Haven for the living Princess and the Pea



A founder of hsphaven, Zoe hopes to create a space for HSP writers to come together and share their diverse passions and expertise through writing. This has been an important outlet for Zoe over the years; she fondly recalls writing stories as a child at recess and lunchtime and sharing them with her classmates. Some of Zoe’s areas of interest include mental health, healing and self-development. She has a background in psychology/social science. In her spare time Zoe enjoys being in Nature, op shopping, vegan food, music, and art and craft.

Fuck “BPD”

“This is the book I never readThese are the words I never saidThis is the path I’ll never treadThese are the dreams I’ll dream insteadThis is the joy that’s seldom spreadThese are the tears…The tears we shedThis is the fearThis is the dread
These are the contents of my headAnd these are the years that we have spentAnd this is what they representAnd this is how I feelDo you know how I feel?‘Cause i don’t think you know how I feelI don’t think you know what I feel.” Annie Lennox

Continue reading “Fuck “BPD””

Traumatic stress attack

I was lying in bed watching some TV the other evening, thinking it’d be an escape from ruminating about my case worker. I watched Call The Midwife (series 11, episode 7). At the end of the show, there was a train crash. The following quote was then narrated:

“Sometimes the sky rips open, and the earth erupts beneath our feet. We stand if we can stand at all, exposed and vulnerable. Pathetic in our frailty. Bruised and bleeding. We are rendered merely human, never more fragile, never more at risk, never more in need of all the strength that we can find.” Continue reading “Traumatic stress attack”

The Borderline

Borderline Personality Disorder,

The borderline between public and private.

No one wants you,

For you are too “sick” for the private hospital, but too “well” for the public. Continue reading “The Borderline”

Art therapy piece

Staring at a blank page.

Staring at my life.

The hole that was left when you were ripped away.

This pain has no words.

Nor location in my body.

I watch the clock,

How much longer do I have to endure this stupid art therapy?

Creativity stifled by the awareness of six other people sitting around me.

Loneliness even greater when I have company.

I am convinced they hate me.

Maybe it is because I am so unfriendly,

Avoiding eye contact,

Cringing when people move closer to me.

Feeling eyes on me and my miserable piece of writing

Which hardly qualifies as art.

Maybe it is my butch attire.

The way I’ve scrunched my long hair into a beanie,

My black tee which I bought from the men’s section.

Knee length shorts and unshaven legs.

My fringe which has become somewhat of a side fringe as I haven’t bothered to cut it for so long.

People will always find a reason to hate me.

But I don’t care what these people think.

I don’t want to be friends with them.

Life is better without friends.

Without the fretting when someone doesn’t reply to your message

Without the grief which is the price of love,

Grief so painful you’d rather die.

My biggest mistake in life was to care.

I now attempt to resurrect the fortress which once encased my heart.

The walls which now lie in ruins around me,

As though a war has ripped through this place.

Last day in the psych ward

This morning I fell asleep and I had a dream where I saw this girl in this grassy, breezy yard. I recognised her as myself, but she was beautiful. She didn’t have any imperfections like I do. Her teeth were perfect and she didn’t wear glasses. She still had my long brown hair. I’m not sure what age she was. I don’t know where I was. There was a house there, lots of people whom I didn’t know, and then a back yard which stretched into the horizon, a little like here. It was rugged and bare. There was a familiar desolate feeling to the whole place. While it was not a horrible place, I wanted to return to my life, but I couldn’t wake up. I don’t know if the people wanted to help me or keep me trapped there. They had suggestions like roll over in your bed so that you fall onto the floor and shock yourself awake. But I had no contact with my body and my life. Just when I thought I’d woken up I found it was another dream. This kept on happening over and over. I couldn’t wake up. I was trapped inside my subconscious mind again and it was terrifying. I assumed I must be dead. Finally I managed to wake up. It was like swimming to the surface of a deep well. Then my nurse came to the door. I asked her whether this was real or whether it was all just a dream too. She said it was real. I had wanted to end my life, but I was so relieved to be back. So that is how my day started. Continue reading “Last day in the psych ward”

In the psych ward

I write this post from the corner desk of my bedroom in the psych ward. I was in this ward when I was 24, and here I am again six years later. I’m in here for the exact same reason: losing a mental health worker who I love. Most people would not understand the bonds I form with mental health workers. But this mental health worker was so much more to me than a mental health worker. He was like a best friend, a brother, maybe even a parental figure. When people ask how I am, I think I will just tell them I’m sad because I’ve lost someone I love. I won’t tell them who it is. Or that they are still alive, that I am grieving the living. Even though he is not dead he may as well be as I will never be able to see him again. I am being offered two “closure” sessions with him and that’s it. My life feels like a broken record repeating over and over. Continue reading “In the psych ward”

The little things

It’s the little things.

It’s not being able to look at my toy lion because I brought her to our last appointment so now she reminds me of you.

It’s wanting to kill myself suddenly when I get in the car and see an old appointment card with your name on it. It’s not being able to throw it away, so I just turn it over so you don’t haunt me anymore.

It’s the ache in my chest that now comes whenever I take my evening medication which you got me on.

It’s sleeping next to the plastic cup you filled with water and gave me one time when I was upset. Then it’s putting it out of sight as it’s too painful to see it all the time, but in a special place no one else in the house can find as I’m afraid somebody might throw it out.

It’s the way you’ve crept into my world even though we only saw each other at the clinic.

It’s not being able to be in the supermarket when a sad song is playing.

It’s crying every time I see my new case worker because you can never be replaced.

It’s the way I used to feel comfort from 9-4:30pm Monday, Wed, Thurs and Friday because I knew you were at the clinic a phone call away, but now all I feel is loneliness because we’re not allowed contact.

It’s not being able to watch travel shows because they remind me how big the world is and how I cannot keep you close.

It’s not shopping for new clothes anymore because I only really dressed up to see you.

It’s not being able to enjoy anything anymore. It’s stopping all my usual activities because I’m too sad.

It’s the way it all comes back in flashes, like a kaleidoscope of memories, but only the good ones. It’s not being able to see any fault in you, which makes it hurt all the more.

It’s not so much what you said, or what you did, but the way you made me feel. It’s not knowing whether I’m ever going to feel that way again.


I am somebody who requires a lot of space, and I can only have people in my life who will respect this about me. Right now I hate people so much. I just want to run away to the country and never return. I could not sleep last night so got up and checked Facebook. I received this message from somebody who I met online: Continue reading “Space”

Pearl girl

We are pearls, reachable only to the deepest divers. Divers who will venture into the lonely, hazardous waters which is our home, and know there is something precious inside the shells we grew to protect ourselves. Weakness, vulnerability and a chance at happiness are far, far more painful than a life devout of emotion, so we hide deep in the ocean, we hide behind veneers, we want to be found yet we are also content here for we don’t want to fall into the hands of divers who are full of pride and carelessness, divers who will not look after us, divers who will not respect our world. Invaders who will rip us out then throw us back in, stripped bare, never the same. Lost in the wide and wavering ocean.


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