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