My mental health is not great right now, the joys of PTSD and hyper vigilance! I’ve been taking each day as it comes and doing what I can to be gentle with myself. Sometimes it feels like I’m doing great, other days I feel like I can’t manage to hold the demons at bay.
I’m leaning into the divine feminine, the whispers of the goddess, letting the female ways bathe me in their gentle wisdom. I’m not going to lie, some days I feel so hurt inside I’m not sure how I’ve got through. The wounds are so deep and raw, masculine energies stinging already festering wounds of shame, guilt, heartbreak, fear, pain so deep it now feels like part of who I am……
There’s a void inside of me that I haven’t managed to fill, to nurture back to wholenesses. I don’t know how to. The pain and shame come and go, the void remains. There’s a hole inside of me where all of the bad shit falls into and makes its way to the broken parts of me.
There are days I look at my life and think, how have I managed to live for 34 years beyond the apocalypse? Then there are days that bring me so much joy, they light up my life and remind me why I didn’t give in.
I’m going through a process right now. I’m unlearning all of the bad stuff people have said to me that convinced me I wasn’t worthy, I wasn’t enough.
I’ll get there, I know I will. Those bad days will end. The feelings that try to destroy me will fade. I’ll find comfort and joy and peace again, I know I will.
In a few days we remember our fallen heroes.
For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon.
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.