Is Nothing Sacred Anymore.

With all of my heart 

and all that I am 

I loved you... love you still

More than any other 

ever before 

I trusted you

Is nothing sacred anymore!

***

Thank you for allowing me to share

God bless you and all those you love 

Kimmie x 

Related post: Where I once saw Special 

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A few of my poems (for National Poetry Day)

ON MENTAL ILLNESS...

ON SPECIAL NEEDS... 

MATTERS OF THE HEART...

GRIEF... 

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES... 

Thank you for allowing me to share 

God bless you, and all those you love 

Kimmie x

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MARIE'S VOICE... #1000speak

Once upon a time (1970 to be exact) in a children's home in England, run by an order of nuns called 'The Poor Sisters Of Nazareth'... there lived a very 'special' little girl.

She was a tiny little dot, who had short cropped hair, and the bluest of blue eyes.

Her beauty (often overlooked) was breathtaking!

Like all children, the child had needs; the need to be kept fed and safe if she were to survive, and the need of attention, love, and compassion if she were to thrive, but (as mentioned before) she was a 'special' little girl, and as such her needs far outweighed those of the other children who lived at the orphanage.

At five years old (such as she was) she was unable to feed herself, she couldn't walk, she couldn't talk, her understanding of the world around her was extremely limited... and her behaviour would have tried the patience of a saint (or nun, as the case may be!).

The child had 'special' needs. She needed 'special' care.

And so it was, that the Nuns (in order to best manage their 'special' little charge), had devised an extraordinary care plan.

The child was fed on 'special' food - wickedly small portions of Librium laced cereal!

She was given a 'special' bed... a cot cage on the nursery floor, away from children her own age, which was tied to the wall with rope... to keep her safe contained!

And, she was given her own 'special' play room prison - The pram storage room, which contained, well, prams!

There were no toys in the pram room for the little girl to play with, no cushions for her to snuggle into when she napped fell into an exhausted (scream worn) sleep - no padding to protect her when out of fear, abandonment, desperation, she smashed her head against the floor... over and over again!

There were no hearers of responders to her screams, no wipes for her tear stained (often blood stained) cheeks, no cuddles for calm.... no attention - no love - no compassion.

If she wasn't trapped in a cot or squeezed into a high chair, she was allowed to forced to use her 'special' room (unattended) for most of the day.

Her only companion - the frightened little girl in the mirror!

The little girls name was Marie; she was born profoundly disabled, with severe learning disability, cerebral Palsy, mobility problems and epilepsy.

She was placed into Nazareth house children's home when she was six weeks old.

***

In my minds eye

The room is just as I imagined it to be; empty, aside from a row of old fashioned prams and a long mirror on the wall. The main door to the room is closed. The doors to the veranda are locked.

The child is sat with her back to me in front of the mirror; head down, torso slumped, and she is crying... body-wracking-sobs.

Another lonely day; voiceless, trapped, afraid. Hopelessness surrounds her.

She lifts her head, and (through the rain) looks despairingly at her mirrored self; the expression in the eyes reflected back at her is one of pleading... the child is in such pain.

There are no words for the emotion that almost explodes from my heart. It hurts to look, and just for a moment, I turn away.

I want to reach out and touch her; lift her onto my lap, cuddle her calm and tell her I love her.

I want to take wipes from my bag; wipe the blood from her forehead and the tears from her cheeks.

I want to hold her to me, stroke her hair, kiss her perfect little face and tickle her into giggles.

I sit down next to her, and imagining that she can see/hear me as I can her, I say, "It's okay darling... everything's gonna be okay... compassion is on her way.

She'll be here soon - she'll be your voice, and one day (though she doesn't yet know it herself) she'll be your mum.

She will fight for you, care for you, love you... and she'll be with you always."

Just before I opened my eyes (and headed back to my laptop) the child shuffled forward, and (still gulping down sobs) she reached out toward the mirror, lifted her gaze above and to the right of her reflection, and smiled... I smiled back.

***

MARIE'S VOICE

Michelle Daly was just under 17 years old when, after taking on the role of housemother at Nazareth house children's home in Bristol, England, she first met Marie. Marie had just turned 5.

On that first meeting Marie was in a cot on the nursery floor which was tied to a pipe with rope. She was incredibly thin, of pale complexion, and had a large lump on her forehead. Michelle was told that the child screamed for hours on end and bashed her head on the floor or against the side of her cot.

"I looked at the child's pale face; her eyes were like glass. I thought how strange it was that we stood so close and she didn't reach out to be picked up, as though she was used to being looked at, but not touched" ~ Michelle Daly

The following day Michelle was horrified to learn that not only was Marie dosed up on Librium three times a day (to keep her calm) but also that she was locked in a storage room (and left there alone) for hours on end each day (to keep her out of the way). Staff couldn't possibly be expected to watch over such a challenging child and get the floors shining (priorities! o_O), and the nuns couldn't abide the way Marie (who was unable to walk) dragged her feet over their beautiful polished floors.

Marie was placed on the floor in the pram store room, the door was closed on her and she was left there alone for hours.

Her screams could be heard all over the house, until she either exhausted herself or knocked herself unconscious! She was bought out at meal times and fed a small potion of Librium laced cereal, then returned to the pram room or put in her cot.

Michelle couldn't bear it; she soon found ways to sneak Marie out of the store room and very quickly formed a strong bond with 'her little friend'.

"Come on!" I said, picking her up, "You'll get me shot!" I ran down the stairs with her. She laughed; glad to be rescued. I sat her on the table in the empty Laundry basket while I emptied the drier. For a bit of fun I put the hot nappies over her and she laughed again; she loved to get the attention. I turned my back on her to fill the washing machine, and when I looked around again she was fast asleep; her little face still wet from crying." ~ Michelle Daly

Toward the end of 1970 Nazareth house was condemned and the home office closed it down. Marie was given a bed in a hospital in Taunton for the mentally handicapped; 17 year old Michelle followed her, taking a job in the same hospital and visiting her little friend whenever she could.

"Working in the hospital was like stepping into another world; a world where human beings with over-whelming qualities were classed as sub-normal" ~ Michelle Daly

.

Within a few months Michelle knew she couldn't continue working at the hospital. She also knew she couldn't leave Marie behind. She was getting out, and she was getting Marie out too! 

To cut a very long story, a lot of opposition, and much heartache short; Michelle traced Marie's birth mother who agreed to sign over legal guardianship papers, and (eventually) Michelle was able to take Marie home. 

Michelle was just 19 years old when she took Marie (who was eight by this time) home. Nineteen! A bit of a lass, with her whole life ahead of her, and she chose to take Marie along for the ride. 

It's been one hell of a ride hasn't it 'M'?!  (At this point Michelle is nodding :O)) 

Ask me to define compassion... and I'll answer 'Michelle'. 

***

Marie is 50 years old now, a year older than me. I'll avoid a virtual slap by leaving you, Dear reader, to work Michelle's age out for yourself.

Marie has not always found life easy... but she has lived! 

She is still profoundly disabled, but there are things she can do; is encouraged to do. She especially loves playing with her building blocks and colouring books. 

She still needs full time care, and she still struggles (terribly so) on the rare occasions that she has to go in to respite. These occasions aside; she is happy. 

She still has extremely limited speech and understanding, but she understands love... and my word is she loved! 

***

Thank you for allowing me to share

God bless you, and all those you love

Kimmie X

***

If you'd like to read more about Michelle and Marie's life together you can find her book here
Follow her blog here >>  http://michelledaly.blogspot.co.uk/
And find her on Twitter here >>  @michelledalyliv

***

1000 Voices for Compassion is such a beautiful movement.... there have been so many fabulous contributions (from all over the world). I would encourage you to check them out if you get a chance.

You can do that by following @1000speak #1000speak on Twitter, or by checking out the FaceBook page here

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FLAWED #Poem

Thank you for allowing me to share

God bless you, and all those you love

Kimmie x

#MicroPoetry 'Echos In The Dark'

 Copyright©2014 kimmie All Rights Reserved

Thank you for allowing me to share

God bless you, and all those you love

Kimmie x

From the inside

I'm stood in an upstairs council house toilet, the walls are apple-white and there's a little frosted window to the left of me. The lino flooring is cold beneath my feet, the door is painted white and there is a little round lock just below the door handle.

On the floor is a pajama clad child. She has long-dark-hair which half covers her face and she is crouched, panicked-sobbing, just behind the door, her hand stretched out holding the little lock in position.

The child is afraid, and on the other side of the door her mother is ranting; shouting and swearing, banging on the door..."YOU LITTLE GIT" she screeches, "OPEN THIS DOOR"!

I can see her so clearly, The-child, from where I'm standing. I want to reach out and touch her, pull her into my arms and tell her she's safe. I want to hold her until she falls asleep and then carry her from the cold lino floor, past her raging mother and into her bed. I want to sit by her bed, guard her until morning, and stroke her gently back to sleep if she should wake.

If this were possible, would she be comforted do you think?

Or would she see into my mind, as I can hers; and know the worst is yet to come.

***

Thank you as always for allowing me to share

God bless you, and all those you love

Kimmie x

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Children learn what they live

The-grown-up was a powerful presence; sometimes the child feared her, loved her and hated her (as far as a child is capable of hate) all at the same time.

The child lived with criticism - she learnt to put herself down. 

The child lived with aggression - she learnt to be afraid. 

The child lived with shame - she learnt to be guilty. 

The child lived with strange (often terrifying) intrusive thoughts; anxiety, obsessions and secret compulsions. She knew what it was to fear her own mind. 

If the badness The-grown-up saw wasn't badness enough; she had a head full of badness she didn't dare tell. 

The child was hugged, loved, cared for; pulled around, raged at, beaten. She learnt vulnerability, confusion, resentment; mistrust. 

The child was often naughty; "bad" - "hard work" - a "LITTLE GIT!"

She asked for it. Sometimes she'd been - "ASKING FOR THAT ALL DAY!"... 

She asked for the huge, perfectly formed hand prints, red raised on her skin; for the slap, slap, slap, SLAP of the-dirty-blue-flip-flop against the top of her leg; for the welts that might never stop stinging.

She asked for the disorientation and pain that followed being hit full force (by adult hand) around the side of the head; to be pushed down (or stretched up) and whacked; to (on one occasion) be thrown out, shamed and sobbing, (naked bar a vest) onto the street.

She deserved to be raged at; the monsters face so close to hers that noses almost touched.

She asked to have 'Palmolive' rammed into her dirty little mouth; she'd learn from the gag inducing taste of it and the inevitable soapy spew!

The child would outgrow The-grown-ups hand. She never outgrew fear, or shame, or the badness in her head.

***

The child didn't know that The-grown-up (a victim herself of an abusive parent) was mentally ill; that she really was incredibly sorry after each meltdown, that she would carry guilt and regret into old age. 

How could she know? - She was just a child! 

Now; years on - The-Grown-Up is a very different person.

Her eyes; which (seemingly) once spoke "I hate you!" now cry, "I love you, forgive me; let me in, I'm sorry."

She is old now; healed, gentle, reaching out.  Mindful that she won't be around forever, she is desperate for reconciliation; for her child's sake as much as her own.

And the child now? - She hurts The-grown-up, pushes her away; though she tries hard not to.

With an adults understanding of mental illness she forgives but she 'cannot' forget.

She hasn't yet buried fear and resentment; she still feels incredibly uneasy in The-grown-ups company, and stands ridged in, (or pulls from) her embrace.

The child now knows how much past mistakes are regretted; she can see how desperate The-grown-up is to be embraced as a loving, caring parent... which indeed, without exception, she now is. This only serves to increase the child's own guilt and self loathing.

The child loves The-grown-up (at least she thinks she does; feelings contradict) but she is still vulnerable, confused, resentful in her presence. She doesn't trust her.

And the welts on her skin; now faded - they are still red raw in OUR head!  

***

POSITIVE THOUGHT

We're not there yet, but we're getting there.

PRAYER

Lord, I pray that by giving the child a voice, through my writing; I will one day feel able to expose her to her mother again, Amen.

Thank you for allowing me to share

God bless you and all those you love

Kimmie x

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'Where I once saw special'

The past week (following a major mental health melt down last Wednesday) has been a low as low can be kinda week!

What led me to lose control? – A hair cut (I kid you not!)  though in my defence *hair hack* would be more accurate.

I can’t remember all that happened after I shot upstairs chocking back (Don’t be bloody stupid it’s only hair) tears - and out of respect for other mental health sufferers I’m not going to describe too explicitly what I do remember but to give you an idea...  

I remember spitting “I hate you” at my mirrored self over and over again – I remember (and I'm still haunted by) the piercing hatred in the eyes starring back at me.  

I remember feeling angry, unimaginably angry, angry at me!

I don’t remember getting to the bathroom or how long I was in there but I do remember sitting on the bathroom floor sobbing, still incredibly angry and wanting to (but trying so hard not too) hurt myself, and I do remember hitting the bathroom wall hard enough to make a hole in it. 

The pain in my wrist would not register until hours later.

From bathroom back to bedroom is fragmented... I don’t recall going downstairs for cigarettes but I must have done because I don’t keep cigs and lighter (or smoke as a rule) upstairs and I don’t recall locking the bedroom door, but again, I must have done because it was locked when sometime later (burnt, bleeding, incredibly ashamed, but calmer) I went to leave the room.

It all seems so irrational now - It was irrational.

The way I’m STILL letting it get to me now IS irrational…. It’s just a dodgy hair cut FGS….!

Except there’s more to it than that…! More to it than my usual OCD related need for perfection or my (life long) lack of self-esteem!

You see if I’d felt loved on Wednesday (hair hack day), as loved as I felt in the first ‘butterfly tummy’ months of my relationship with ‘The Body Guard’ (That's hubby to the newbies) - as loved as I’d  felt on our wedding day when I’d held his face in my hands in front of friends, family and God and saw everything that’s good in me reflected in his eyes; then perhaps my post ‘hair hack’ reaction might have been less 'mad woman' and more ‘what the fu*k have you done to my hair’, followed by a few weeks of obsessive titivating. 

Until last summer I never doubted for a moment how much 'The Body Guard' loved me. 

I was loved (warts and all) like I had never (with the exception of my dad who thinks the sun shines out of my arse and my nan who died when I was eleven) been loved before - special. 

I was loved (Like that) right up to (and including the morning of) the day I discovered his secret email account and secret (*virtual* doesn’t make it any less unfaithful in my opinion, especially given the nature of their conversations) bit on the side!

I’m 48 years old, mentally ill (though he knew that from the start) my smile rarely reaches my eyes these days, I look like I've been dug up in the mornings and I've got more saggy bits than Bag-Puss. 

She (‘Natty’) was everything I’m not – YOUNG (over half my age) - FAT (Turn me sideways and you lose me) – Boobs up to her chin (mine breastfed my first four kids, were tortured for 8 months by a breast pump after my fifth (disabled and fed through a tube) child was born and then went into hiding) and her hair…! Her beautiful, long, silky, shiny, frigging-perfect  hair (mine is.Oh you get the picture.) 

So you see Wednesdays melt down wasn't just about dodgy hair (though my OCD inhabited mind does worry more than most about appearance) It was about months and months of held in heartache, fear and incredibly low self esteem.

Months of trying to trust his "I love you" with his "I don't love you anymore" of last summer still ringing in my ears.  

Months of trying to make 48 seem 28 and failing miserably. 

Months of blaming myself... I'm too old, too skinny, don’t smile enough, too mentally ill - not sexy enough, not pretty enough, NOT GOOD ENOUGH…! 

Months of looking into the eyes of the man I love and seeing (where I once saw special) everything I despise about myself reflected back at me.

I’m not making excuses for my behaviour (my behaviour was unacceptable) I’m just ‘Telling it how it is’….because it’s cathartic, because I need to and because here in my space....I can. 

Related posts >>  Meat & Two Veg (Minus The Meat)

                                   'Mud Mud Glorious Mud'

POSITIVE THOUGHTS

‘The body guard’ is as gentle and caring as he always was, he’s incredibly sorry, trying so hard to make us ‘Us again’ and he’s still here... It could be worse.

And me?  Well the outside might have seen better days but (If he looks with heart as apposed to nether regions) there is inner beauty.

I’m compassionate, forgiving (clearly! O_o)  and my hearts in the right place… He could do worse!

As for dodgy hair - It will grow... At this point I need you all to nod.

PRAYER

Thank you as always for allowing me to share

God bless you and all those you love

Kimmie x

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Just For Today I will not Gamble.

My name is 'Kimmie' and I am a Compulsive Gambler.                                                                    

I have not gambled (compulsively) for nine years - I'd like to say 'Iv'e not had a bet for nine years' but for reasons (good reasons) that I won't go into right now, I do still buy a lotto ticket.

Considering the severity of my gambling addiction in the past, I'm quite surprised that this is my first gambling related ramble.

Anyway, I need a gambling 'Therapy' and as symptoms of mental illness prevent me from getting to GA (gamblers Anonymous) at the moment, blogger will have to do!

Recently gambling has been on my mind more than (at this point in my recovery) it should be, and I'm not comfortable with that.

I'm feeling incredibly vulnerable at the moment - fearful, insecure in my marriage, terrified of 'the powers that be', really struggling with symptoms of mental illness, and not coping as well as my 'mask' would have other people believe I am.

My gambling addiction did more damage (mentally, physically & financially) to me, and to my family, than anything else (until recently) has ever done, and yet at the same time it was (still is to date) the only thing (ever) to bring me any real relief from symptoms of mental illness.

For me gambling was escapism - I knew I was hurting myself and those I loved, but at the same time, all the while I was 'in action' I felt safe!

My gambling was fast & furious - manic - time consuming - mind consuming - ALL CONSUMING! There was no room in my head (whilst in action) for anything else - Intrusive thoughts, panic attacks, relationship issues, debt (I had plenty of debt!) anxiety, fear....all gone!

When I walked into a casino, I left everything else (everything else!) on the other side of the doors, I was safe....I was free!

It's all to easy when life goes tits up (and my God has it gone tits up of late!) to find yourself craving that safety and freedom again, it's easy to remember only the good things related to obsessive/compulsive gambling........

The extreme highs - running around like a lunatic playing four tables at once with a load of pink (£100) chips weighing heavy in your bag - chips piled high when your numbers come in - the buzz - the sweep - the payout - squeals of delight when you look up and realise three of your four tables dropped your way on the last spin - the journey home with £5,000 in your handbag - children's faces when they come home from school the next day to find it's Christmas in July!

It is my friends a head recently full of such (wonderful) memories that have prompted this ramble.

You see I really (really) want to run away at the moment and all the while my head is full of 'Christmas in July', I am in danger of falling back into the world of compulsive gambling!

Of course symptoms of agoraphobia would prevent me from frequenting a casino or bingo hall these days, but I am (Thanks to other GA members) very aware of just how easy it is to access (and get sucked into) on line betting sites.

Am I tempted? - Of course I'm tempted. I'm a compulsive gambler.

I'm here tonight because I need to remind myself of the 'far from wonderful' side of a compulsive gamblers life....

I need to remind myself of the extreme lows that ALWAYS followed the highs.

I need to remember the 'Christmas in December' that saw me begging my parents for money on Christmas Eve, and then flying around 'ASDA' after dark trying (In vain) to fulfil my children's wish lists!

I must never forget the 34 year old woman who sat on a stool at the Mecca bingo one afternoon and wet herself because she'd pumped too much money into the fruit machine she was playing to chance another punter stealing her win while she went to the loo!

I must never forget how once the machine had finally paid out, she shuffled her stool (bum firmly attached so as to hide the wet patch) along to the next machine and pumped best part of her winnings into it.

I must never forget the wet patch she left on the back seat of the cab that carried her an hour or so later (late for the third time that week!) to pick her children up from school.

I need to remember the night I slunk through the casino doors (looking like death warmed up) with (my very last) £40 in my pocket (£4 of which I knew I MUST hold back for the kids bus fair to school the next day).

I needed to win that night! I had no food in, numerous bills were over due, I owed a friend money, and it was my daughters 11th birthday the following day!

I entered the gaming area with a £20 note in my hand which I intended to change up (I had a plan - bet small -win big!) as I passed the first table a croupier to the left of me called "last bets please".

Frantically, and without thinking, I shot forward and slammed the 'twenty' down onto the table yelling "14" as I did so....within seconds my *half of all I had* was swept away and replaced with chips....Too late to change my mind -The bet was on!

With my head full of "Oh god, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God"" and my heart banging so hard in my chest I felt dizzy, I watched as the wheel slowed, I watched (kicking myself for my stupidity) as the ball dropped and kicked around numbers 0 - 36 until after what seemed like an eternity it came to a stop in.........Number 14!!!!

Get in there! And Yes, I did actually shout (scream!) "Get in there".

In less than 5 minutes I had just turned half of my last £40 into £720!

In just one spin of the wheel I had made enough money to put food in the cupboards for a week, pay back my friend, deal with the most urgent of my bills, and ensure that my daughter 'squeak' had a half decent birthday present the next day.

Words cannot describe how wonderful I felt as that £720 was swept across the table toward me.

Luck (It's never judgement) was with me that night, I doubled the last bet (as you do) and 14 came in a second time and then a third (my initial bet now trebled). I was on a roll, I couldn't stop at that point, I'd have been mad to stop; I couldn't stop!

When I (eventually) got home (early hours of next morning) I baked bread for my kids (It would be that or nothing the next morning) and wrote out 'Squeaks' birthday card

'Happy birthday, darling 

*We owe you £40* 

Lots of love 
from Mum & Dad'

Thankfully I'd bought a Birthday cake the week before, and was able (later that day) to borrow just enough money to feed us that day and the next two into pay day.

The kids didn't go to school that day.

I told them they were having a day off as it was 'squeaks' birthday - I told the school they were ill.

The real reason for their day off? - I didn't have their bus fair!

My kids were all smiles that day - They'd bagged a day off of school, and mum (with an Oscar winning performance of 'every little things gonna be alright') played, baked up anything remotely bake-able, and smiled all day! My daughter had (to the best of my knowledge) had a happy birthday.

Years later I would find the *I OWE YOU* card hidden in 'squeaks' bedroom, and I would know (beyond any doubt) that I was 'the mum' who broke an eleven year olds heart on her birthday, and that she was 'the child' who loved her mum too much to let it show!

I love my kids and they love me. I have never set out to hurt them, but when I was gambling, hurt them (more than once) I did! - If I gamble again, I WILL hurt them again.

Just for today I will not gamble!

POSITIVE THOUGHT
Just for today I will try to live through this day only and not tackle my whole life problem at once. I can do something for 12 hours that would appal me if I felt that I had to keep it up for a lifetime.

PRAYER

Thank you for allowing me to share                                                                       

God bless those and all those you love 

Kimmie x

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Meat & Two Veg (Minus The Meat)

In my last post I mentioned that I have a ‘big issue’ in my life at the moment.  I also said I was writing about said issue and would be throwing it your way when I was done.

Well it turns out I’m not able to do that right now.  I’m still slap bang in the middle of it, struggling to get my head around it and I have no idea how the stories going to end!

Having said that I am finding that holding back completely on sharing ‘big issue’ is causing a writing block.  I can’t write honestly about anything if I’m not honest about everything (if that makes any sense)

There’s an Elephant in the room (so to speak) whenever I attempt to write!  

I’m hoping (fingers crossed) this little ramble will get ‘Stuck - In - Scared’ unstuck!

Okay here goes........  Just the ‘two veg’ for now I’m afraid - I’ll bring you the meat when it’s done!

‘The body Guard’ - That man I’m forever boasting about, ‘that he above all others’ who I’m forever thanking God for.  

My wonderful – caring  – loves the bones of me – would never hurt me – “I love you so much my beautiful baby” – gentle – amazing hubby, has gone and broken my heart!

He’s ashamed, incredibly sorry and doing his best to mend said heart.

I’m heartbroken, incredibly insecure and doing my best to ensure the meat (which is currently far too raw for my liking) is falling off the bone by the time it reaches you lot.

He says that blinded by my mental illness (which in fairness has been greatly exacerbated this past two years) he lost sight of ‘me’ - he’s sorry - he loves me - he’ll never hurt me again.

Iv'e never been more sure of anyone one or anything as (up until six weeks ago) I was of him!
And now? - Never before have I felt more unsure of 'everything' as I do right now!

I trusted him completely - I want more than anything to trust him again but I'm not there yet.  

However I am in love with this *turns out he’s just a man* man of MINE! - not for one single moment have I EVER doubted that.

I’m not giving up without a fight!  

POSITIVE THOUGHT

PRAYER

Thank you Lord for - giving me the words Iv'e needed to say, the strength to face the unthinkable and for my ‘bounce back ability’ Amen.

Thank you for allowing me to share

God bless you and all those you love

Kimmie x  

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Is nothing sacred anymore
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Where I once saw special'