Haven for the living Princess and the Pea


Creative pieces

Empty veins

I will probably need to give this post a trigger warning, though to reassure anyone who is concerned, I opted instead to bleed with words.

Empty veins

I examine the blue veins highwaying my wrist

where your fingers rested a paper-slice away from my life force.

Veins visible and dramatic beneath my anorexic physique and translucent skin.

Veins like roots protruding the surface,

my insides and my dreams laid bare

for you to tender, if you wish, or slay. 


I imagine slitting these veins.

These veins, once bursting with your love.

These veins now waterless river channels meandering to my heart.

Emptied as fast as they were filled.

Helplessly waiting for the next rain fall.

Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.

Dying more and more as each day drags on.

The angel and the devil,

the villain and the hero,

Are one and the same.

So I push away both

and return to a solitary world

behind closed doors,

behind the stillness of night, my only friend,

and behind my bags yet to be unpacked.

Bags stained with the sour taste of my final day

when the silence, perhaps, said all there was to speak.

Merry-go-round of life

Cars swirling round and round

Their whir a daily greeting

soon to be followed by the clunk of the cleaner

rattling down the hallway

Lingering, like the pong of chlorine or artificial fragrance,

Scrubbing and vacuuming floors barely trodden

Replacing towels unused

Over and over. Continue reading “Merry-go-round of life”

Daughter of Juniper Icewitch

Born of the blizzards, of blankets of white and of trembling water, she is both mesmerising and dangerous. Her world is desolate, and she is sad and lonely, especially as Jupiter Icewitch keeps her locked in a tower of ice.

One day, through the window of her prison, she spies a traveller from a faraway land. The fog is thick but she manages to make out the outline of a young girl. As the girl nears the tower, Juniper Icewitch’s daughter sticks her arm through the bars of the window and waves furiously. She then reaches into her hair of needle-leaves and extracts a branch for the traveller, dropping it through the window.

The young traveller makes her way up the tower, following a spiral stairway until she reaches the door of the prison. As no one ever visited these hostile lands, Juniper Icewitch had left the key in the door. The traveller turns the key and enters. She then returns the key to Juniper Icewitch’s daughter.

The young traveller comes from a land of flowing water and trees which reach for the stars. She is confident, popular and bursting with life. Juniper Icewitch’s daughter envies the girl, so she sprints for the door, slams it behind her and locks it. She then flees her dreary world and tells everyone a story of tragedy and triumph, of how, for years, she was locked in a prison but she managed to survive and break free. She elicits the sympathy and admiration of all who hear her tale. She is commended for her bravery, strength and dignity. None hear the story of the young traveller, who remains in that prison to this day.

An account of a “mixed episode”

This is an account I have written about my recent “mixed episode”. I agree with Kimberly over at (a great read by the way) that there’s not enough written about what these actually feel like. I also think they could be better diagnosed; I am only just learning about the mixed features of my own depression which have been overlooked by professionals all these years.


It is not ordinary depression nor is it mania

But a concoction of the two,

A mad science experiment,

Where the worst aspects of both have been combined. 
Continue reading “An account of a “mixed episode””


Every day she’s so depressed and angry and in pain. All she wants to do is sleep but today she was woken by her mother’s guests. Now she must lie awake and suffer. She suffers silently behind closed doors, closed blinds and under the blankets of her bed while laughter fills the house. Her dark room is both her refuge and torture chamber, the darkness seeping into every bone and tissue of her body to the point the pain becomes physical. She breathes and exhales darkness. There are no tears; she lies in a dried up riverbed, thoroughly scorned and beaten by life.

dried river 3

Point of no return

I am at my university and all the buildings are collapsing. I am running, away from the buildings which are falling like giant skittles. I run and run until I think I am safe, but now I have run too far. It is nightfall and it is time for me to go home but I can’t find my way back. I desperately search for the train station but the only stations I can find are the stations of faraway towns and towns I don’t recognise. Finally I find a name I recognise: Heathmont. But it is not just Heathmont, it is Heathmont “South”. I never knew there was such a station. I am on the platform now and loud diesel trains like those on the country lines pass by, scooping up the waiting passengers. I cover my ears to block out the harrowing noise. The trains depart and I gaze across to the platform on the other side of the tracks wondering whether that is my platform. I jump onto the tracks and run across. I need to get back onto the platform quickly before another train comes. I try to heave myself up but my arms are too weak and I fall back onto the tracks. I try again with a bit of a run. This time I manage to get up. Again, it’s not the train I want, but there is another platform on the other side of this platform which might be. There are many platforms here, like at Richmond station. An endless series of platforms. I continue the futile search for the one I want, before surrendering to the fact that I am completely and utterly lost.



I got to know her in Year 9, the year I was cruelly bullied.

We started to sit together in science class. She saw something in me, a kindness she had not known enough. A friend.

She was a peculiar girl, a sad girl, a girl who stabbed pens into the palm of her hand, something I only came to understand later in my life. I tried to take the pen off her.

She dressed in black and hung around girls who dressed in black. I didn’t dress in black, but my life was black and my year was black. I had no friends. She invited me to come sit with her’s, but I never really took her up on that.

One day I came into class in tears. Some girls in my class swarmed around me like vultures, like journalists, girls who’d never taken an interest in me before now warm and fuzzy. Sara warned me to stay away from those girls. She could read people like she read the periodic table, pointing out the dangerous ones.

Sara never faked kindness. What she did fake was coldness. Behind her “stay away” vibe she loved passionately and she hurt passionately. Her heart went out to me that day, probably because she knew the territory all too well. She took me outside and we hugged and it was exactly what I needed in that moment.

I ended up leaving the school, which Sara never really forgave me for. We lost contact, much to my regret. A year ago I tried to befriend her on Facebook but she never responded.

I was kind to Sara and Sara was kind to me in return. I wonder where I’d be if I had of stayed, and sat where I belonged: with girls who dressed in black.


Summer meditation with dream harp

White lady, radiating white light, spun from the dream spell of a harp.
White Tara, saviour, seer, she who has guided me among the waves of tumultuous emotion or is it Kuan Yin Chinese Lady of Compassion.

It is ten years since I have been in China, sitting on an ancient city hilltop on stone stools, sipping green tea and cracking open sunflower seeds.
A five year old girl dressed in red, her parents beaming with pride and love as she sings me an English song. I had come to ask if I could take a photo. It is my birthday.
Another lifetime ago I had celebrated birthdays here in this vast land. There are few memories, one is me as a young girl sitting in a garden and eating a persimmon.

I am glad Tara is here, Tibetan deity of compassion. I long to know the God’s again, to reach my own inner God.

Windows of the soul are open. I am surrounded by silence, shadow, grass, birds, water flow, nature opening the windows of vision. I am earthed and yet I fly inwardly.

I need to get to know you again, Tara, my starlight that holds true within my heart. Beat your rhythm like a singing bowl, sing to me so I may sing back to you. Beat, beat, beat sings the bird up on a branch, twit, twit sings a smaller bird. I am trying to find my song to sing, the inner heart song, the inner truth.

Blog at

Up ↑