There is a tiredness that creaks the bones. A weariness so deep that makes even oceans wimper. My head is close cousin to a spin cycle, my bones are shivering, my heart flits and flutters. There is no balance. There is no centre.

I’m not depressed. I don’t do depression any more. Penninghame opened my eyes and robbed me of the ability to feel low. But I can’t seem to stop me not sleeping and I can’t seem to stop me not hurting.  I have been letting go, letting go, letting go – releasing, shedding, jettisoning – but there are still things left to be unwound.  Un-wound.  Un-wombed?

I let my body move, let it do what it wants and it jerks, like a broken puppet, disjointed, fractured. It creaks, every bone groans, like a ship at sea, mast straining against the storm-wind.  Too many similes?  Probably.  I rather love that smile is hidden in there, don’t you?  But seriously, when we talk about unwinding, how often do we take it literally?  How often do we allow our bodies to untangle themselves?  I’ve been trying out myofascial release for my broken wing-shoulder (which, apparently, comes from my twisted pelvis).  I am, it seems, a corkscrew of a body.  Maybe I need to spin, Sufi-wise, sun-and-moon wise, to unravel myself?

Working on two hours’ fractured sleep a night is not smart. A feature that would normally take me a day has taken me two weeks, and it’s still not right. It’s tempting to sit and strain, to keep trying, trying, trying (for I am nothing if not a trier (the triest? The triste?).  But today I am calling a halt. I am going to sit with my spinning head, my spider-articulated limbs, my shroud-wound body and mind, and see if I can shake/shimmy/soothe/shadow/shudder it out.  It?  I have no idea. Know. Eye. Dear.


  1. Can’t remember my log in details so pretend that I’ve ticked the ‘like’ box. Yes, sit still, and when you feel like you can’t sit for another moment, keep sitting….. 🙂 (((hug))))

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