I turned my alarm off and fell asleep, woke in time to get the second train, but instead lingered in bed.
Not leaving apart from four drunken hours at a New Year's Eve party, where I was offered three types of drugs within ten minutes of being there.
I know it means I haven't got it.
I feel small, and the studio was quiet and dark and depressing.
I'll get the job, celebrate, feel scared, excited, proud, be able to relax over Christmas a little and have a secure start to the year.
I drank wine and smoked out of the window.
I made the mistake of buying a £300 coat that I don't like anymore; I've pushed it to the back of my wardrobe.
Coming home with no makeup on, eating a breakfast of coffee and marmite on toast.
I went downstairs and the cat came in, confused and covered in snowflakes.
The smell of my jumper made me feel nostalgic for that time, that intimacy and excitement.
I am writing with a pen he gave me for my birthday.
For some reason, her words really touched me and made me feel softer.
Maybe I'm just anxious because I drank too much this weekend.
It felt nice to be with these two women who have similar political and moral views to me, I was uplifted by them.
I fell silent, I didn't want to tell him it was my diary.
Better at composition, at measuring the lines, getting sharp edges and even coverage with paint or pencil.
I woke up this morning facing a plant on the top of my shelves that was completely wilted and thought, that's exactly how I feel.
Something clicked, the clay was the right consistency and I made fifteen pots that were all ok.
I know it, but I don't always have the strength to fight it.
Colour relates to light and light relates to sight.
I want to get my own flat next year, so I need something secure.
Over dinner, we started debating about whether the world was getting better or worse.
I bought a nice new outfit at lunchtime which made me feel a bit guilty, but mostly good.
I feel like I'm not in the right mindframe for it, really I just want to go home.
Watching her get so drunk and fall over last night made me realise that's what we're all doing: just shutting ourselves down.
I did a bit of painting and drawing but kept coming back to my bed.
Feeling safe and clean and organised and in control.
Why was my instinct to try and clean that apartment, when underneath I had felt so scared?
I do want to get my own place, to afford to look after myself, buy nice clothes, get my hair and nails done.
I was worried I'd have to explain it all again but she did remember: ah, yes.
I walked out of the suffocating office and stomped around the almost-empty clothes shops on Oxford Street.
Maybe it is therapy, freeing up my old ways, allowing me to loosen my grip on destructive habits.
I knew there was something wrong by the way he said it.
I fell asleep at 9pm after going for a swim, and it felt good.
The comforting smell of wood smoke and pencil sharpenings, a David Attenborough documentary playing on the TV.
She began to feel uncomfortable at parties and with friends, so she started spending time alone, praying, walking, eating healthy food.
Even now I'm finding it hard to write.
She was surprised and said she pictured me as an open, happy, joyful child.
Sitting in a pub on a dark rainy evening with two drunk friends would be a lot different if I was sober.
Haven’t I been trying this, for years and years?
I realised I was waiting for an ‘after’.
I had a dream that I was in the sea with my cat and it felt so nice swimming together, but then he turned into a tiny worm.
But then on Saturday night, he was suddenly in my kitchen.
New shoes, bed sheets, expensive shampoo, lingerie, furniture, handbags, perfume, colourful outfits.
The laptop was still logged in, open to an email that he’d sent to a hypnotherapist, explaining that he was suffering from anxiety and depression.
Maybe it’s my imagination that’s died.
There’s more to last night’s dream, it’s flitting around my head but every time I get close to it, it disappears.
It was too small, the doorway smelled of piss and I didn’t know what to ask the estate agent.
She dressed up her dog and it won a prize.
Sometimes I feel like red wine is fortifying.
Feeling fake, lies, forced smiles.
I read something that said moving your furniture can help shift old patterns, as your body recognises a change, as it moves differently around the room.
Self-hate and vanity?
The soft sounds that surround me—the humming of the tumble dryer muffled through my floorboards, the quiet footsteps of my housemate, the tiny wheezes of air from the sleeping cat.
Why was our house always empty?
We argued, drunk from white wine, stood in the rain.
I regret going to the wedding.
She immediately interrupted and said she needed to find a Rizla.
The Friday prosecco isn’t enough to keep morale high.
It had a scene where someone tells him to read fifty books, including the Bible.
She said that she had never found any purpose in life, but motherhood had changed this; she pushed the pram around like a prize, eager for people to notice.
I had a dream that I was cleaning a big house and discovered root vegetables growing in the pipes and in the walls, and I had to pull them all out.
Is it just that I feel dull in her presence?
This is the gap between what was before and the next thing, and it’s important.
Write it in here, as if I was telling her directly, as if I was writing her a letter.
He actually seemed happy with this arrangement, even though I had worried that it was cruel.
One for drawings and one for colours.
I don’t want to eat at all, or I just eat pasta, toast, and croissants.
My skin is brown and beaming with heat.
The man in the phone shop apologised that the replacement phone was pink, I felt happy and told him: that’s my colour.
She interrupted and said, no, Paula has something.
I want to sack my accountant, stop doing this work, get a job in a gallery.
Swimming, reading, napping, watching the trees.
I want the storm inside me to pass before I see anyone.
Everything becomes a closed door.
The noise is messy: snippets of generic pop music, babies crying, trays being slammed down, the yelling of kitchen staff.
Whenever I share something intimate, I back off.
I was making something small with my hands and she came up close to me and touched it; I felt shy and embarrassed.
When he left me it was like someone had turned the lights out, and I was left alone with my own horribleness.
I’m too far away from who I want to be.
She started talking about it as a metaphor for something I couldn’t name.
An ice cream van handing out free Mr Whippys, people talking loudly on their phones, a French film crew, men burning incense, a little girl in her school uniform carrying a placard that said "The Tories have blood on their hands", and a blackened, skeleton of a building looming above us.
People waiting in their flats thinking they’d be ok, before being surrounded by flames, throwing their children out of windows, screaming for help.
I took a photo of a King of Spades card that had been placed face down on a bus seat.
I want to feel clean and cool, and I never do in London.
Because there’s a question mark in my head that feels too dangerous to even write in my diary; or maybe it’s not dangerous, maybe it’s just silly and laughable.
She said she understood, then we fell into silence again until the end.
In the dream, I was really upset, and for some reason went to lie down in a tent that was full of rainwater.
This is the end of this diary and I’m looking forward to getting a new one.
And I was relieved in a way, as I had wanted to tell her about my painting, but I had felt too shy to say it.
The blonde woman rebuffed my attempts at small talk.
She was late so I sat and watched all the dressed-up students, drinking champagne and rushing about self-consciously.
I keep having flashes of worry that these pains are more than what they believe them to be, and the CT scan is going to show a large cancerous tumour somewhere in between my jaw and my throat.
She talked to me about the importance of linking events in my life, of seeing the thread that runs through everything.
I feel like I want to cling onto her like a limpet, like a baby.
Therapy is peeling off my outer layer, leaving me sensitive to the friction of life.
Flat colours in geometric shapes, all sewn together.
I thought the woman had a baby strapped to her but it was a green backpack, like one you’d take on a hiking trip.
The room doesn't have a clock, so I stare at the door, which has a small sign in the middle that says fire door keep shut.
I felt annoyed, and left out of a warm bubble of fun and love.
And it’s not so bad to go wild once in a while, it’s not a big failure, and seeing it as such will only ruin my weekend.
An awkward seating arrangement.
I’m always worrying about why I’m so tired.
He was carrying lots of clean, empty jam jars.
It’s never nice or interesting to hear and makes me feel like London is mean.
When I see her I get scared.
I asked the optician if everyone was like this, if it was normal to struggle; she nodded and said that it was.
There’s an exhibition I want to go to, and I need to retu
rn some trousers.
I swiftly and efficiently took it down, filled the holes in the wall and painted them white, and then put it all in a large box that I pushed underneath my bed.
All of my pens are running out.
Thinking of a thousand ways to fix it but not doing one.
On Monday I felt like she wasn’t approving of my idea, so I felt like it wasn’t an option.
At the time these felt like radical, positive changes, but they ended up leaving me broke, broken and deeply unhappy.
A whole day wasted.
Remind myself a thousand times no, not today.
One of the last things she said to me is little changes can sometimes make the biggest difference.
Leaving the house feels uncomfortable, cold, and disorientating.
There’s always a complex hierarchy of paranoia and distrust, with love peeking in now and then.
I’ve never had a pet of my own as an adult.
Today I showered, finished my painting and bought vegetables from the market.
It’s like I have such a thin exterior, a weak membrane that can be filled up with whatever the other person is putting out.
The only way I can find purpose in what I am doing now is if I can make a plan for how to leave.
Running another bubble bath, wanting to be enveloped by comfort and heat.
I walked on ahead, speeding towards the moment when I could close the door on her.
She got angry with me because I said something wrong on a phone call.
My throat hurts and my jaw is clenching constantly.
I fell asleep in the grass in the park, surrounded by office workers eating sandwiches.
I’m sitting in the kitchen, the kitten is playing with my scrunchie, the radio is on, the potatoes are in the oven, and the wind is blowing outside.
Maybe I can go to see a film, alone at the ICA.
I tried to draw but I have no attention span.
I hid the receipt, too embarrassed to tell my housemates.
The defensiveness was immediate and over the top.
I suddenly remembered how scary that all was, how I thought she was going to die.
The older woman was lost, she said she felt let down by her lovers, her religion, her family, her body.
I sat on the floor and let the kitten sniff me and work me out.
This morning he said I’d been slurring my words.
I cleaned, shopped, made a cake, invited people over for dinner.
This house feels too small, too dark, too dull.
Just doing that bit of yoga pulled me out of it, infused me with a new energy.
Nature always makes sense.
I haven’t been able to think about it, and when I do I get angry.
There was no real closeness or plans to meet over the summer.
The strange feeling of being suddenly surrounded by mirrors, covering all four walls, echoing our words as we stepped inside.
I could no longer remember what she’d said and this panicked me, I was desperately scratching around my mind, searching for it.
She asked for my address but didn’t send anything.
I was hungover and felt slow and dull.
I was almost a child, barely out of school, just 16 or 17.
I went there in the cold and dark to meet them, doubling up on myself, back towards work.
I wish I could empty the contents of my mind and memory onto the floor, and pick through it, piece it all together.
A lack of satisfaction.
If love was scarce, maybe we started playing that game, making one another look bad to get more love ourselves.
Deep down I think it scared her, made her think I was weak.
The younger man who sits opposite me wears a suit, gels his hair back, always has a massive Starbucks coffee, constantly fidgets in his seat.
I think the fact that it’s a 6-month contract makes it easier, because I could not live like that for much longer.
Ride my bike there and carry this vague anxiety of getting run over, or climb into a packed overground full of miserable people every day.
I’ve started going to the farmers market in Stoke Newington—today I got rye bread, organic chicken, sauerkraut, kale and cherries.
The Chinese medicine doctor fed me dried red dates.
I think I’ve lost trust in him because I doubt his experience.
I dumbly listened to his stream of chatter with a smile on my face, but I felt wildly anxious, worrying about work.
She brought me painkillers and herbal tea and put me to bed.
They’d stocked the fridge with food for us to snack on: packet cheese, tomatoes, cucumber, yoghurts, bread, brioche, milk and a section of drinks, the wine and champagne that we were too scared to drink.
He said it without looking at me, he just stared blankly ahead.
I work, am busy, act happy and chatty but feel like I’m not really connecting with anyone.
Feeling my chest and throat restrict, my breath turn shallow.
I just want to go somewhere quiet and sleep.
I wrote it under the shade of a big tree in the garden, eyes streaming with hayfever, waiting for them to come and get me.
That hard, plastic greyness of London is already reflecting in me and holding a grip on the heart I’ve been trying so hard to soften.
Today I felt really happy, just sat there drinking beetroot juice.
I feel so sad because that’s all gone now.
I need to start doing something creative again soon.
Uncertain about what to do or where I stand.
I do have a bad toothache but I could have dragged myself out.
There’s a tiny baby in the cafe, smashing food on the table with her fists, staring at us and giggling.
She disperses that atmosphere so swiftly into an invisible air, so much so that even I am confused where it comes from; I become certain that I must have created it myself.
It felt quite small and timid, like when you pick up an injured animal.
I also remembered how much I used to hate my feet.
Sometimes I feel homesick, like when I ate a satsuma today.
I drank too much coffee, I came home feeling high on it.
Maybe sometimes kids just become unhappy.
Stole a glass of wine from the kitchen to calm myself down.
I was snarky to a colleague on the phone.
After I left them I got on the bus and looked out through the rainy windows, feeling like the whole world had gone dark.
I stayed in my room until the house went quiet, then I crept outside and smoked.
Finally, I put my laptop away—I hid it in my wardrobe.
I have meditation, I have a big park to run in, I have my course and the studio.
The world feels very hostile and difficult at the moment.
I messed up the food and felt embarrassed in front of them, there wasn’t enough salt or oil, the chicken was too small.
The neighbour’s child is learning the piano, I can hear him gently stumbling over the keys as I clean my teeth in the bathroom.
I’ve been looking after my health more.
I had to cycle around Dalston at 3am to calm myself down.
Got home and ate cereal in bed, now I want to curl up and sleep.
I don’t believe in signs, but this feels like a sign.
It’s expensive and it would be a risk, but I need to do something.
I get swept along and overexcited, I tend to talk too much and not listen.
Inside it smelled like stale coffee, and there was a big Christmas tree, decorated with stringed gemstones and a pink sparkly star.
My vase looked awful—the glaze effects hadn’t worked and it looked like something a child might have made.
Using her as a scapegoat for these problems when really, she no longer does it.
I noticed things that I wouldn’t have normally: a running tap left ignored, the rainbow petrol swirls on the concrete floor.
We stood beside a towering, crackling bonfire, orange sparks firing out into the black sky.
I heard the bell but didn’t rise, and had a fitful sleep until 10am.
Waking up with a frozen shoulder; the shock of not being unable to turn my neck or open my jaw.
I ended up staying, mainly because I felt too self-conscious to walk out.
It was beautiful—complete darkness, hundreds of stars, and a big, gentle moon.
On the way back from the train station I felt annoyed; I wanted to smoke but I didn’t have any cigarettes.